“Linda, we’re both a mess. Have you done a spit check lately?”

Over the course of my grilling, her features had sunk in exhaustion and beleaguerment. She was made of stern stuff, though. She glared and dug deep to fight back.

“Detectives don’t solve this kind of case.”

“We don’t?”

“Detectives hunt down lost kittens and deadbeat dads. Detectives shoot pictures of cheating spouses in flagrante delicto.”

“Oh, no, lady,” I said. “That’s what I do on a good day. Tonight, I’m not that kind of detective. Not to say I don’t empathize with your predicament. I’d bet my bottom dollar the insurance money is mostly spent and you don’t want to hear how you, perhaps unwittingly, contributed to a murder. Who would? Bad news is, there’s always something worse. I’ve got worse.”

The glint of righteous anger kindling in her eyes made me thankful she didn’t have a weapon within reach.

“June and Badja are behind this, aren’t they? That harpy won’t accept anything less than a villain’s head on a plate.”

“One could make the argument it’s the least you and your boyfriend owe the lady.” I glanced at my watch. I fervently hoped Lionel would signal he was on the property. My earbud remained silent.

“Oh, fuck her, and fuck you too,” she said. “This is ridiculous.”

Teatime was over.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Oh Danny boy, the pipes are calling.” I said it conversationally, unholstering my .357 and resting it on my knee.

An older man in gray long johns finished creeping down the stairs. Didn’t so much as squeak a board. Danny Buckhalter in the flesh. I’d surmised from the station wagon, and the occasional upward flick of her glances, that he lay in wait. The case I’d presented to Linda was as much for his consumption as hers.

Buckhalter, or Slick, as I’d come to think of him after our brief encounters, stopped when he reached the foot of the staircase. Same ducktail haircut I remembered. Brutishly handsome. Unshaven. Lean with rough hands. I didn’t like the odd, segmented motion with which he’d descended the stairs, nor how he stood at the bottom, tipped forward the way some predatory insects do before they leap. I wondered if I’d made a mistake.

“You’ve made a terrible mistake,” he said.

“Damn, I knew it.” I holstered the gun anyway. It was a necessary risk. He wouldn’t behave in the manner I desired if he worried about getting his head blown off at the first twitch.

“How you feelin’, big boy?” he said. His voice was thick and languid, as if from a long sleep. His eyes were alert and crackling, however. “You’re pale. Lotta blood soaked into those threads. Lotta blood.” He licked his lips and sidled a couple of inches closer. His tongue was longish. “Let me . . . have a look at your arm—”

“Danny, I’d love it if you didn’t take another step.” I stood and casually put the rocker between us. We were about fifteen feet apart. “You’re the watchman. Night off from the warehouse?”