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favor,” Rose Marie said. She nudged the file another inch closer to Lucas. “Go up and look around. See if you can figure something out. If you can, that’s fine. If not, fuck it—just make us look good.Right now, we look bad and everybody’s annoyed. And we’ve got this budget thing on our back. The goddamned legislature . . .”
     
    T HERE WAS NO big hurry to the job. Lucas called Duluth from Rose Marie’s outer office, talked to the cop who was covering the homicide, and made arrangements to meet him on Monday morning. Then he called the Minneapolis office of the FBI, left a message for the special agent in charge, who was, he was told, “in Kenora, discussing border problems with his opposite number in the RCMP.”
    “In an office or out in a boat?” Lucas asked. The SAC had been in the newspaper for taking a fly-fishing record for northern pike on one-pound tippet.
    “I have no information about boats, nor would I rule boats out,” said the fed who’d answered the phone. “I am simply designated to answer phone calls on a weekend when the temperature is eighty-four degrees, the skies are partly cloudy, and there is little or no wind to influence the flight of a golf ball. He’ll be in the office Monday.”
     
    L UCAS AND W EATHER spent a quiet Saturday at home. The missing garage door was a constant irritant. The house looked as though somebody had punched out one of its teeth.
    “Big New House looks hurt,” Weather said, as they went out for croissants in the morning, leaving Sam with the housekeeper. Later, they spent an hour at a pottery show given by one of Lucas’s old flames—Weather only cared what he was doing now , she claimed. So they looked at pots and had a nice chat with Jael, the flame, who was looking very good, and who made goo-goo noises at Sam. Sometime during the tour, it occurred to Lucas that maybe he was being shown off with a baby on his back . . . then he thought, nah, Weather wouldn’t do that.
    That afternoon, Lucas took Sam for a stroll. Actually, he took him for a five-mile run on the bike path that ran along the top of the river valley. Sam was tucked in a high-tech, big-wheeled, three-hundred-dollar tricycle stroller, designed, Weather said, expressly for yuppies. A few minutes after he got back, Letty called from canoe camp. Her school had an introductory week, involving four days of consciousness-raising in canoes, which is what you get from Episcopalian private schools, and said that her group was headed into the Boundary Waters the next morning, right after church.
     
    L ATE IN THE afternoon, Lucas read the file that Rose Marie had given him. The file had been compiled by the FBI, and included findings both by local FBI agents and the Duluth police. There was a narrative on the discovery of the body, and the search of the area around the dock, as well as interviews with the elevator worker who’d discovered the body and with members of the ship’s crew. There were photos of the victim both at the scene and at the medical examiner’s office.
    The dead man had been shot three times and fragments of two hollow-point slugs had been recovered from the body, enough to establish the killer’s weapon as a nine millimeter. The fragments were too badly damaged to match to a particular gun. One interesting note was that three shells had been found, and the shells were old—1950s vintage. They’d been polished: there were no prints.
    A man was spotted running from the dock area just as the body was discovered by a worker at the grain terminal. The man was reported as wearing a long coat. A scrawled note by the Duluth investigator, on the edge of the typed report, said, “Kid? What was coat? Check temp.”
    The report noted that the dead man’s body apparently had been searched. The Russian’s wallet and papers were missing, and maybe a money belt from around his waist—the man’s pants had been loosened, and the medical examiner found elastic-band marks in the