Marion has also processed the staff of the lockdown unit. There are eight nurses and four orderlies staffing the seven-bed unit. Rose reads down the names: Karen Black—the cola-loving nurse—Shanika Sanders, and six names Rose doesn’t connect with. Their shifts hadn’t coincided with the handful of lucid hours she’d enjoyed while incarcerated. The orderlies, all male, are Jason Farber, Kenan Bowls, Sean Powell, and Anthony Brevard.

Rose lifts her gaze from the screen. Anthony. Tony. T. Brevard.

Rummaging through her few piles by the light of the computer screen, she ferrets out the papers on Eddie’s truck. On the third page is the handwritten notation: T. Brevard. This is the note that turned off Goodman’s genial flow of information and sent him gesticulating out amongst the Buicks, cell phone to his ear.

She crawls over to the daypack she’s been using and upends it on the zebra hide. Amid other detritus is Carter Goodman’s business card, complete with phone number. Rose punches the number into her cell phone. On the third ring a familiar voice says, “Goodman here. What can I sell you?”

Rose laughs in spite of herself. Drat. Roughing up her voice to what she hopes is official-sounding, she says, “I’m calling about Anthony Brevard.”

A moment of silence passes; then a sigh gusts out. Carter says, “What’s he done now?”

Bingo, Rose thinks.

“It’s regarding that truck you held for a Mr. Martinez.”

Carter groans. “I really don’t know anything about it.

“T. Brevard. You know about him,” Rose presses. “Who is he?”

“My brother-in-law,” Carter admits. “I know better than to get mixed up with any scheme of Tony’s, but I always cave. Please don’t tell me it’s stolen.”

“Where does your brother-in-law work?” Rose asks.

“He’s got a job as an orderly for a hospital. At least he had. If he got himself fired from this one, I’m going to kill him.”

“Did he own the truck?” Rose asks.

“Like I said, I don’t know anything about it. It was one of those friend-of-a-friend deals.”

“And you don’t know who the friend-of-the-friend is?”

“No. What’s this all about?”

He doesn’t sound like he is willing to talk anymore without a little quid pro quo, and Rose can’t see any harm in telling him the truth. “The truck was payment for a hit job.”

“Holy Christ!”

“Nobody died. Everybody lived—so far—not exactly happily ever after, but that’s neither here nor there. I need to know who was paying the would-be assassin.”

“You’re the lady that stole the paperwork,” Carter says.

“That would be me, yes.”

“Was it you somebody wanted killed?” He sounds incredulous. This annoys Rose.

“They should have held out for a Hummer,” Carter says, redeeming himself.

“Could you ask your brother-in-law for whom he did the favor?” Rose asks hopefully.