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  Doc Hanson was crouched sideways in the narrow space between the Kleinfeldts and the pew in front of them, eyes and hands busy with the dead, oblivious to the living. Nobody talked. The church was absolutely silent.

  Halloran circled the scene slowly, letting it imprint on his mind. There was something wrong with it; something a little off-kilter about the bodies, dancing at the edge of his consciousness, just out of reach.

  “Just from the rigor, four hours, give or take,” Doc Hanson said without being asked, without looking up. “I’ll check the temps when I’m ready to move them. Harris, give me one of your bags. I got a hair here.”

  Long gone, Halloran thought, moving out of the way, back down the aisle toward Father Newberry. Whoever did this could be in New York by now, or California, or next door.

  “So everybody hated them.”

  “I didn’t say that, Mikey.”

  “Father, meaning no offense, but could you not call me Mikey when I’m on the job?”

  “Sorry. It slipped out.” Father Newberry smiled at the one man on this earth he could truly and freely admit he loved like a son in a very human way. Michael Vincent Halloran was broad and tall and very imposing indeed with a gun on his hip and a badge on his chest, but the priest still saw Mikey the altar boy, dark and intense in this land of bland and blond, tailing him through those years before puberty when the priesthood had still been a magnet.

  “Okay, then who were their friends?”

  The priest sighed. “They had no friends.”

  “You’re not helping, Father.”

  “No, I suppose I’m not.” Father Newberry frowned at the yellow crime-scene tape around the pews ahead, framing the centerpiece of John and Mary Kleinfeldt. Doc Hanson was rummaging in his bag now, bumping John Kleinfeldt’s body, grabbing it by the shoulder when it started to tip over. Father Newberry closed his eyes.

  Halloran tried again. “You said they tried to get several parishioners removed from the congregation because they believed they were homosexual. I’ll need a list of those people.”

  “But none of them took it seriously. I can’t think of one who was really upset, the accusations were so preposterous.”

  “So none of them are really gay?”

  Father Newberry hesitated again. “Not to my knowledge.”

  “I’ll need the list anyway, Father. You have a file on the Kleinfeldts? Next of kin, that sort of thing?”

  “In the church office, but they had no family.”

  “No kids?”

  Father Newberry looked down at his hands, at the shiny spots on the knees of his pants that marked him as a professional supplicant, thinking that this was the gray area; that dreaded place where the obligations to the secular and spiritual worlds clashed in a terrible way. He sorted through his memory for what he could say, setting aside what he could not. “I believe they had a child, but they refused to speak of him. Or her. I don’t even know if the child was son or daughter.”

  “Still alive?”

  “I don’t know that either. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s all right. Anything else you can tell me about them?”

  The priest frowned, mentally ticking off the pathetically few scraps of information he possessed about the Kleinfeldts. “They were retired, of course, at their age. Both in their seventies, as I recall. Very devout, in their own way more than God’s, I’m sorry to say. And very solitary. I don’t think they trusted a living soul, including me, and I always thought that was very sad. I suppose that isn’t an uncommon trait among the wealthy.”

  Halloran looked doubtfully at the shabbily dressed corpses. “Land poor?”

  Father Newberry shook his head. “They tithed a precise ten percent. December thirty-first every year they’d send a check and a financial statement from their accountant to prove it was exactly ten percent, as if I would question it.”

  Halloran grunted. “Weird.”

  “They were … unusual people.”

  “So what were they worth?”

  The priest looked up, found his memory on the ceiling. “Over seven million, I believe, but that was last year. It would be considerably more now.”

  Behind them the church door opened and closed and a wave of cold moved up the aisle, Bonar in its wake. He stopped next to Halloran. “We got nothing from the neighbors. State forensics is just pulling in.” His eyes narrowed on Halloran’s face. “What? You got something?”

  “Motive, maybe. Father tells me they were worth millions.”

  Bonar glanced up the aisle at the bodies. “No way.”

  “It isn’t exactly a motive, Mike,” the priest interjected. “Unless you consider me a suspect. They left everything to the church.”

  Bonar elbowed Halloran. “I told you the padre did it.”

