"I mean the building," Carey said, trying not to dwell on what he had just told her. "Where are we? What did it used to be?"

"It used to be a munitions dump back in the war times. WW Two. There's still some parts of sh.e.l.ls and stuff in there, but don't n.o.body seem to care about it. You think they would take it away what with the terrorists and all. You know one of them Nine-Eleven boys was learning to fly a jet airplane right here in Minneapolis."

Carey was at a loss for words. The surrealism of the scene was too much for her. She had been abducted by a triple murderer, and he was calmly going on about Homeland Security.

As she stared at him, the putrid smell of sulfur came on the breeze. A refinery. She couldn't see it, but it was nearby.

"Watch your step here, Carey," he said, helping her up the worn, crumbling concrete steps and into the building.

It was a ruin. There was no ceiling, only partial walls here and there. He took her down what might have been a hallway once, turning here and turning there, working their way farther and farther from the door they had come in.

The floors were filthy and strewn with garbage and debris--broken bottles, beer cans, discarded fast-food wrappers. Bits and pieces of grit and crumbled brick bit into the soles of her bare feet.

"Where are we going, Karl?" she asked.

"You'll see," he said, a strange, boyish excitement creeping into his voice. "I'm real proud of it."

He led her around the corner of a brick wall and into his hiding place, where no one had ever bothered him.

There was more roof over this part of the building. And no windows. No sunlight. Karl had made up for the darkness by lighting candles all around.

In the flickering yellow light, Carey saw what Karl was so proud of, and a chill washed over her like a wave.

Karl Dahl had created a little nest with pillows and blankets. A small fire burned in a hibachi grill. Overturned fruit crates served as tables. There was a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket, winegla.s.ses standing to one side. He even had framed photographs of someone's family.

Carey's gaze lingered on the photographs, realization dawning slowly. An eight-by-ten black-and-white photo from a graduation. A silver-framed photo of a baby.

Photographs of a family.

Herfamily.

55.

"WHERE IS HE?"Kovac demanded, striding into the war room.

"Interview three," Dawes said. "You can watch through the gla.s.s."

"f.u.c.k that. He's my suspect," Kovac said.

"Lose the att.i.tude, Detective Sergeant Sam Kovac, unless you really want to go back to wearing a uniform," Dawes said, getting in his face. "That first word can be very easily detached from your rank. That's what's going to happen if you pull another stunt like you did with David Moore."

"I won't."

Dawes arched a brow. "This is a high-profile case, Sam. Every newsie, every politico in the city, is watching this one. I've got the chief of detectives, the deputy chief, and the chief of police breathing down my neck. I can't risk you jeopardizing this interview by intimidating the suspect--"

"He kidnapped a judge!" Kovac shouted. "For Christ's sake! What are we supposed to f.u.c.king do? Serve him tea and crumpets?"

"You get to watch or you get to leave."

"Didn't his second wife say that to him on their honeymoon?" Tippen said, to break the tension.

Kovac kept his focus on Dawes and tried to check the storm of emotions tearing through him. He wanted to get into the interview room with Donny Bergen. Bergen had been picked up at his downtown apartment, interrupted by Tippen and friends while packing a couple of duffel bags, ready to catch a plane to St. Kitts.

"Look, LT," Kovac said, lowering his voice several decibels. "I'm the one talked to the sister. She will have warned him about me. I'm the one on top of d.i.c.khead Moore. I've put half a dozen calls in to Ivors to rattle his cage. He's part of this too.

"I'm the one who's been d.o.g.g.i.ng these creeps," he said. "You go in there, it's a whole new ball game to them."

Dawes stared at him, weighing the pros and cons. She didn't look happy. Kovac hoped that that was a good sign. He didn't know her well enough yet to be able to predict her. This was their first high-profile case together.

She was probably considering all the things the bra.s.s had told her about him when she had taken the job. Someone had no doubt told her about Amanda Savard's having killed herself in front of him. How it had taken him months to get himself together after that. Now she saw him losing his cool over Carey Moore.

Kovac held his hands out to his sides in a gesture of surrender. "Let me go in with you. Bring a gun. If I get out of line, you can shoot me."

"Why has he never made that offer to me?" Liska asked.

"Because you'd do it," Elwood said.

"There is that possibility."

Dawes gave a long-suffering sigh. "Do you have another career to fall back on?" she asked irritably.

In the background, Tippen said, "If Donny Bergen goes up the river, there'll be a void in the p.o.r.n industry."

Liska hit him in the arm. "Yuck!"

"I've been told I can flip a mean hamburger," Kovac said.

The lieutenant looked up at the ceiling and shook her head. "Lord help me. All right, Detective. We go in together. But if you put one toe over the line, you'd better go get yourself a hairnet and a spatula, 'cause you'll be working under the golden arches come Monday."

Long Donny Bergen sat at one side of the table, kicked back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest, his legs stretched out and spread a little. A studied pose to suggest arrogance and to show off his most famous attribute, bulging in his jeans.

