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universe.
     
 
ON THIS HOT, close night, Virgil’s consideration of the wonders of the universe were discomfited by the proximity of Janey Small’s naked ass, which, in Virgil’s opinion, was one of the wonders of the universe. Like a planet. A small, hot planet like Mercury, pulling you both with its heat and its gravity.
    Janey was asleep on her side, snoring a bit, her butt thrust toward him, which Virgil believed was not an accident. They’d already gone around twice, but Janey was fond of what she called “threesies,” and Virgil had been married to her long enough to understand the signal he was getting. Married to her second; that is, between his first and third wives. And before her third and fourth.
    Janey Small had been a rotten idea. Virgil had been in town, had dropped by the Minnesota Music Café to see what was up, and there she was, leaning on the bar, the wonder of the universe packed into a pair of women’s 501s.
    One thing led to another—it wasn’t like they were sexually incompatible. That hadn’t been the problem. They’d just been incompatible in every other way, like when she became webmaster of a Celine Dion fan site, or decided that fried tofu strips were better than bacon, or that fish felt lip pain.
    Janey.
    A problem. He liked her, but only for a couple hours at a time.
    Maybe if he could slide really slowly over to the edge of the bed . . . his jeans and boots and shirt were right there on the floor, he could be halfway to the door before she woke up.
    Virgil was making his move when the cell phone went off on the nightstand, and Janey woke with a start and rolled flat and said, “You left the cell phone on, you goddamned moron.”
    Not like she had a mouth on her.
    Virgil fumbled for the phone, peered at the view-screen, hoping against hope that the call was from an 888 number, but it wasn’t.
    Lucas Davenport. Virgil said aloud, “It’s Davenport.”
    “That’s not good,” Janey said. She was a cop groupie and knew what a late-night call meant. Her last husband, Small, worked vice in St. Paul. Janey said he’d picked up some entertaining tips on the job, but unfortunately was deeply enmeshed in his model-train hobby, and when he began building the Rock Island Line in the living room, she moved out.
    In any case, she knew Lucas. “So answer it.”
    He did. “Yeah, Lucas,” Virgil said into the cell phone.
    “You sound like you’re already awake,” Lucas said.
    “Just getting ready for bed,” Virgil said. “I’m kinda beat up.”
    “No, he isn’t,” Janey shouted. “He’s over here fuckin’ me.”
    “Who was that?” Lucas asked. “Was that Janey Carter?”
    “Ah, man,” Virgil said. “It’s Janey Small now. She got married to Greg Small over at St. Paul. They broke up.”
    “There’s a surprise,” Lucas said. “Listen: get out to Stillwater. The Stillwater cops have a body at a veterans’ memorial. With a lemon.”
    “What?” He swung his feet over the edge of the bed. “Two shots to the head?”
    “Exactly,” Lucas said. “They’d like to move the body before the TV people get onto it. It looks exactly like Utecht, and you’re the guy. Tom Mattson is the chief out there, he called operations and they yanked me out of bed.”
    “Okay, okay,” Virgil said. “I might need some backup. This could get ugly.”
    “Yeah, I know—and I’m heading into D.C. tomorrow for more convention stuff. Del’s going with me, the feds are briefing us on the counterculture people. You can have Shrake and Jenkins if you need them. I’ll be on my cell phone if you need some weight, and I’ll leave a note for Rose Marie.”
    “Okay.”
    “You gotta move on this,” Lucas said. “Take your gun with you.”
    “I’m on my way. I’m putting on my boots,” Virgil said. “I got my gun right here.”
    “Stay in touch,” Lucas said, and he was gone.
    Janey said, “Don’t let the door hit you in the ass.”
     
 
THREE-THIRTY in the morning, running not