“What you have to do, sir,” the second officer continued, “is put that dollar back in your pocket, go home to your family, look after them, and trust that we will look after you, and the FBI will catch this guy.”

“Catch him?” a woman yelled from across the diner. “The FBI has their heads so far up their asses they’re investigating drooling lunatics. They can’t even stop him when he hands them a schedule and directions.”

“Yeah,” a man’s voice boomed. “Tell that poor old fart in Chicago how safe he is. Can’t even take a crap without getting killed. And what about that Indian yesterday? Did the killer tell the Feds where he was going to be then, too?”

“I wouldn’t know,” the first officer said. “The FBI is conducting an independent investigation and we—”

“And you’re sitting on your asses eating doughnuts!”

A rumble went through the smattering of diners. As my hands clenched my mug, Jack’s knee brushed my leg. He jerked his chin toward the door, a twenty already on the table. When I hesitated, he caught my eye and shook his head, and with great reluctance, I stood. Around me, people continued to shout questions and abuse at the two officers. A few were already on their feet. Jack’s fingers wrapped around my upper arm. He leaned into my ear.

“You can’t help. Not now.”

I resisted for a moment, then yanked my gaze away and let him lead me from the diner.

So we knew there had been another killing since Chicago, and that the public knew about the opera house, too. All yesterday I’d avoided papers and radios and TVs, struggling to concentrate on the task at hand. Even now I did my best to resist. I walked past the newsstand at the airport terminal, tuned out other passengers’ conversations, even looked away from a big-screen TV tuned to CNN when the ticker flashed “Helter Skelter killer.” Like Jack said—and said often—knowing didn’t help, didn’t get me any closer to catching him.

On the plane we decided what we’d do about Evelyn. We were halfway to her house when Jack pulled into a strip mall.

“Want a coffee?” he said.

I shook my head.

“Need to use the bathroom,” he said, opening his door. “Smoke shop down there. Could grab a paper.”

I sat there a minute after he got out, wondering whether I should hold out, could hold out, then pushed open the door, went in and bought a paper—well, three of them, two nationals and a local. As I was paying, I noticed the rows of cigarettes behind the counter, at least half of them in packages I didn’t recognize.

“You have a lot of foregin brands,” I said, waving at the display.

“You name it, I got it,” said the old man behind the counter. “Whatcha looking for.”