“What’s your friend’s name?” Hooper asked as the car came to a stop in front of a carport. Despite the steady patter of rain, the rows of recently planted cotton could be seen from the glow cast by the full moon above.

“What?” Bo asked, wrinkling his face at the lone car parked under the covering. It was a black Crown Victoria with a Tennessee license plate. There was only one person in the world he knew who drove that type of vehicle.

“Your friend?”

When Bo still didn’t answer, Hooper turned around and looked at him.

“You know, the guy who owns the farm. I wonder if I might know him.”

Bo blinked his eyes and finally took them off the Crown Vic. Then he gazed out at the farmland. “His name was Tom McMurtrie. You probably heard of him. Played on Coach Bryant’s ’61 team and then taught Evidence at Alabama’s law school for forty years.”

Hooper opened his mouth in an aha manner. “I have heard of him.” He gave his head a jerk. “No offense, Mr. Haynes, but that ’61 team will always be the greatest.”

Bo smiled. “None taken.”

“You said his name was Tom McMurtrie. Is he—?”

“He died last year. Lung cancer.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too,” Bo said, holding out a twenty-dollar bill to the driver.

Hooper smiled. “The bill was only eighteen dollars, and your card will be automatically charged.”

“Keep it,” Bo said, pressing the cash into the driver’s hand. “I appreciate the ride and you stopping for food. What did you say you did during the daytime?”

“I didn’t,” Hooper said, reaching into a pouch on his dashboard and handing Bo a card.

Bo read it. “Hooper, Private Investigative Services.” He smiled. “Just Hooper?”

He nodded. “Wanted to be different.”

“What’s your first name?”

“You assume Hooper is my last name?”

Bo smiled. “Isn’t it?”

“I only tell that to folks who hire me,” he said, putting the car in reverse. “Let me know if I can ever be of service.”

“Will do,” Bo said, sticking the card in his pocket. As he watched the Maxima ease down the driveway and turn right onto Highway 231, Bo chuckled. He had enjoyed the chatty Uber driver’s company more than anyone he’d been around in a while.

“Make a new friend?”

Bo wheeled at the sound of the familiar voice, the sharpness of which had cut through the air and the rain like a machete.

“General?” Bo asked, squinting into the carport.

“You’re getting wet,” she said, rising from the storage bin that she’d been sitting on in her customary black suit and heels. What wasn’t customary was the six-pack of Miller High Life that lay next to her on the concrete. Two of the bottles were missing from the carton.

“Drinking alone?” Bo asked, walking under the cover of the port.