“I think I’ve made it pretty obvious that I’d rather not go down that road. But if this is the only way to make you stop playing Boy Detective . . . I’m just trying to get your attention, Frank. I haven’t had much luck any other way.”

I said, “Think back, Scorcher. What was the one thing I told you, last time we saw each other?”

“That your brother wasn’t a killer.”

“That’s right. And how much attention did you pay to that?”

Scorcher flipped down the sun visor and checked a shaving cut in the mirror, tilting his head back to run a thumb along his jaw. “In some ways,” he said, “I suppose I owe you a thank-you. I’ve got to admit, I’m not sure I’d have found Imelda Tierney if you hadn’t found her for me. And she’s turning out very useful.”

The cunning little bitch. “I bet she is. She’s the obliging type. If you know what I mean.”

“Oh, no. She’s not just trying to make me happy. Her evidence’ll hold up, if it comes to that.”

He let it hang there. The tiny smirk he couldn’t hide gave me the general idea, but I went along anyway. “Go on, then. Hit me. What’s she come up with?”

Scorch pursed up his lips, pretending to think about it. “She may end up being a witness, Frank. All depending. I can’t tell you her evidence if you’re going to try and harass her into changing it. I think we both know just how badly that could end, don’t we?”

I took my time. For a long, cold moment I stared him out of it; then I let my head fall back against the headrest and ran my hands over my face. “You know something, Scorch? This has been the longest week of my life.”

“I know that, old son. I’m hearing you. But, for everyone’s sake, you’re going to have to find somewhere more productive to direct that energy.”

“You’re right. I shouldn’t have gone looking for Imelda to begin with; that was well out of order. I just figured . . . she and Rosie were close, you know? I thought, if anyone knew anything . . .”

“You should have given me her name. I’d have talked to her for you. Same end result, none of this hassle.”

“Yes. You’re right again. It’s just . . . It’s hard to let go when there’s nothing definite one way or the other, you know? I like knowing what’s going on.”

Scorch said dryly, “Last time we talked, you sounded pretty sure you knew exactly what was going on.”

“I thought I did. I was positive.”

“But now . . . ?”