I stepped into the house and saw my dog, Bart Simpson, on the couch in the front room, wagging his tail at the sight of me. He was comfortable and didn’t feel like jumping down to show his affection. I understood that. My mom often kept Bart here at the house if I had to work in the afternoons. She liked the company and so did Bart.

Mom called out, “Bobby, I’m back here.”

I cut through the kitchen into the sunken family room and saw she was sitting on the edge of the couch, talking to a visitor at the far end of the couch. As I was about to apologize for interrupting, my mother turned slightly and I saw her visitor. It was Mike Tharpe.

I stood for a moment, speechless. That doesn’t happen all that often, but I had to gather my thoughts. When he turned and smiled at me, I noticed his black eye where he’d hit the edge of the stairs. It was a satisfying sight, on a certain level.

Tharpe said, “I was just telling your mom that I think I might have found some evidence that will get your brother out of jail.”

“What kind of evidence?” It was clear my mom was buying this bullshit story.

“We think there are two safety-deposit keys that can open a box with the evidence we need. The problem is the keys have gone missing. I was just about to ask her to call you to come over to help me find them. You know, since you’re such a good private investigator and all.”

He had more subtlety in him than I thought. But I let a smile spread across my face so he knew I had both keys and understood what he was saying. I waited as it sank in and said, “How would that help? Doesn’t the district attorney have to be involved?”

Now my mom jumped in, saying, “Don’t cloud the issue, Bobby. He says he can help Natty.”

I said, “Mom, he can do a lot of things, but helping Natty is not one of them.” I could feel the mood change in the room. Not only did my mom stiffen, but Tharpe realized there was no way to do this quietly.

Tharpe stood up and I realized he was still in the same clothes as at his house. He had known that he needed to find me. He must’ve seen me drive away from his house. Damn my big clunker. I had to get a smaller car.

After my mom stood up like she was going to break up a fight between us, I said, “If you don’t think my brother is guilty, then who killed Pete Stahl?”

“Does it really matter?”

“More than you would understand. He was my friend and his family lives here in Marlboro. I can’t let something like that go.”