Silken Prey

said.
    Larson was a tall, thin man whom Lucas knew through Weather’s association with the St. Paul Chamber Orchestra. Larson raised money for the orchestra, usually by wheedling rich wives; it’d worked with Weather. When Lucas stepped into the room, Larson put down the paper he’d been reading and stood to shake hands. “Lucas, nice to see you. How’s Weather?”
    “Broke. She’s broke. She’s got no money left. She’s wondering how we’re going to feed the kids.”
    “Hate to hear that,” Larson said, with a toothy smile. “I’ll call her with my condolences.”
    The pleasantries out of the way, they settled into the conference chairs and Lucas outlined some of what he knew and believed about Tubbs’s disappearance. He finished by saying, “You guys are probably not going to want to talk about this, because when the media puts Tubbs’s disappearance together with the porn trick . . . it’s gonna look bad.”
    “I think we can agree on that,” Larson said for Schariff, who’d kept his mouth shut. “But how does this involve Don?”
    “I’ve been told, by somebody who knows these things, that Don knows a lot about the, mmm, tactical maneuverings of the party, and everybody involved in these things.”
    “I don’t do dirty tricks,” Schariff said.
    Larson put up a finger to shut him up, and said to Lucas, “Go on.”
    “So the technical fact of the matter is, the booby trap on Smalls’s computer had to be set the same morning it went off. Tubbs wasn’t there that morning. Hadn’t been there for a few days,” Lucas said. “So, he had an accomplice. That accomplice might have been acting out of pure greed . . . Tubbs might have paid him. But it’s equally likely that it’s an ideological thing, that Tubbs knew that there was a spy among the volunteers and got the guy to set the trap. Since Don knows most of the party’s operators . . . well, we thought he might also know who the spy is. If there is one.”
    “Getting information like that isn’t a crime,” Larson said.
    “I didn’t say it was—but framing Smalls is. Anybody who helped the spy put that stuff on the computer, or knows about it and doesn’t say so, is also in trouble. Conspiracy and all that. Prison time,” Lucas said. “I’m not trying to be impolite here, but you see where I’m going.”
    Schariff said, “Well, I—”
    Larson put the finger up again and said, “No.” Then to Lucas, “Don and I have to talk. I’ll call you later today.”
    “How about in ten minutes?” Lucas asked. “Things are getting really tight with the election.”
    “Later today,” Larson said. And he wouldn’t budge.
    •   •   •
    O UT ON THE SIDEWALK, Lucas took a phone call from Ruffe Ignace, a crime reporter for the
Star Tribune
: “We’re getting all kinds of different signals on Smalls. Smalls says he’s been cleared by Rose Marie Roux, and she says she’s made her statement, which, when you look at it, doesn’t quite clear him. In the meantime, people are whispering to our political people that the porn was his. Which way should I lean?”
    “I’d have to go off the record on that,” Lucas said. “Better yet, why don’t you call Rose Marie directly?”
    “She tends to blow me off,” Ignace said. “Anyway, could we stay a little bit on the record? A highly placed source in the investigation?”
    “I’m the only one investigating, so that won’t work,” Lucas said. “I need to go completely off.”
    “Shit. All right, we’re off the record,” Ignace said. “Which way should I lean?”
    “Smalls was framed. . . . He’s innocent.”
    “Thanks. We’re almost even now. You only owe me a little bit.”
    “Call me back in one minute,” Lucas said. “I might have something else for you.”
    “You in the can?”
    “No, I’m in a parking lot, leaning on my car,” Lucas said. “I need to think. One minute.”
    Lucas leaned against the car and thought about it. One minute later, Ignace called back and Lucas said, “Still off the record, okay?”
    “Okay. Against my better judgment. The public’s trust in both government and the media would be so much higher if we identified—”
    “Yeah, yeah, yeah. We’re off the record. Call Don Schariff—S-C-H-A-R-I-F-F—at DFL headquarters. He’s got some kind of title there, but I’m not sure what. Anyway, he’s involved with DFL intelligence gathering—”
    “Spies.”
    “Yeah. Ask him if Bob Tubbs—”
    “The guy who