“Interesting in a sorry way,” Rickards said. “The house was all cattywampus. Max was ashamed. He hadn’t expected me. He didn’t like me seeing it—the house cattywampus, and his life no better. His ma smoking on the front stairs. Off to the side a beat-up Eleanor.”

“Eleanor?”

“Outhouse—privy. Particular kind. They didn’t have no plumbing, the Mulgraves,” Rickards said. “By then his daddy had run off. And after that visit he avoided me, like I’d seen things he didn’t want me to see. Out of shame, I guess. He stayed away from me. I wasn’t too surprised when he joined the army. Folks from Floristan, that’s one way to move up—the service. I imagine he was a lot better off wherever he went.”

“After the army he went to college in California,” Olive said. “Started a successful business. Then sold it. Relocated to Hawaii.”

“I’m so fetched to hear that,” Rickards said, and choked a little and fussed with his cap, then pressed his fingers to his eyes.

Olive saw that the man was weeping, using his fingers to stop his tears, murmuring but not able to speak clearly, his effort showing in his crumpled shoulders.

“I’m sorry to upset you.”

“No, I’m happy,” Rickards said, but in a suffering voice. “It’s just remembering his poor old shack, and Max sick in bed, and how ashamed he was. I’m glad for the happy ending.”

“Thanks for your help,” Olive said, rising from her chair and moving to the office door.

Just as they were leaving, Sharkey turned to face Rickards, his mouth opening wide, his neck reddened under his tattoos.

“I killed him,” he said, keeping his mouth open, panting furiously. “I killed Max Mulgrave.”

Rickards huffed and seemed to swell, and stood up at his desk, kicking his chair back. He snatched at his hat, and out of his pain-filled face, his bulging eyes glazed with tears, came a strangled helpless honk that might have been an anguished word.

Too tired to look further, they went back to the motel, telling themselves they needed a nap, but they slept on, waking in the dark, bewildered by the strangeness, the stale breath of the air conditioner, the smell of the decaying carpet. They lay in silence, open-eyed, until the stained ceiling became visible in the next morning’s daylight.

At breakfast Sharkey was silent. Olive said, “I know what you’re thinking. Waste of time. Wild goose chase. But this is where he came from. This town made him. These people, these streets, that man. We know him better. This was his world.”

Her cell phone sounded, its ring and vibration causing it to fidget on the table.

“Is that Miss Olive? This is Rose, from Deeds. How you folks doing? I just found something.”