His eyes were silver blue and still.

Milo showed him I.D. Malley barely glanced at it.

“Mr. Malley, I don’t mean to intrude, but there are some questions I’d like to ask you.”

Malley didn’t answer.

“Sir?”

Silence.

Milo said, “Are you aware that Rand Duchay was murdered Saturday night?”

Malley clicked his teeth together. Backed into his cabin. Closed the door.

Milo knocked. Called Malley’s name.

No response.

We walked to the south side of the house. No windows. At the rear a single horizontal pane was set high into the northern wall. Milo stretched upward and rapped the glass.

Bird calls, forest rustles. Then: music.

Honky-tonk piano. A tune I’d always liked— Floyd Cramer’s “Last Date.” Solo piano, a recording I’d never heard.

Momentary hesitation, then the tune repeated. A flubbed note followed by fluidity.

Not a recording. Live.

Malley played the song through, then began again, improvising a basic but decently phrased solo.

The rendition repeated. Ended. Milo took advantage of the silence and knocked on Malley’s window again.

Malley resumed playing. Same tune. Different improv.

Milo turned on his heel, lips moving. I couldn’t make out what he said and knew better than to ask.

On our way out of the campgrounds, we spotted Bunny MacIntyre over by the RVs, talking to one of the elderly couples. Her hand went out and some bills were passed. She saw us, turned away.

“Charming rural folk,” said Milo, as we got back in the unmarked. “Is that the theme from Deliverance I hear wafting through the piney woods?”

“Should’ve brought my guitar.”

“A duet with Barnett the Pianner Man? Was that the reaction of an innocent guy, Alex? I was hoping I could eliminate him, but just the opposite.”

“Wonder why he keeps that welcome mat in front,” I said.

“Maybe some people are welcome.” He turned the ignition key, let the car idle. “The bloodhound part of me is itching to sniff, but the self-styled protector of victims thinks it’s gonna be a shame if Malley turns out to be a murderer. Guy’s life was blown to bits. I don’t read the Bible, but on some level, I get the whole eye-for-an-eye thing.”

“I get it, too,” I said. “Even though eye for an eye was never meant to be taken literally.”

“Sez who?”

“If you read the original biblical text, the context is pretty clear. It’s tort law— monetary compensation for damages.”

“Did you come up with that on your own?”

“A rabbi told me.”

“Guess he’d know.” He drove out of the campgrounds, turned onto the highway, switched on the police band. Crime was down but the dispatcher’s recitation of felonies was constant.

“The possibilities,” he said, “are dismal.”

* * *

Thursday morning, he called at eleven-fifteen. “Time for tandoori.”