“Man, he’s sweating like a horse,” Mendez said. “Can you imagine what his wife would do to him if she found out where her pillar of the community has been?”

Hicks laughed. “Yeah, his pillar’s been all over the place.”

“Although, you can hardly blame the guy,” Mendez said. “That wife of his . . . She’d be like fucking a bear trap.”

“Press him about last night,” Vince said. “Ask him how his card game went.”

Mendez poured himself a cup of coffee and went back into the interview room.

“So how was your card game last night?”

“My what?”

“Your wife told us you weren’t home last night because you were playing cards.”

“Oh.”

“Where were you? Ventura?”

“No. Janet and I had a fight.”

“What about?”

“She was angry that Tommy’s teacher had asked him some questions about our home life. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, my wife can be a formidable character in an argument,” he said. “It’s been a long week. I’d just had it. I didn’t want to hear any more, so I went out.”

“Out where?”

“I had dinner at O’Brien’s Pub, watched the American League Championship game. Around nine Steve came into the bar—”

“Steve Morgan?”

“Yeah. We sat around and cried in our beer until closing time.”

“What was his problem?”

“A fight with his wife. What else? She kicked him out.”

“Why did she throw him out?”

“She accused him of having an affair, which has gotten to be a routine thing with her.”

“Is he?” Mendez asked. “Where there’s smoke, there’s usually fire.”

He didn’t answer for a while, turning words over in his head, trying to choose them carefully. “Steve’s a complicated guy.”

“I don’t care,” Mendez said. “I want to know: Was he having an affair with Lisa Warwick?”

Peter Crane rested his elbows on the table and hung his head, looking defeated.

“Don’t fuck around with me, Dr. Crane,” Mendez said sharply. “The woman was murdered. Was he having an affair with her?”

“Yes.”

Chapter 63

63

Dennis crept through the woods like a commando, crouched low, sometimes crawling on his belly. He had smeared dirt on his face for camouflage and tied a rag around his head like Rambo.

He could hear voices in the park. People talking, kids laughing. People with normal lives. He hated them.

He could see them from the edge of the woods, where he hid behind a tree. Little kids, bigger kids, a couple of adults. He crept a little closer.

They were having fun. They were happy. And there was Cody, who was supposed to be his friend, playing catch with a kid from the fourth grade.

“Hey, Cody,” he said, standing at the very edge where the park became the woods.

Cody glanced over at him and frowned.

“Hey, Cockroach, come ’ere.”

Cody pretended not to hear him.