  Father Newberry almost smiled; stopped it just in time. “Lutherans,” he muttered instead.

  Up in the front of the church Doc Hanson stood abruptly. “Oh shit.” He shot a quick, guilty glance back at Father Newberry. “Sorry, Father. Mike, you want to come and take a look at this?”

  Beneath the black coat that Doc Hanson had started to unbutton, Mary Kleinfeldt’s once-white blouse was saturated with the red-brown of coagulating blood. The smell of it filled the pew.

  “She was shot in the chest, too?” Halloran asked.

  Doc Hanson shook his head. “Not unless they brought along a cannon. Head hole looks like a .22, and this is way too much blood for anything that small.” He unbuttoned the soggy blouse and opened it. The two deputies watching both took a quick step backward.

  “Jesus,” one of them whispered. “Looks like someone started a do-it-yourself autopsy.”

  Mary Kleinfeldt’s slip and bra had been sliced in half and peeled to each side, exposing blue-veined skin that had never seen the sun. A vertical gash ran down the center of her chest, exposing the sternum. Another gash ran horizontally, so deep that the lower half of her breasts hung inside out.

  Halloran stared at the old woman’s chest and felt a new kind of fear he couldn’t put a name to yet. “That’s not an autopsy incision,” he said softly. “It’s a cross.”

  Chapter 3

  Grace MacBride lived in the Merriam Park neighborhood of St. Paul, on a block of tall, narrow houses that remembered the Roaring Twenties. Her backyard was very small, and the solid wood fence around it was very high. Mitch said it was like being in a shoebox with the lid off, but then Mitch had always had a problem with the small closed spaces that were Grace’s salvation.

  The tree was the real reason she’d bought the place. It wasn’t much of a tree, by Mitch’s suburban standards, with a fat squat trunk and gnarled limbs that grew sideways instead of up, as if the sky were weighing them down. But it was a magnolia, by God, and that was a rare thing in Minnesota. A precious thing.

  Mitch had been quick to point out the cramped lot, the nearby fire station, the hard-packed rectangle of earth the realtor had dubbed a backyard; but he’d been trying to talk her out of buying the house then, trying to lure her to the Minneapolis suburb where he and Diane lived in a neighborhood of sprawling lawns so perfectly trimmed and edged they looked like they were screaming.

  “You could surround yourself with space there,” he’d told her, “a couple of empty acres where you could see someone coming in plenty of time.”

  But Grace had only smiled and said, “This place has a magnolia.”

  “Not for long,” he’d replied. “If it is a magnolia, it’ll be dead in a year.”

  That had been five years ago, and Grace had never once believed the tree would die, even though it appeared to attempt suicide on an annual basis. Every fall it dropped crisping leaves in a single, noisy shower, as if it just didn’t have the strength to hang on to them any longer. But every spring the bud clusters swelled and burst and tiny green fingers waved at new blue sky in a silly fit of optimism. The tree was a survivor, just like she was.

  This morning it was drooping in the dry air of autumn, threatenin
g to drop its leaves in the next heartbeat, and she had the hose running at the base of its trunk.

  She and Charlie sat on the two Adirondack chairs facing the tree, listening to the trickle of water, watching morning happen. Grace was mummified in a long terry robe; Charlie was naked.

  “You’ve got to stop pissing on it. It’s too much ammonia.” Her voice was layered with the faint trace of a southern accent corrupted by the cold, brittle cadence of the north.

  Charlie turned his head and watched with rapt attention as Grace sipped from her cup.

  “Forget it. It’s caffeinated.”

  Charlie sighed and looked away. He was a mess of a dog, a concoction slapped together by a blind Frankenstein. The size and bulk of a shepherd, the wiry coat of a terrier, the long, floppy ears of a hound, and a totally hairless stump of a tail that something had chewed off long before she’d met him. Charlie was a survivor, too.

  Grace moved in the chair, felt the gun slide to one side of the robe’s oversized pocket, and grabbed it before it could clunk against the wood chair.

  The holster is not a fashion accessory. It is a safety necessity. Keep your firearm in its holster whenever you’re carrying, and never, ever carry a gun in your pocket. Are you hearing me, class?

