And as we followed the lovely Deputy Sheriff Evaleen down the hallway, I could only think how there is that certain something about a well-built woman in a police uniform, that something about her, that just makes you want to take the law into your own hands. I’m sure you know what I mean.

THE RAIN CAME IN WAVES OF VARYING intensity as I drove back to Savannah. While the wipers beat a mesmerizing cadence on the windshield I tried to make sense of the day’s events. I had gotten little from the sheriff that I didn’t know already. But I hadn’t expected to learn anything really earth-shattering. Joree had been vague, as though she had rethought whether it had been such a good idea to come to me in the first place. But Junior was scared, and so was Sandy Willis. Those two knew something—but what? Did they have knowledge of the same things or did they each carry with them a little something about Tonya that no one else was aware of? As for Leon Wren—related to the Causeys or not—he was a lunatic, and of no consequence in the matter.

So I tallied up the cost of this little inquiry so far. My truck had every window except one knocked out of it. Poor thing looked like it had been stolen by gangbangers and used for a joyride, before being brutalized and abandoned on the wrong side of town. And I had damn near had my head torn off by a madman. I was okay, but new glass for my old Bronco might be pretty hard to come across. I thought I’d keep this one to myself—no need to upset my insurance company. I had my doubts that they’d understand.

And if Joree Causey was no more interested in the death of her daughter than she had indicated this morning—if she had undergone a change of heart about the matter—then maybe it was time to pull the plug and forget about it before I wasted any more time and effort.

The afternoon was late, the sky was low and dark, and the traffic heavy and sluggish as I came back into town. I cruised slowly down Bull Street, watching closely for the sudden flare of brake lights ahead of me as I negotiated the fitful stop and go of the bumper-to-bumper crush of cars. Savannah may be a city of many superlatives, but its drivers are some of the worst in the nation. They bumble through the streets with all the elegance and smooth capability of a bunch of mindless tadpoles swarming around in a mud hole. At the eastern end of the old city, I worked my way over to Victory Drive, and before long was soon in the village of Thunderbolt and at the auto shop of Danny Ray’s brother-in-law.