He smiles enigmatically. “You know, I might ought to check the file. My memory ain’t what it used to be.”

Something quivers in my chest. “How can you check the file?”

“Easy. I got it inside.”

Jesus. “You made a copy?”

“Nope. I got the original. Took it when they screwed me out of my job.”

I feel like hugging him. “May I see it?”

“I ain’t no loan library, boy. I think we’re talking about a rental situation here.”

“How much?”

Pinder’s face goes blank as he computes a price. “Five hundred,” he says finally, a note of challenge in his voice. “And you read it right here in front of me.”

When I think of what I just paid Ray Presley for my father’s .38, I feel like laughing. “A thousand,” I counter. “But I take the file with me. I’ll photocopy it and get the original back to you within twenty-four hours.”

Pinder has lost a little of his studied calm. “How ’bout two thousand?”

“What’s in the file? How long is it?”

“About twenty-five pages. Plenty of names in there, if that’s what you’re after.”

“Any mention of Judge Marston in it? He was D.A. back then.”

Something ticks in the ex-chief’s face. “That motherfucker in there.”

“Two thousand it is.”

His head slides back on his neck, his eyes full of suspicion. “I don’t want no check, now.”

“You get the file, I’ll get the cash.”

“You got it here?”

“Oh, yeah. Get the file.”

While Pinder goes inside, I go to the car and open the spare tire well, count two thousand dollars from the remaining twenty-five, and return to the porch. Shuffling and sliding sounds come from inside the house, as though Pinder is moving furniture. Then the door bangs open and he reappears with a worn manila folder in his hand. I hand him the cash, and he takes it, but he doesn’t pass me the file. He sits down again and drinks from his beer can.

“You ain’t asked me if I solved the case or not.”

“Did you?”

“No.” He looks at me out of the corner of his eye. “But not because it ain’t solvable. I kept that file close to my vest, man. Didn’t tell no white officers nothin’ ’bout it. Told a couple of black ones I trusted I was gonna be working the case real quiet. One week later somebody sent me a message.”

“What kind of message?”

“They sent a man to talk to me. A man I hated but wasn’t about to ignore.”

“Who was he?”

“Ray Presley.”

I try to keep my composure, but Pinder cannot fail to notice the thunderous effect the name has on me. “I know Presley,” I say carefully. “He was somehow involved in the original case.”