  Well, yes, Grace had certainly heard him, but you had to take some small chances every now and then; otherwise caution became paranoia and it ruled your life. Sitting in her own backyard in her bathrobe was one of those things that seemed worth the risk. Not that she would have tried it unarmed—she wasn’t that stupid.

  “Well, this has been nice, but I’ve got to get to work.”

  Charlie whined once and shifted his haunches in the chair like an old man in a hair coat.

  “Please don’t get up. I’ll see myself out.”

  It took her five minutes to dress. Jeans, T-shirt, a black canvas duster that took all kinds of weather down to zero, and of course, the English riding boots. Those who knew she’d never been on a horse in her life thought it was a fashion affectation. Only five people in the world knew differently.

  Well, maybe six.

  On the drive to work, she passed a cluster of police cars nosed up to the curb on the river parkway.

  Dead jogger by the river, she thought automatically.

  It was one of those exceptional years when the autumn colors along the Mississippi River almost stopped your heart. The low foliage of sumac flamed red, the maples glowed in ethereal shades of rose and orange, and the fragile leaves of quaking aspens shimmered like gold lamé on a drag queen.

  Detective Leo Magozzi had been walking a beat the last time the colors had been this intense, so full of himself he’d barely noticed anything around him—which explained a lot about the mess he’d made of his life—but for some reason, he had noticed the leaves that fall.

  Watercolors wouldn’t do it, he thought as he drove along West River Boulevard. You had to have oils for something like this.

  Ahead he saw the flashing turret lights of at least eight patrol cars and the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension Crime Scene Unit van. No news vans yet, thank God, but he’d bet his pension they’d be here within the sweep of his second hand.

  A young, baby-faced cop was directing traffic while keeping a wary eye on a small knot of gawkers that stood shivering in the morning chill, hoping to catch a glimpse of someone else’s misfortune. Magozzi was surprised there weren’t more of them—murder in Minneapolis was always big news, but in this neighborhood, it was really big news.

  He eased the car up to the curb, got out, and showed his badge to Baby Cop, who actually moved his lips trying to sound out the name.

  “Good morning, Detective … Mago-zee?”

  “Ma-go-tsee. Tsee. Like in tsetse fly.”

  “Oh. Like a what?”

  “Never mind. Is Detective Rolseth here?”

  “Rolseth … shorter guy, light hair?”

  “Sounds about right.” Magozzi had to give Baby Cop diplomacy points for leaving out some of the more colorful terms he’d heard used to describe his partner, like “paunch” and “receding hairline.” The kid maybe wasn’t the brightest bulb on the tree, but he might have a future as chief of police.

  Baby Cop jabbed a finger toward the row of huge, expensive old houses perched high above the street on sloping, manicured lawns. “He took some of the guys to do a door-to-door before people started leaving for work.”

  Magozzi nodded, then stepped over the yellow crime-scene tape and crunched through the litter of fallen leaves, shoving his bare hands deeper into the pockets of his trench coat against the chill of the river wind.

  BCA techs were fanning out over the strip of grass between the boulevard and the riverbank, marking the perimeter, walking the grid. He nodded greetings to the few he knew as he passed, then headed toward the edge of the river embankment where a tall, lanky man in an olive green coat was crouched over a body. Although his back was toward Magozzi, the black hair gave away the man’s identity as surely as the sloped shoulders that seemed to apologize for excessive stature.

  “Anantanand Rambachan.” Magozzi loved wrapping his tongue around this guy’s name. It was like eating a cream puff.

  Dr. Rambachan turned his head and welcomed Magozzi to the crime scene with a toothy, white smile. “Detective! Your Hindi accent is excellent this morning!” His dark, hooded eyes crinkled with mischief. “And look at this! You are so pretty! You must be on the hunt.”

  “Huh?”

  “You have lost weight, your muscles are more toned … which means you have finally grown weary of the solitary life and are now seeking the companionship of the fairer sex.”

  “Department physical’s coming up next month.”

  “Or it could be that.”

  Magozzi crouched down to take a quick visual inventory of the body. The victim was young, barely twenties, wearing nylon jogging pants and a faded sweatshirt. His still, waxen face was expressionless and his open eyes were filmy with the cataracts of death.

