Decker waited a beat, giving Byron a chance to cool off. He regarded the pinups in back of the desk. Byron, seeing Decker’s stare go over his shoulder, glanced over his back and noticed the nude-women posters as if he’d seen them for the first time.

“Like your artwork,” Decker said.

“My baby brother put them up,” Byron said.

But you didn’t take them down, Decker thought. “One more thing, Byron. Do the Darcys own a gun?”

Byron said everyone here owned a gun. Decker pressed him on it. What kind of firearms?

“Shotgun,” Byron answered.

“What kind?”

“Browning Pump.”

“What gauge?” Decker asked patiently.

“Twelve.”

“Any handguns?” Decker asked.

“Don’t know.”

“We couldn’t find anything there,” Marge said. “Know where the Browning was kept?”

Byron squeezed his hands into fists and said, “Why don’t you ask Pappy D these questions?”

Decker said he’d do just that.

16

Rolland Mason was not listed in the book. Nor did he have an unlisted number. But at least he wasn’t a total cipher.

Marge reviewed her notes:

Rolland Mason, born in Macon, Ga. WM, 42, 6'1", 220, brown hair, blue eyes, no wants, no warrants, no priors, the last two words underlined with a bold pencil stroke—a real surprise. His prints had placed him in the USMC—a one-year tour in Nam in ’67, obtaining his honorable discharge in ’68. He returned home to Macon. Married Tammy Reebs a year later, five kids, worked as an electrician. Divorced 1983 after fourteen years of marriage, moved to California. Whereabouts unknown 1983–1985, no California driver’s license, no taxes filed, no address, no phone number, no welfare, no nothing. In 1986, he did obtain a CDL, the address listed now a shopping mall. No info on him after that.

Marge took out the phone book and started calling coffee shops in Saugus, hoping that Chip’s information wasn’t pure bull. She hit pay dirt after twenty minutes of phoning. Betty Bidel who did the morning shift at Nicky’s knew Rolland very well. Marge said she’d be right down, and Betty said good. The hour between ten and eleven was slow anyway.

Rolland’s old lady was a stringy brunette with a pasty complexion. Hair packed into a net, Betty wore a starched white uniform, her name tag pinned above a breast-pocket handkerchief. She was manning the countertop, wiping coffee cups with a brown terry-cloth rag.

As soon as Marge identified herself, Betty said, “So the law finally caught up with him.”

Marge smiled cryptically.

Betty cocked her head. “Knew it was only a matter of time. All that meth dealing. I didn’t know nothing ’bout it. You got to believe me on that.”

Marge said she did.

“Man, this is the final straw,” Betty announced. “Even if he’d come back, I wouldn’t take him. Not after the dealing. And what he did to me.”

“What did he do to you?” Marge asked.