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  67. 3:46 a.m.

It could be anything, a TV, a coat, art, jewelry. I’m hoping whatever it is will somehow connect Jessica to whoever killed her. Killed her and took $200,000.

“Let’s see here,” he says. He walks down the counter, bends down, and says, “You’re in luck. Number forty-nine is still hanging around.”

He pulls out a watch and lays it on the counter.

It is silver with a black leather band. The second hand sweeps effortlessly across the numerals. It is a beautiful piece of craftsmanship.

“Nice watch,” he says.

I nod.

“This what you’re looking for?”

“That’s it,” I say, hoping it is. “You remember the girl who sold you this?”

“I wasn’t here, but Chip, one of the other guys was, and he told me about some hot little number who came in wanting ten thousand for some watch.” He pauses, “That sound like your lady?”

I nod, but I’m thinking about Jessica. She wanted ten grand, but took twelve hundred. She must have been desperate.

“How much for it back?” I ask.

“How much you willing to pay?”

“Three grand.”

He laughs and says that it is worth three times that.

“Thirty-five hundred,” I counter.

Laughs again.

“Four.”

Less laughing.

“Forty-five.”

Almost a nod.

“Five.”

“Deal.”

I fork over all five grand. He polishes the watch for me, then hands it over, and I realize I have just spent five grand on a watch that most likely belongs to Mr. Clemens. I put it in my pocket and walk quickly across the street and get back into the car.

“You get it?” my dad asks.

“Yeah.” I turn and look at Lassie and say, “I really could have used you in there, buddy. Guy cleaned me out.”

Meow.

“You would not have gotten it for fifty dollars.”

He laughs.

“Let’s see it,” my dad says.

The clock on the dash reads 3:53 a.m.

The gangsters are staring at us from across the way and I say, “Let’s get out of this neighborhood first.”

We drive for five minutes, then pull into a neighborhood with fences.

“Now that is a nice watch,” my dad says, though I hardly hear him. I am too busy trying to make out the inscription on the back. I read it out loud, “To Risky, may all your dreams come true. Mom and Dad.”

My dad’s eyebrows jump.

“What?” I ask.

“I think I know whose watch that is.”

I stare at him.

He explains how he is openly referred to as Risky.

My dad says the name. “Ricky Sullivan.”

The President’s son.

:12