He parked in the ramp of the Fond-Du-Luth casino and emerged onto Superior Street. The casino was next to him, belching cigarette smoke when the doors opened. He’d never been inside. He didn’t gamble. It was a sweltering afternoon, and he thought about stopping at a bar, but beer fogged his head. He needed to be sharp as he perused the jewelry locked under the glass of the pawn shop counters.

For eight years, he’d visited the same shops again and again. Duluth. Cloquet. Grand Rapids. Hinckley. Even down to the Twin Cities. Dozens of them, from the upscale mall shops buying gold and silver to the alley-side joints that served up fast cash and payday loans. The owners all knew him, although he’d never told them what he was looking for. Howard was paranoid that if any of the owners knew they were fencing property stolen in a murder case, they’d make those items quietly disappear before he could identify them.

He climbed 2nd Avenue in the heat. He wore a red Kohl’s polo shirt, tan khakis, and sneakers with reinforced arches for his flat feet. The shoes were new, and the soles squeaked. Zenith Pawn was at the next corner, garish with neon.

Black pearl ring in a gold setting.

Hummingbird pin.

Emerald J brooch.

All these years, all these fruitless hours spent hunched over display cases, and he’d never lost faith.

Howard thought about his last visit with Janine and the odd confession she’d made. It shocked him, until he’d realized that she was trying to drive him away. He’d been too honest with her about his frustrations with Carol. Janine blamed herself for his dissolving marriage, and maybe she was right. Even so, he refused to let her send him away.

‘Say whatever you want,’ he had told her. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

Howard opened the glass door of the pawn shop. Inside, the air conditioning made his damp skin cold. It felt good. Another customer was at the counter, a silver-haired lady dickering with the owner over the price of an old penny. The shop overflowed with inventory. Jewelry. Guns. Video games. Stamps and coins. Leather. Cutlery and knives. Electronics. Some items were new, but most were used, the litter of the Great Recession. Three balls were the universal symbol of boom times gone bust.

‘This is a 1933 wheat penny,’ the old woman insisted. ‘I looked it up. It’s worth twenty dollars. I cleaned it up for you, too. Nice and shiny.’

The owner was bald and big and reminded him of a pro wrestler like Jesse Ventura. He wore jeans and a black leather jacket. Somewhere inside the jacket, Howard assumed the man carried a bad-ass gun.