“And who is that?” said Sims.

“Clarence Swift,” I said.

“He is so full of it,” said Hanratty. “Look, his tongue is turning brown.”

“Why would Clarence Swift kill his best friend?” said Sims.

“For love,” I said. “He’s got the hots for Mrs. Denniston, always has. And for money, Gregor’s money. He knows where it is and had to get rid of Wren Denniston to keep it.”

“Love and money,” said Sims.

“That’s right,” I said.

“Love and money. That’s your answer.”

“What, you don’t like it?”

“No, we like it fine,” said Sims, closing the file and smiling up at Hanratty. “It’s like clockwork, isn’t it?”

“Happens every time,” said Hanratty.

“What happens every time?” I said.

“A little psychological tic,” said Sims. “In the distorted mind of a murderer, the reason for the killing becomes so prominent he can’t imagine any other. So whenever be tries to blame someone else, he always imparts the very motive that drove him to kill.”

“Love and money,” said Hanratty. “That’s why you did it, isn’t it, baby?”

“I didn’t do it. Clarence Swift did it. I’m sure of it.”

“He’s sure of it,” said Sims.

“He’s a sure one, he is,” said Hanratty.

Sims took another photograph from the file and spun it toward me. It was grainy, black and white, a distorted picture of Clarence Swift, with his high forehead and bow tie. He was looking down, fiddling with something. It was a photograph from an ATM, with the date and time imprinted. The date was the very date of Wren Denniston’s murder, the time was 8:37 p.m.

“This was taken in Center City. Based on what the medical examiner concluded as to the time of death, there wasn’t enough time for Clarence Swift to have made it from the ATM to the Denniston house to have committed the murder.”

I stared at the photograph, at the date and time. “There must be something wrong. This can’t be right.”

“Oh, it’s right, baby,” said Hanratty. “We checked and double-checked. The bank’s records are precise.”

“He’s in the clear,” said Sims. “Which leaves us with you.”

“Love and money,” said Hanratty.

“When you get right down to it,” said Sims, “what else is there? Except maybe just money.”

The photograph didn’t make any sense, it couldn’t be right. Clarence was the enemy, I knew that with complete certainty, which meant he must have killed Wren Denniston. But if the picture was true, then it hadn’t been him. So who could it be? Not Julia, she had an alibi. Not Margaret, because the motive was all wrong. Not Clarence and not Gwen and not me. So who?

I didn’t have an answer, but suddenly I realized I had a clue. And a question. And someone who might have an answer, if I could only get out of that damn closet so I could ask him.

“Let me book him now,” said Hanratty. “He admitted to taking the letter. That’s clear obstruction. We can hold him forty-eight hours just on that. It will keep him from slopping around in our evidence until we get enough to finish him off.”

Sims looked back at the file, rearranged some papers, closed it, gently clasped his hands together. “That’s all, Victor,” he said. “Thank you for coming around.”

“That’s it?” I said.

“That’s it,” said Sims.

“As always,” I said, standing quickly, “it was as pleasant as a root canal.”

“What are you doing?” said Hanratty.

“Keep out of trouble, Victor,” said Sims.

“Wait a second,” said Hanratty. “This isn’t procedure.”

Sims reached into his pocket, pulled out my jangle of keys, slid it across the table. “Your car’s parked in the back lot.”

Hanratty strode to the table, leaned over Sims like he was leaning over a suspect. “You’re making a mistake,” he said. “Either he mucks up the evidence or he runs. My bet is he runs, but either way we’re screwed.”

“You’re not going to muck up the evidence or run, are you, Victor?”

“No, sir,” I lied.

“Let me talk to the captain before we let him walk,” said Hanratty. “Give me a few minutes at least.”

“Toodle-oo, Victor,” said Sims. “Don’t leave town.”

I didn’t hear what Hanratty said next, because by the time he could continue his angry complaint, I had grabbed my keys and was out the door.

31

This is how you get to Washington, D.C. Scrounge around for signatures on your nominating petition, suck up big-time for money, hire a consultant to tell you what to believe, film yourself walking the street among a crowd of actors, declare your belief in God, hire a detective to catch the incumbent fornicating. And then, if your moral fiber is determined to be deficient enough and the national trend breaks your way and the detective catches the incumbent fornicating with a goat, maybe, just maybe, you might make it to our nation’s capital.

Or you could just take I-95 south.

I was scrunched down among the candy wrappers and empty cans in the backseat of a 1973 Camaro, taking the easy way into Washington, D.C. Or what would have been the easy way had the Camaro in which I was scrunched down contained a working set of shock absorbers. It was dead early in the morning, the radio was blasting hip-hop, the car smelled of reefer and spilt beer, Baltimore was in our rearview mirror, and we were going way too fast down the Baltimore-Washington Parkway.

“You want to slow down a bit?” I said.

“Just shaking the tails, bo,” said Derek, in the front passenger seat. “It not just your ass on the line on this one, it my ass, too, this don’t work out slick and easy.”

“But getting stopped by the cops on the expressway won’t help the cause,” I said.

“Don’t be worrying about that. They won’t be catching us, not with a 355 under this hood.”

The car lurched forward as it raced south.

“We’re not going to outrun the cops,” I said, “not with me in the car.”

“You’re not that heavy. And things work out, we won’t have to,” said Derek as he lifted a small black box with a wire and a stand. “We got radar.”

“I feel so much better,” I said.

It was no mystery how I ended up in the back of that Camaro. As soon as I got out of the Roundhouse, I had called Derek on his cell. “I need to talk to Jamison,” I said. You remember Jamison, the drug dealer who had been selling to Julia the night of her husband’s murder. Why did I need to see Jamison? Because suddenly, in the midst of my betrayal by Julia, I started wondering whom she had betrayed me for.

With the normal vixen, in penal danger for the murder of her husband, you’d expect any betrayal to be for the purpose of saving herself. But, though you might call me a fool, I couldn’t believe it about Julia. She simply wasn’t built like that. I first thought she might have been manipulated into it by Clarence Swift, and though that still might have been what happened, it wasn’t to protect Clarence. No, she was betraying me to protect someone else. But for whom would Julia throw me splat under the train? That was the question. And I didn’t have an answer, but I did have a clue.

What had she been most anxious to hide when the police first came looking for her? What piece of information had she been adamant that I keep secret? She’d been buying drugs from Jamison, but not for herself and not for her husband and not for Clarence Swift. Then for whom? I wondered. And the only one I knew who might have an answer was Jamison.

So I had called Derek and we had arranged things. First, so late at night it was early in the morning, I had picked up Derek in his neighborhood. Then, as I drove down a narrow street in North Philly, a van had pulled out right behind us. The van veered left and stopped quickly, blocking the roadway, as I kept going. I followed Derek’s directions right and then left and then right again, until I pulled the car into a rather deserted back alley.