Do you or your boyfriend use illegal drugs? You betcha, Mr. FBI man. Especially now that you showed up in my life.

The unicorn box was gone. Had Crow taken it in anticipation that the house might be searched? Where did Crow buy the little bits of pot he brought into the house anyway? Where was Crow? Who was Crow? She had met his parents, seen the house where he had grown up. He was no drug dealer. If he were one, he’d be the world’s worst, extending credit to junkies, declining to maximize profits by cutting the purity of what he sold. Where had the money come from? Why had it popped up in his account on the very day he ran away? Was Crow with Lloyd, truly?

The only thing worse than having so many questions about the man she loved was being afraid of the answers. Not so much because she feared that Crow had done something nefarious, but because Tyner was right: Knowledge was dangerous in this case. The three caballeros were going to come back to her, again and again. Right now the only thing Tess had going for her was ignorance. For Crow’s own good, she should avoid speaking to him directly. She wasn’t even sure she should listen to the voice mail he had left.

But in the end she could not maintain her resolve that strictly. She pulled the cell from her laundry hamper and, after a few fumbling missteps, retrieved the new message.

“I miss you,” a familiar voice said. “I love you. Call me on this number when you get a chance.”

She meant to press 2 to save it, but she hit 3 instead, erasing it forever.

Check yes or no. Wasn’t there a country song by that title a few years back? Not that Gabe listened to that shit, but that lyric had somehow wormed its way into his consciousness, one of those songs you want to forget but can’t. Check yes or no. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it, another country song. My wife ran away with my best friend, and I sure miss him. Okay, he watched CMT sometimes late at night when he couldn’t sleep. So sue him. He liked the female singers, that kind of big-hair denim-and-lace femininity-like Jersey girls but softer, more pliant. Better than counting sheep and quicker, too, because it just took one. Robert Bork laws be damned, Gabe wasn’t going to have a pay-per-view porn bill come back to haunt him. Besides, who needed porn when regular cable went as far as it did? Proud to be an American, yes siree, because at least I can say that I’m free-free to have my mortgage application pulled, along with tax returns for the past five years, and never be the wiser for it.

Gabe was back in his office, his real one, not the fake-o one they had used to interview the Monaghan woman. He had thought that was pretty sly on Jenkins’s part, taking her to the offices that theU.S. attorney had so recently vacated for this plusher joint across the street. The courthouse had an ominous vibe after hours, a real ghost-town feel. Plus, it meant no snooping colleagues would see what they were up to. But he could do the paperwork at his own desk late into the night, and no one would ever notice. It was going on 1:00 A.M., and here was the bull’s-eye, all he needed.

Gabe found it ironic, the ultimate proof that what you didn’t know could hurt you. People were running around, all steamed because the Patriot Act let authorities examine one’s fuckin’ library records, and they had no clue what the government already had the power to do. Of course Gabe was for the Patriot Act. It was an essential tool. It didn’t go far enough, to his liking. That civil-liberties crap killed him. He wouldn’t blink an eye if someone wanted to open up his life. He had nothing to hide. But he didn’t need the Patriot Act for most of the penny-ante idiocy he pursued, not even in this chick’s case.

The boyfriend’s cash had been interesting, but it hadn’t done the job, had it? He had tried to tell Jenkins and Collins that was the risk of jumping on it so fast. They should have let him find something else before they threw that one at her, but they were so impatient. They had stretched and come up empty. If they had waited just a few more hours, he could have delivered this whammy to them. They called it the head shot. Once you had this on a person, they had no wiggle room. He was still going to go through the dad’s files, because bars were such sleaze magnets, but it was all gravy now. He had her. Pops was going to be the bonus.

Gabe had wanted to go after the reporters, too, but Jenkins had shot him down. At first, Gabe didn’t see why. The state shield laws didn’t apply in federal cases. And the press had no public support these days anyway. The reporters would probably fold in a second. But Jenkins had been adamant, said going after the newspaper would tip their hand. He was probably right. The too-many-cooks approach had spoiled this broth in the beginning. They needed to keep things close, keep the team lean and mean.

Gabe looked at his notations again. So simple, so lethal. A photocopy of a form that thousands of people filled out every day. Three checks-one from her father, two from her. Put it all together and it added up to thirty years in the federal system.

SATURDAY

22

“Salisbury?” Lloyd said, making a face. “You taking me to a club in Salisbury?”

“Where did you think we were going to go?”

“I dunno. Philly. Wilmington, even. A city.”

“Salisbury’s a city.”

“Sh-it.”

They were driving along U.S. 50, the route they had taken east three days earlier, which now felt like a lifetime ago. It was the weekend of daylight savings time, so what was today’s nine o’clock would be tomorrow’s ten o’clock. The sky was inky black, with just a few stars poking through, like rips in a scrim. Crow enjoyed the quiet and the darkness, which reminded him of the countryside close to his hometown of Charlottesville. But Lloyd was too busy pouting about their destination to notice the world around him.

“A club?” Ed Keyes had echoed when Crow consulted him, scratching his red-stubbled chin. “I might could get you in my VFW lodge, although I don’t think they allow minors.”

“You belong to the Veterans of Foreign Wars?”

“Vietnam,” he said. “I only joined to get access to the lodge parking lot. It’s near a good clamming spot, but you can’t park there unless you’re a member. They tow.”

“Lloyd wants to go hear music, be around people his own age.”

“Shit, I don’t know. Ask the cashier over to the Shore Farms. I think she’s got family down there.”

The bright-eyed young woman did know of a club, which she described in rushed, excited tones, clearly hopeful of an invitation. Crow felt almost guilty not taking her elaborate hints, but it would have complicated things, getting too close to anyone over here.

The club, such as it was, was in an abandoned bank in downtown Salisbury. From the outside there was little sign of the activity that marked the hot Baltimore clubs-a valet parker for the high-end SUVs, dolled-up women teetering on their high heels, the occasional gunshot-but the Shore Farms cashier had sworn by the place.

“Doesn’t look like much,” said Lloyd, every inch the world-weary connoisseur. But how much experience could he really have in clubland? He wasn’t of legal age, and he wasn’t someone who could pass for older than he was, even with the best fake ID. They wouldn’t have been able to come here if it weren’t for the fact that it was “Teen Night,” an alcohol-free evening for the high school set.

Lloyd pimp-walked toward the door, determined to be unimpressed. But when the second set of doors opened, revealing a packed room of girls in filmy tops and tight jeans dancing to a hooky hip-hop song that Crow recognized from listening to WERQ, Lloyd couldn’t help smiling just a little. ’Twill do, his expression seemed to indicate, ’twill do.