The sheriff seemed skeptical. “Riker, if your homicide was fifteen years ago, it couldn’t be my prisoner. She wouldn’t have been but nine or ten years old then. I can’t see a little girl doing murder with a gun.”

“No, of course not,” said Riker, with somewhat less conviction. He pictured Mallory at the age of ten, when he was still allowed to call her Kathy. Yeah, he could see the kid with a gun. However, Inspector Markowitz and his wife had eventually broken their foster child of all the worst habits and crimes against humanity. “I’d like to talk to your prisoner and ask her where she got that revolver.”

“And of course, you’d like to have the gun back. That’s a lot of paperwork.”

“NYPD doesn’t want any noise, Sheriff. Nothing over the computer, nothing on the phone and no paper trail. The old homicide could be federal jurisdiction. If the FBI finds out that gun is connected, they’ll be all over this town, and they’ll have a warrant for your prisoner. I don’t think you want that any more than I do.”

And now he could see that the sheriff did not want that, not at all.

Riker knew he could always count on mutual law-enforcement contempt for the martinets of the FBI, though he owed one of them a favor for withholding Mallory’s fingerprints. He was only a little uneasy about the payback on that highly illegal good deed.

“I can’t help you, Riker.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“Don’t like to waste words, do you? Well, I can see your interest in – ”

“Save the folksy crap for the tourists.” Riker leaned over and smashed out his cigarette in the ashtray. “You bet your ass we have an interest. Now I’m not gonna play village coot with you.” He stood up with the pretense of stalking out. “You don’t want to give us the gun? Fine! If you make my life miserable, then maybe I’ll call in the feds myself. You think I won’t push back?”

The sheriff smiled and exhaled a lazy stream of smoke. “The prisoner and the gun are gone. You wanna join me for a drink, Riker?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

Deputy Lilith Beaudare waited until the sheriff’s car pulled away from the Dayborn Bar and Grill. Tom Jessop was alone at the wheel, so the man from New York must still be inside.

She stepped out from the doorway and crossed the narrow side street to look through the front window. The room was filled with men. There was not one female in sight. So this was still the place where men went to be with their own kind. She suspected that had always been her father’s attraction to the bar. Each time her mother had asked why he would go to a dive like that, he had smiled with a guilty secret. It was not a place where his wife would have gone, nor any of her sex.

Lilith walked in the door, and the conversations all around the room fell off as men turned their heads to have a long, hard look at her – all of her. She didn’t belong here. She knew it, and they knew it.

Then the mantalk resumed, silverware clattered on plates and glasses thumped on the tabletops.

Some of Guy Beaudare’s best stories had originated here. This was the first time she had ever seen the interior, though she knew what it would look like, even down to the details of the fish tank behind the bar, the sawdust and the peanut shells on the floor. It smelled of sweat, tobacco and beer. The jukebox played a Cajun fiddle tune, and against her will her body picked up the lively rhythm of the music as she moved among the men, causing them to lift their faces and follow her with their curious, probing stares. She knew what they were doing to her as she passed each table, naked now, disarmed, undressed and barefoot in their eyes.

She was looking for the man Bobby Laurie had described, a New York cop disguised as a bum. She walked up to the unshaven man at the bar the man with the messy suit and the bad slouch.

“Detective Riker? I’m Deputy Beaudare.”

He smiled amiably, flesh crinkling at the corners of warm brown eyes. “Well, pull up a stool, Deputy.”

“You think we might sit at a booth? Doesn’t look right, sitting at a bar in my uniform.”

“Sure, kid. Come on.” He picked up his glass and led the way to a padded booth at the back of the room where the daylight petered out. Most of the illumination came from a candle in the neck of an old Jack Daniel’s bottle.

She took the seat opposite him and waited until he was settled comfortably into his drink. “It’s about your friend.”

“What are you – the second team? I’ve been through this with the sheriff. This guy Charles Butler may be from New York, but – ”

“No, not him – the prisoner.” She looked around her, making sure there was no one within earshot. “Mallory.”

“So now the prisoner is a friend of mine?” And his smiling face said, Fat chance. “Your act needs work, kid. The sheriff does it better. He ran that one by me, too.”

“Then how do I know she’s a rogue cop?”

He threw up his hands in surrender, still smiling, as though he thought she might be the best joke in the world. “I give up, Deputy. How do you know? The sheriff says he has no idea what Mallory’s been up to for the past seventeen years.”

“He doesn’t know anything.”

“Meaning you do?”

“I know she’s a cop.”

“How do you figure that?” He put a small cloud of cigarette smoke between them.

“My mother says it’s rude to tell people what they already know.”

The man was silent. He was letting her hang out in the breeze, just watching the show and appearing to enjoy it a lot. This was not the scenario she had rehearsed in her head. Lilith sat back, not rushing her words any. “Mallory never mentioned you by name, but I know you work with her in New York City.”

“The prisoner told you she was from New York?”

Lilith nodded, secure in the belief that she lied very well.

“If she talked like a New Yorker, I think the sheriff would’ve picked up on that,” said Riker. “He spotted my accent five words into the conversation.”

“But she doesn’t have any accent. She sounds like the television news-people from Nowhere USA.”

“Deputy, I hope you’ll excuse me for being rude and pointing out the obvious. The sheriff tells rne her prints haven’t come back yet. Now that should tell you something, unless you’re a rookie fresh out of the slot. If the prisoner was law enforcement, they would’ve had a match on her prints a long time ago.” He drained his beer glass and set it on the table less than gently. “That’s it, kid. School’s out.” He was looking toward the door.

“She’s a cop,” Lilith insisted.

Riker shook his head. “The sheriff would’ve known. Take my word for it, that bastard is smart.”

“Not where she’s concerned. He still sees her as a little girl. She used to live in this town with her mother.”

“I know. The sheriff told me the whole story. In fact, he told me a lot more than I ever wanted to know about this town. Ask me any damn question about Dayborn. No, really, go ahead. I even know this is the freaking bar where Babe Laurie had his famous syphilis party – quaint custom.” He slumped back against the padding of the booth and spread his hands, palms up with questions. “No trivia quiz? You don’t wanna play? Okay, let me ask you one. Did you ever tell Jessop this theory of yours about the rogue cop?”

“Detective Riker, do you trust the sheriff?”

“So you didn’t tell him.” There was a slight disapproval in his voice. “Why tell me? What are you after, kid?”

“I might be looking for a job in New York City. So I help you, and you help me.” Slow down, she told herself, you’re gushing. She took more time with her next words. “You don’t know this part of the country – I do. I can find her, and you can’t.”

He looked so tired when he smiled, as if he had heard all of this before. “Deputy, I don’t think you’d like New York City.” His voice was softer now. “Whatever mess you’ve made here, I’d advise you to stay and clean it up.”