Will made the note as I glanced around the store. I saw a bar with a soda fountain behind it and several stools in front of it. Posters of old science fiction movies were up on the walls. It was the type of place that probably had been on every street corner seventy years ago but seemed a relic of ancient history now.

The guy behind the counter had curly hair and glasses and a blue shirt with stains on the front. I approached him and showed him a picture of the monkey.

“You got this here?”

“Yeah,” he said, coming around the counter. He went back to the action figures aisle and pulled one down. I compared the photo and the toy: identical.

“Someone bought one of these here within the last few months. I need to know who it was.”

Will came up and said, “He’s with us, Mel. He’s good people. So far anyway.”

I grinned. “Nice.”

Mel rolled his eyes and said unhappily, “Let me go through the receipts, I guess.”

Luckily, Mel kept electronic receipts and was able to pull up the information before long.

“One person. Roscoe Mallory.”

“The football coach? You’re kidding me?”

“That’s what it says.”

My old pal Roscoe. I glanced at Will and then turned to Mel and said, “Thank you.”

We left the store and I put on my sunglasses. “I’ll go chat with him. I want you to help Jia with interviewing Cecily and getting a forensic team here ASAP. Something might be in one of those boys’ homes, and I want to know what it is.”

I imagined being back at your old high school was a nostalgic, pleasant experience for most people. For me it dredged up memories better left forgotten. Small-time jocks pushing me around, girls laughing at me, teachers that would throw erasers and hit us with rulers. I stood out on the field. The buildings looked run down, and the pavement in the parking lot was chipping with massive cracks running its entire length, but the football field was well manicured and taken care of. Not a blade of grass out of place.

As I entered, I stared at the lockers on either side of the hallway and at the trophy case off to the right near the gym. Classes were in session. I could hear the hum of teachers speaking in several rooms. I went to the front office and asked for Roscoe.

“He should be teaching social studies right now. Upstairs, second door on the right.”

“Thanks.”

In his classroom, surrounded by students, Roscoe looked even bigger than he had at the diner, with arm muscles that bulged underneath a white T-shirt with red trim and a ponderous belly that stretched the shirt to its limits. I stood at the doorway and smiled and said, “Just need a minute, Coach.”

He told the class to hang on and came out into the hallway.