Evelyn Straub sat down on the third barstool. "Hello, boys."
The deputy lifted his beer in salute.
"Oren," she said, "give Hannah my regards." The light note of sarcasm was an instruction to also convey that she was pissed off. "Are you going to the birthday ball this year?"
"I never go," said Oren.
"You went to the first one," she said. "Not your finest hour."
"I remember that," said Dave. "Shit, we were still in elementary school that year." With great goodwill inspired by beer before breakfast, he slapped Oren's back. "I heard the Winston girl beat the crap out of you the other day."
"I saw the whole thing," said Evelyn, never taking her eyes off of Oren. "Payback's a bitch."
"Call me Sally."
William Swahn could think of other things that he might call this woman, and some were vaguely criminal. The CBI agent and her goons had crossed a line today.
Sally Polk sipped her tea and nodded toward his untouched cup. "Is that too hot?"
He could place her country-western accent in Bakersfield, a unique part of California where some migrant families had kept their transplant drawls from other states and passed them down through the generations. "Am I under arrest?"
"No, dear. But thank you for coming in."
"It was hard to refuse the state troopers. They took my cane when they opened the rear door of the car."
"Oh, those boys." With a light wave, she brushed off this bad behavior of children with guns. "You're a guest. You're also the only criminologist for miles around. Do your friends call you Will or William?"
"The Highway Patrol doesn't need a criminologist. In this area, a speeding ticket might be the high point of a trooper's day."
"I'm with a different agency."
"The CBI. I know. And I also know the Coventry homicides were taken away from you."
"Oh, my, doesn't news travel fast? I only found out myself an hour ago. |So I'm guessing you have some idea who pulled the strings to change jurisdiction. You and Oren have the same lawyer. Isn't that right? Was it Addison 's plan? Or does Judge Hobbs still have that kind of influence?"
Swahn pushed his teacup away. "I can only repeat what my cleaning lady said. Most of her gossip is very reliable."
Smiling sweetly, so motherly, the agent held up a color portrait of young Joshua Hobbs. The boy was posed against the ersatz blue-sky backdrop used by school photographers. "He was a fine-looking boy, wasn't he? Maybe a bit on the delicate side. No interest in sports, I hear-not quite like the other boys."
"The real boys? Your bias is showing, Agent Polk."
"Call me Sally, just plain old gay-basher Sally."
He almost smiled. He almost liked her. "For a year after Josh Hobbs went missing, there were three teenage girls haunting the sheriff's office like widows. You still need a criminologist's point of view? Fine. The boy was rampantly heterosexual."
"But you're not. You can't claim to be straight at this late date. If you did, you might have to give back all that lovely settlement money. The police down in Los Angeles might say it was paid out under false pretenses. As an agent of the Justice Department, I might have to look into that."
"Apparently, the LAPD is holding to the terms of our nondisclosure agreement. Clearly, you've never been privy to any details. So you're blowing smoke. Is this your interrogation style? You just throw out a few lines of garbage and see what sticks?"
"I wonder which client Addison worries about the most-you or Oren Hobbs. I know the sheriff took a real hard look at you when Josh disappeared. Now why is that? You'd have to run naked in the streets to get Cable Babitt's attention. And then there's Ad Winston. If he's your attorney, I know you did something wrong."
William leaned on his cane, preparing to rise. There was no acrimony in his voice when he said, "You'll have to excuse me now."
"So you don't want this case solved, either. That doesn't speak well for innocence."
"I don't care."
"You will." This was no threat. She was worried.
He followed the track of her eyes to the window on the parking lot, where people were gathering with cameras and microphones. "I see you called out the media."
She shook her head. "That's your lawyer's style, not mine." She left her desk and walked to the window. More vans and cars pulled into the parking lot to disgorge reporters and film crews. "God, how Addison loves the cameras. That's why I had the troopers pick you up-so he wouldn't find out you were here. Believe it or not, I did that as a favor to you, Mr. Swahn."
William limped to the window to stand beside her. "Well, you know I didn't call my lawyer. This isn't his doing."
"Maybe not," she said. "Sometimes-when there's blood in the water- they just show up."
21
Twenty years ago, Ferris Monty had begun his book on a typewriter, and now he was nearly done copying the old manuscript onto a computer. The screen glowed, and so did he.
Fat fingers typed out Joshua's dark brown hair and high cheekbones. Line by line, he animated the dead boy and made him walk the streets of Coventry with a camera strap slung around his long white neck. And sometimes, on one page or another, the boy was followed by a loopy Irish setter that seemed vaguely retarded. What was the stupid beast's name?
He paused to page through an old notebook. Ah, right. The boy had called his dog Horatio, as in, "Get off me, Horatio!"
Ferris was revisiting a long-ago day when he had blended in with the tourists at a street fair. For an hour or more, he had kept watch on the boy and the dog, and then he had lost sight of them in the crowd, but found them again when a woman yelled, "Josh, you get this mutt off me! Now!" Once more, in keeping with the theme of ducks in a row, Ferris had followed behind the dog that followed the boy.
A woman had appeared to be the unwitting leader of this parade for a time-or perhaps not. According to his notes for that day, he had never been entirely certain, for the dog had suddenly jumped another victim in the street and slathered her with kisses until she also screamed. An old line in Ferris's notebook lamented: How could the boy hope to shadow anyone with a dog like that in tow?
On other pages, other days when the dog was not around, the objects of Joshua's curiosity had been clear. The boy had a gift for capturing the telling moments, snapping rants or confusion, a binge eater at the point of throwing up in a local diner, and-
And now Ferris recalled his own portraits-hung on public display for decades.
He had ordered prints from Josh after the originals had appeared in the lobby of the local bank. Ferris's private collection hung on the wall above the computer monitor, placed there so that he could daily see himself in a kinder light than his mirror could afford. He had so loved these portraits of younger days when he had black eyebrows to match his toupee. And Joshua's work was superior to every other artist's previous attempt at capturing Ferris's true essence.
Understatement.
Today these three photographs stunned him anew.
He saw his younger self standing in line at the bank all those years ago. In the first frame, he had noticed the boy taking his picture. Ferris's face was turned to the camera's lens with a look of happy surprise-and more. As the line moved forward in the second shot, he looked back over his shoulder in sweet flirtation. But his expression was most vivid in the final shot. He had been caught in the act of falling in love with the young photographer.