Toby’s fingers, holding the door, were stained yellow from nicotine. He rolled his own, Marshall thought. It went with the slicked-back rockabilly hair and the white T-shirt. The only visible sleeve was rolled up, as if this man in his fifties had mistaken his age for the decade.

Greaser, Marshall thought. An aging S. E. Hinton character. But not Ponyboy or Soda. Someone harder. Rumble Fish gone wrong.

Toby’s upper lip peeled back, revealing soft, gray teeth in a dog’s smile that did not reach his eyes.

Marshall knew why. He had retained his cop look. A habitual offender like Toby would clock Marshall as a cop if Marshall were a hundred years old and dead in a coffin.

“Hi, Toby. I just got off the phone with Stewart Dobbs,” Marshall said. A lie. Dobbs was Toby’s probation officer. At his name Toby’s lip-curl smile widened, trying to look friendlier. It did not go well. “I’m not here for you. So if you’re hiding a piece behind this door, I suggest you put it someplace I won’t see it and then talk to me.”

Toby’s eyebrows puzzled up. After a brief, slack stare, he stepped back from the door, leaving it cracked. Marshall heard him rustling around. Maybe shoving a pistol under a chair cushion or down the waistband of his pants. Toby reappeared and swung the door open a little wider.

“You alone in there?” Marshall asked.

“Yeah?” Hesitant but truthful. He wasn’t acting like a man protecting someone inside. Lexie wasn’t here. Still, due diligence.

“So let’s assume you just hid a gun,” Marshall said. Toby started to protest, but Marshall talked over him. “And I smell pot. I could call Stewart, wait here, get you violated six ways from Sunday. Or you could answer a question.”

“Okay. Sure. Fine, what?” Toby was even more nerved up now.

“Where can I find Lexie Pine?” Marshall asked.

Toby looked relieved. A flash of true emotion, and Marshall’s heart sank. The guy didn’t know.

“I ain’t seen Lexie in almost half a year.”

“Can I come in?” Marshall said.

“What for?” Toby asked, bristling, that feral dog’s smile back.

“I want you to tell me about the last time you saw her. I want some good guesses about where she might be now.”

Instead Toby stepped out onto the porch. His feet were bare and bony, pale against the old, gray wood.

“Yeah. Okay. What’s in it for me?” Toby asked.

Marshall had a fifty ready, clipped between two fingers. He waved it. Toby licked at his lips, eyes kindling.