Starting at the front of the box, I examine the first page inside each folder. Marston’s name is all over the files, but none deals with Delano Payton. When I get to the end of the box, I go back to the beginning and flip through every sheet in every folder, but again I find nothing. One by one I go through each folder in the boxes dating from the fire with painstaking care, but I find nothing related to Del Payton.

It looks like Mackey was telling the truth.

After restacking the boxes, I lock the door, put the key back under the brick, and climb back into the sunlight. The custodian is standing thirty yards away, smoking a cigarette in the shadow of a nearby building. I walk straight up to him like a tourist asking for directions.

“Mackey was right.”

He spits on the concrete. “Shit.”

“You don’t happen to clean the police station, do you?”

He shakes his head.

“I guess that’s it, then. I appreciate your help.” I start to leave, but he reaches out and touches my elbow.

“You know, we had a couple of black police chiefs. The first one was back in ’eighty-one. I knew him pretty good. He didn’t mind stepping on toes to get the job done, so they fired him after a few months. He might know something.”

“What was his name?”

“Willie Pinder.”

“Does he still live in town?”

“He stay over to Gaylor Street. Blue house. Drives a old Dodge pickup.”

“Would he be home during the day?”

“I believe he ’tired. You could see.”

“I’ll call him. Hey, I never got your name.”

“That’s right. You watch your ass, Penn Cage. And tell your daddy Zoot say hello.”

He grinds his cigarette beneath the heel of a cheap work boot and walks back toward the D.A.’s office.

As soon as I reach the car, I dial directory assistance again. There’s a listing for a Willie Pinder on Gaylor Street. This time I dial the number myself.

“Yeah?” says a coarse voice.

“Is Willie there?”

“This Willie.”

I hang up.

* * *

Gaylor Street is in a black neighborhood off the road that leads up to the city cemetery. It takes several trips through blocks of small, brightly colored houses, but I finally find the ex-chief’s Dodge pickup parked on the street. A cracked pad of cement leads to the rear of the house. I drive around and park near Pinder’s back porch. It’s fully screened, with rust eating the black wire in big orange patches.

“Who the hell are you?” shouts a hostile voice. “You just call me on the telephone?”

I wave broadly at the dark screen. For all I know, I’m looking into the barrel of a shotgun. “I’m Penn Cage. I’m looking for the former chief of police, Willie Pinder.”

“Who you work for, chump?”