“The thing is,” Trimble said, after we’d driven several miles without saying a word to one another, “I feel badly about Lawrence. I honestly do. He was a good cop, a good partner. But he was such a fucking idealist, so holier-than-thou. Always believed in playing by the rules, doing things by the book. Didn’t seem to understand that no one else was playing by the rules, that cops get shafted from every corner. They send you out to clean up everybody’s shit, put your life on the line, for a joke of a salary, and then you put your toe over that line the tiniest bit and they pull the rug out from under you. Lawrence didn’t understand that you had to bend the rules, not a lot, just a bit, to make the job work in your favor. I still got a great record, I got loads of collars, I’ve got commendations. I’ve put a lot of bad people behind bars.”

“I’m moved,” I said.

I could feel the gun slip further from its flimsy masking-tape harness. Too bad Lawrence’s glove compartment hadn’t contained duct tape.

“Never mind,” Trimble said. “Let’s just do this.”

And we sat quietly for the next ten minutes. As signs appeared for Oakwood, Trimble said, “It’ll be coming up soon, just another couple of exits.”

Trimble told me where to get off. We drove through the so-called downtown of Delton, then north, through a neighborhood of small, post–Second World War houses. We came upon a two-story brick house, and even in the darkness, I could see the paint peeling off the window frames, the sag in the roof. There was an old Volvo in the driveway.

“Kill the lights before you turn into the drive,” Trimble said, and I did.

I stopped the car, turned the key back, and felt the gun slip from my ankle to the floor.

“We’re going to go straight in,” Trimble said. “Then right up the stairs, to his bedroom. I don’t think he’s got any kids. Don’t see any tricycles or bikes around.”

“He doesn’t have kids,” I said.

“How do you know that?”

“He told me. I interviewed him for a story.”

Trimble almost looked impressed. “You’re everywhere, aren’t you? Okay, let’s be very quiet.”

With my foot, I shifted the gun to the right of the accelerator, down behind the police communication equipment. If Trimble made me drive back, there was no chance he’d see it down there.

“Wait,” I said. “It’s 1:27. Depending on what happens once we get inside, you’re not going to be able to call Bullock. So check in with him now.”