  “See here?” Rambachan pointed to a small, dark hole just above the left brow. “Tiny hole.” He stated the obvious. He always did. “Very clean. And either excellent marksmanship or a lucky mistake for our shooter. Very unlucky for our friend.”

  “Twenty-two?”

  “Oh yes, very likely.”

  Magozzi sighed and looked out over the river. The sunlight had broken through the low veil of clouds, creating sparkling prisms in the icy mist that rose from the water. “Cold this morning.”

  “Oh. Oh! I have recently learned from a book my wife gave me that the proper response to that statement is: ‘Could be worse.’”

  Magozzi picked up an evidence bag and peered at the driver’s license inside. “Oh yeah? What book is that?”

  Rambachan’s brow wrinkled. “It is a linguistics book. I believe the title is How to Talk Minnesotan. You have heard of it?”

  Magozzi almost smiled. “Any more personal effects?”

  “Just the license and the twenty-dollar bill. But there is something else, something very strange. I have never seen such a thing. Take a look at this.” Rambachan slipped gloved fingers between the corpse’s lips and pried open the jaw.

  Magozzi squinted and leaned forward, close enough to smell it, then sat back on his haunches. “Son of a bitch.”

  Chapter 4

  At about the time Detective Magozzi was rubbing noses with the dead jogger, Grace MacBride was turning her big black Range Rover onto Washington Avenue and heading for the warehouse district.

  From her first day here Grace had pegged Minneapolis as a prissy city, an aspiring lady with her skirts held ankle-high to avoid the prairie mud. It had an underbelly, of course—the hookers and johns, the porn shops, the junior-high kids cruising for a hit of black tar or Ecstasy—but you really had to look to find it, and that it existed at all never failed to shock the stalwart Lutheran populace into action. It was one of the few cities in the country, Grace thought, where the self-righteous still thought yo
u could shame the sleaze into redemption.

  Washington Avenue, once the province of the homeless and dealers, had long since been scolded into submission. Old warehouses wore new windows and sandblasted brick; seedy diners had been polished and transformed into sparkling oases of nouvelle cuisine; and only the bad people, the very bad people like Grace, ever smoked on the street.

  She parked in front of a small warehouse with a decidedly pink cast to the old brick, got out, and looked down the block.

  Annie was just coming around the corner, sending a smile on ahead. She was wearing a bright red wool cape that flapped open as she walked. The hood clashed nicely with her hennaed hair, Grace thought. She was wearing it short this year, in a flapper’s bob. A ruler-straight row of bangs rode high on her forehead over unnaturally green eyes.

  “You look like Little Red Riding Hood.”

  Annie laughed. “Big Red Riding Hood, sugar.” Her voice was cane-syrup sweet, remembering Mississippi. “You like?” She turned in a tight circle, a glorious scarlet hippo in a pirouette.

  “I like. How was your weekend?”

  “Oh, you know. Sex, drugs, rock and roll. Same old, same old. How about you?”

  Grace keyed open an innocuous door that was unmarked save for the relatively fresh coat of paint Annie derisively called Martha Stewart Green. “I worked a little.”

  “Hmph.” Annie walked through the door into a ground-floor garage, empty except for a brand-new mountain bike and a mud-splattered Harley hog. “A little. What would that be? Ten, twelve hours a day?”

  “Something like that.”

  Annie clucked her tongue. “You need a life, honey. You never go out. It’s not healthy.”

  “Not my thing, Annie. You know that.”

  “I met this really nice guy I could set you up with …”

  “Last time you set me up it didn’t exactly work out.”

  Annie rolled her eyes. “Grace. You pulled your gun on him. He still won’t talk to me.” She sighed as they walked toward the freight elevator on the far wall, the click of their heels echoing in the cavernous space. “We could go clubbing together after work tonight, maybe snag a couple of young farm boys if you put a bag over that ugly mug of yours.” She inserted a key card that started the throaty growl of machinery overhead, then turned and gave Grace her usual morning once-over. The look was that of an exasperated mother, silently disapproving the mystifying raiment of a rebellious child.