THE EVIDENCE ROOM was a closet with a fire door and steel sides. Stryker unlocked it, pulled out a basket, sorted through a dozen Ziploc bags, got the key, and handed it to Virgil. They walked along together to the courthouse door, past a guy painting woodwork.

When they were out of earshot, Stryker said, "Listen, you know how it is in a sheriff's office. Half the guys working for me would like a shot at my job. If they smell a weakness…I'll be in trouble. So. You do what it takes. You need anything from me-anything-you let me know. Any of my people drag their feet, anybody in the courthouse gives you trouble, I want to hear about it."

"I'll talk to you," Virgil said.

THEY STEPPED OUTSIDE, into the sunshine. A woman was going by on the sidewalk, fifty feet away, slender, pretty, small features, white-blond hair on her shoulders. Maybe early thirties? He was too far away to be sure, but Virgil thought her eyes might be green. She lifted a hand to Stryker and he lifted one back, and her eyes caught Virgil's for a beat-an extra beat-and then she went along toward the corner.

"Another thing," Stryker said. "We've got this newspaper here and the editor thinks he's the New York Times. His name is Williamson. He's investigating my investigation, and he says I'm screwing it up. Just a heads-up in case he calls you-and he will."

Virgil nodded, then said, quietly, "Not to step on your train of thought, there, Jimmy, but look at the ass on that woman. My God, where do the genes come from? I mean, that's an artwork. That's the Venus de Milo, and you're a bunch of goddamned Germans."

"Yeah," Stryker said, a noncommittal note in his voice.

Virgil looked at him: "What? She's married to the mayor? You don't even look at her ass?"

"No, I don't, really," Stryker said. "And she's not married. She's been divorced since February. Folks figure she's about ripe for the pluckin'."