“Could it?” I said. “Janie’s murder never hit the news, so it had to be someone with inside information. And Schwinn’s belief in science becoming a major investigative tool might play into it. That day has arrived, right? DNA testing, all that other good stuff. If semen and blood samples were saved—”

“I don’t even know if there was any semen in her, Alex. Schwinn figured it for a sex thing, but neither of us ever saw the autopsy results. Once they closed us down, I never saw a scrap of official paper.” A big fist slammed the table, and the murder book jumped. “This is total bullshit.”

I kept my mouth shut.

He began pacing the dining room. “Bastard—I have a good mind to go face-to-face with him. If it was him—so why was it sent to you?”

“Covering tracks,” I said. “Schwinn knew we worked together—another indication of an interest in police affairs.”

“Or just someone who reads the paper, Alex. Our names were paired on the Teague case.”

“And you came out of that one smelling sweet, big solve. Schwinn may not have liked you or respected or trusted you, but maybe he’s followed your career and changed his mind.”

“Give me a break.” He picked up his glass. A thread of vodka had settled on the bottom, an icy ribbon of alcohol. “All this hypothesizing, my head feels like it’s gonna split open. Sometimes I wonder what exactly it is that forms the basis for our friendship.”

“That’s easy,” I said. “Common pathology.”

“What pathology?”

“Mutual inability to let go. Schwinn—or whoever sent the murder book knows it.”

“Yeah, well screw him. I’m not biting.”

“Your decision.”

“Damn right.”

“Ah,” I said.

“I hate when you do that,” he said.

“Do what?”

“Say ‘Ah.’ Like a fucking dentist.”

“Ah.”

His arm drew back and a big-fisted hand shot toward my jaw. He tapped gently, mouthed, “Pow.”

I hooked a thumb at the blue album. “So what do you want me to do, toss it?”

“Don’t do anything.” He got to his feet. “I’m feeling a little . . . gonna take a nap. The spare bedroom fixed up?”

“As always. Pleasant dreams.”

“Thank you, Norman Bates.” He stomped toward the rear of the house, was gone for maybe ten minutes before returning tieless, shirt untucked. Looking as if he’d crammed a night’s worth of nightmares into six hundred seconds.

“What I’m gonna do,” he said. “—all I’m gonna do, is make a basic attempt to find Schwinn. As in make a call. If I find him and it turns out he did send the book, he and I will have a little chat, believe me. If it wasn’t him, we forget the whole thing.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“What? You don’t like it?”

“It’s fine with me,” I said.

“Good. ’Cause that’s it.”

“Great.”