I am not particularly anxious to talk to him after the way he acted at Ruby’s funeral. Whatever the source of his hatred for Leo Marston, it has pushed him into unstable territory. Ike clearly has both a drug and alcohol problem, and since he is unwilling or unable to provide me with any facts that will help prove Marston guilty of murder in a court of law, I see no urgent need to call him.

I call Ray Presley instead. Dwight Stone’s revelation that Marston gave up Presley to the Feds as part of his deal with J. Edgar Hoover was music to my “lawyer’s ear.” Presley considers Leo Marston his friend, and loyalty is the supreme virtue to men of Presley’s ilk. But if Ray was to learn that the five years he spent in Parchman were courtesy of Leo Marston, his attitude toward the judge might change fast. But whether he will or not remains a mystery, because Presley doesn’t answer his phone.

I am working up the courage to call Livy when the telephone rings in my room. Somehow Ike Ransom has discovered that we’ve moved to Aquitaine, and he wants to see me. He got my phone number from the main house. I start to beg off, but he stops me cold. He has, he says, what we’ve been looking for since day one. Hard evidence linking Leo Marston to Payton’s murder. He will say no more, and he refuses to come to the B&B. He insists on a face-to-face meeting and says I must come alone. When I ask why, he tells me that no one can know he is the source for what he’s about to tell me.

“Where do you want to meet?” I ask, recalling the feeling of being shot at in the warehouse by the river and not liking it too much.

“You’re three blocks away from it,” he replies.

“Where are you talking about?”

“The old pecan-shelling plant.”

An image of a hulking brown brick building where I sold the pecans I collected as a boy comes into my mind. It is set right on the edge of the bluff, and as Ike said, it’s only three blocks west of where I am now.

“What about the surveillance on me here?”

“Slip out the back alley on foot. They lookin’ for that BMW. Or you could send your Jew buddy out first in the BMW, then come on in that Maxima your mama got.”

It’s nearly dark, and I want to refuse, largely out of fear. But Ike is offering something of which I have precious little: hard evidence. Dwight Stone’s testimony could be powerful, but without his FBI files to back him up, it will be his word against Marston’s (and Portman’s too, if the FBI director decides to honor my subpoena). Hard evidence is worth a three-block trip.

“When?” I ask.