We finished the beer. Lionel excused himself and chatted with a woman in mirrored Lennon glasses, a halter top, and hip-hugging jeans dithering by her lonesome at the far pool table. He slapped quarters down. She shrugged and they played. A contingent of bikers (bearded, leather-clad, and obstreperous) at a nearby table ended their banter and watched with what I can only describe as sullen amazement. Their expressions of ill humor deteriorated further when a curvaceous blonde detached from the group and joined her friend. This called for hard booze. Bellow said he was in the mood for blended scotch, nothing fancy. I weaved through a small crowd to the bar and ordered doubles. J&B for Bellow; Buffalo Trace for myself. Made it back without spilling. Bellow had settled in, arms spread against the booth back, relaxed as I’d ever seen him. That moment it seemed possible he might defy Lionel’s prediction and survive his impending retirement.

“Isaiah, what the hell are you doing?” He spoke genially. An uncle, a father.

I tasted my bourbon. There didn’t seem to be any percentage in answering a rhetorical question. But I decided to try.

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

“The hell I do,” he said.

“Trying to make sense of it all. Before it’s too late.”

“It’s four years too late for Pruitt.”

“Maybe not for his mother. Maybe not for me.”

“Oh, this about you? Is Mom under the mistaken impression detectives actually solve crimes?”

“She is. Everybody is. I’m doing it because the younger me wouldn’t have. Because there are people, not so different from those who used to run my life, who emphatically don’t want me to do this. And the more flak I receive, the more stubborn I’ll become.”

The set of his jaw changed. Respect, perhaps. Or amusement.

“You leaning one way or the other?”

“Too early,” I said. “Death by suicide appears to be a slam dunk . . .”

“It does.”

“Yet it doesn’t. My intuition isn’t satisfied.”

When I’d desperately needed inside dope on the Tri-State Killer/Croatoan files last year, Bellow played ball. He hadn’t asked for an update, and wouldn’t, for both our sakes. I sensed his curiosity. I had my own questions. Why had he helped me? Perhaps a subconscious acknowledgment that I could travel certain paths into darkness that he was morally and philosophically forbidden. He felt guilty because he hadn’t been aiding my cause. Using me like a tool would be more accurate. My impression of the situation, anyhow.

“Your intuition isn’t satisfied,” he said. “I don’t knock intuition. There wasn’t much of an investigation on the local end, or from DC. I reviewed the files. An agent shined a flashlight around and asked personnel if anybody saw anything.”

“Did he shout it down the hole?”

“Probably. From where I’m sitting, that was all the circumstances justified.”

“I intend to check the boxes and cross the t’s.”

“A placebo for June Pruitt’s sake. You really are going soft. Proud of you.”