“That’s who they put in charge of hot wheels.”

“He moved to a new neighborhood, works a straight job.”

“Reformed?”

“It happens.”

“But you think not,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“That question about the new lock. You’re wondering if he forgot to bolt up, found the chain down this morning, bought a replacement.”

“Mind reader,” I said. “Also, his eyes moved a lot.”

“Goddamn pinball machine. Maybe it’s worse and someone paid him to leave the chain off last night.”

“Or the killer picked it,” I said. “Cheap drugstore crap.”

He looked over at the shack. “A guy with Chacon’s past is wise to the drill, he’s got no motivation to give anything up. I get closer to the bad guy, I can come back with leverage, offer him a break on aiding and abetting.”

Once, not if.

Nice to see him thinking about the future.

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER
7

The meeting with Antoine Beverly’s parents was set for noon the following day.

When I got to Milo’s office, a note on the door said A: Rm. 6.

Largest room, at the end of the corridor. An Interview in Progress: Do Not Disturb sign dangled from the doorknob.

I knocked once and went in.

A middle-aged black couple sat across the table from Milo. A wallet-sized photo of a boy was placed in front of the woman and after she appraised me, her attention returned to the image.

The man next to her wore a stiff brown suit, a white shirt, and a gold tie secured by a silver clip. An American flag pin rode his lapel. His gray hair was tight; in front it faded to skin. Under a white thread of a mustache, his smile was obligatory.

The woman had on a charcoal pantsuit. High waved hair was one shade darker than her clothes. She drew away from the photo with reluctance and placed her hands flat on the table.

Milo said, “Mr. and Mrs. Beverly, this is our psychologist, Dr. Delaware. Doctor, Gordon and Sharna Beverly.”

Gordon Beverly half stood and sat back down. His wife said, “Pleased to meet you, Doctor.”

The pressing of cool dry flesh. I sat next to Milo.

He said, “Mr. and Mrs. Beverly brought me this picture of Antoine.”

I studied the picture, maybe longer than I needed to. Smiling, clear-eyed boy with a space between his incisors. Short hair, blue shirt, plaid tie.

“Doctor, I was just explaining that you were involved because of the complexities.”

Sharna Beverly said, “We could use a psychiatrist because if it wasn’t that maniac in Texas, it was some kind of maniac. I knew it from the beginning, kept telling those other detectives.” A silver-nailed finger touched the edge of the photo. “It’s been so long. No one did anything.”

“They tried,” said her husband. “But there were no leads.”