She examined the receipt. “Correct. Three for five sixty-nine and then thirteen twenty-eight, and another for thirty-two eighty-seven.”

"And guess how much a can of tennis balls costs?”

“Five sixty-nine.”

“Bingo. Five sixty-nine. Written on a big star-shaped tag down there in the coffee hut. That’s for the good balls, the expensive ones in a gold can.”

“So the Woodcutter was a tennis player? I don’t get it.”

“That’s enough.”

Nazari and I turned. Bonnet was standing in the doorway. He had his Sig-Pro up and pointed at me.

Nazari said, “Antoine, what are you doing? Put that down.”

He said, “I think Keeler was about to explain something.” He gestured to me, “Go on.”

Bonnet was walking into the room. I walked slowly away from the dining table, putting distance between myself and the other two, drawing him with me.

I spoke to Nazari. “When you brought me into the police station, after we realized there was a crooked cop, I had a little chat with your friend here, the new interim director of municipal police, Antoine Bonnet. Everyone says that Bonnet’s a great tennis player. Isn’t that so, Bonnet?”

He had a slight grin on his face, like he was proud. “That’s what they say.”

I turned to Nazari again. “So, on his desk he had three brand new cans of tennis balls, which would make sense since he’s a big tennis guy.”

Nazari looked as though she’d been punched in the gut. She turned to Bonnet. “Antoine?”

I said, “The cans on his desk were gold. The expensive kind. Only the best for the new police chief.”

Bonnet shrugged at her. “It’s complicated.”

I turned and backed toward the wall. I was trying to position Bonnet so he’d be framed in the other big window. He was keeping his gun on me, but trying not to lose sight of Miriam and Nazari. The weapons on the table were useless because they’d been disassembled. I was patting the air with my hand, the kind of gesture that says, ‘slow it down’. Nazari wasn’t following, she was concentrated on Bonnet. Behind her, Miriam was using Nazari’s body as a shield. She was trying to assemble one of the Berettas, but failing. She looked up at me and I shook my head slightly.

Nazari was also shaking her head. Not as if she didn’t believe what I was saying, but because she was pissed off. She ignored Bonnet. “What about the other items, the bigger ticket prices.”

Bonnet waved the Sig-Pro at me. “Go on, Keeler. What about them?”

I said, “I’ve thought about that. Does thirty-two eighty-seven sound like the kind of price you might pay to have a tennis racket restrung? Those tennis guys break strings all the time, or at least that’s what I’ve heard.”

Bonnet said, “I’ll give you credit, Keeler. It’s a reasonable assumption.”