He was otherwise not a big guy. Slim and wiry, he could have pa.s.sed for a woman if he wore a skirt. He looked a lot like his sister--the narrow face, the pallor, the perpetually red tip of the nose.

Kovac wanted to ask him if he and Ginnie got a family rate from their dealer. He wanted to walk around behind him and yank the chair out from under him. He did neither.

"Mr. Bergen, I'm Lieutenant Dawes. This is Detective Sergeant Kovac. Thank you for meeting with us."

Dawes took the seat nearest Bergen, also sitting sideways to the table. Casual, legs crossed, one arm on the tabletop. Kovac took the seat across from Bergen. He didn't smile; he didn't speak. He just stared at the guy.

Bergen laughed. "I didn't have a lot of choice, did I? The goon squad came calling."

Dawes looked surprised. "Oh, but you're not under arrest, Mr. Bergen. I'm sorry if you got that impression."

Confusion crept in under the a.s.shole bravado. He sat up and leaned toward the lieutenant. "I'm not under arrest?"

"No. We just wanted to have a talk with you about this business with David Moore. Apparently, you know him quite well. We thought you might be able to help us uncover something about his wife's disappearance."

Bergen looked suspicious. "I'm not under arrest."

"This is what's known as a noncustodial interview."

"So I don't have to say anything. I don't need a lawyer."

"You don't need a lawyer for this."

"So I can leave?" Bergen said. He stood up, adjusted himself, and started for the door, giving a little wave. "It's been real."

Kovac tensed, waiting for Dawes to do something. The guy he believed had a.s.saulted Carey--at the very least--was reaching out for the doork.n.o.b.

"No," Dawes said calmly. "It doesn't really work that way. Please come have a seat, Mr. Bergen."

"Or what?" Bergen challenged.

"Or I have you held as a material witness and you can meet some new and interesting people in jail."

"Are you threatening me?"

"Not at all," Dawes said, rising from her seat. "I'm just telling you how it is, Donny," she said, drifting over to the door. "The powers that be in this city are very upset about the abduction of one of our leading jurists."

"I thought she was a judge," Bergen said impatiently. "I don't know anything about it anyway."

"Perhaps not," Dawes said. Then, just with the slightest changes of posture and expression, she was no longer the cordial hostess. Her voice took on an edge. "But you're going to go back to that table, put your tight little a.s.s in that chair, and tell us everything youdo know, or you're gonna need that lawyer for a whole lot of unpleasant reasons."

Kovac rubbed a hand across his mouth while he grinned to himself. She was good.

"Better listen to her, Junior," he said. "You know how big a big shot you think you are? The people she's talking about pick their teeth with little p.r.i.c.ks like you."

Bergen's look went from Kovac to Dawes. "Does he have to be here?"

"It's his case. What's the matter, Donny? You think Detective Kovac maybe knows a little too much about your family matters?"

Bergen shook a finger at Kovac. "My sister said he pushed her around. She's gonna sue the city."

"That's cute," Kovac said. "A junkie wh.o.r.e takes on City Hall. I can't wait to see what she wears to the press conference."

Bergen leaned a little toward him across the safe distance of the table width. "Ginnie has friends, a.s.shole."

"Lots of them, I'm sure," Kovac said. "Her dealer, her johns, a pimp or two . . ."

"She's not a prost.i.tute."

"Not anymore," Kovac said. "Why f.u.c.k a hundred guys for a few bucks a pop when she can just latch on to one fat tick like David Moore? She gets his wife out of the picture, she's got it made. Nice house on Lake of the Isles, rich husband. Too bad money can't buy acceptance. To the people in that neighborhood, she'll always be a junkie wh.o.r.e."

Bergen was getting red in the face. "Stop calling her that!"

"Have a seat, Mr. Bergen," Dawes said, back to being Miss Manners. "Clear this up for us. If you haven't done anything wrong, there shouldn't be any problem doing that."

Bergen sat down, hooking the heel of one cowboy boot over the rung of the chair. He leaned an elbow on his knee and looked away, nibbling on his thumbnail like a rat grooming itself.

"Can you tell us where you were Friday evening?" Dawes asked.

"I thought I wasn't a suspect."

"We're trying to corroborate the statements of a third party."

"I was out," he said. "On the town. Like always when I'm here."

"You're not a permanent resident of the city?"

"It's too f.u.c.king cold."

"Where do you live?"

"L.A. Encino."

The San Fernando Valley. s.m.u.t capital of America. Kovac had read it in a magazine. Hard-core p.o.r.n movies were routinely made in rented houses in otherwise normal family neighborhoods.

Picturing Long Donny Bergen there brought a whole new meaning to "boy next door."

"Yeah, look," Kovac said. "This is all nice and chatty, and I'm sure you'd be an interesting person to talk to, if I didn't happen to think you're a maggot on the a.s.shole of life. But let's cut to the chase, Junior.

"We know you popped into the lobby bar at the Marquette Friday night to meet up with Sis and the gang. What was that about?"

"It wasn't about anything," Bergen said, belligerent. "So I stopped to have a drink with my sister. So what?"

"Where were you before that?"