Normally Crow would have reproved Lloyd’s careless misogyny, but the description of Whitney wasn’t that far off base. She was a bit of a bitch. In a good way. Whitney’s WASP bitchery was a kind of superpower, one that had extricated Tess out of many a jam-and gotten her into almost as many.

“Here, call.” He handed Lloyd the cell phone and paused the film on the wonderfully anguished face of Paul Sand as he swallowed the diamond.

Lloyd punched, listened, punched the number in again. “Phone’s dead. Lost the charge already. You gotta stop buying this cheap shit.”

“Dead?” Crow took the phone and examined it. “No problem, it’ll work while plugged in to the charger.”

Lloyd punched in the number, listened poker-faced.

“Number disconnected.”

“Try information. Maybe she changed it.”

“Phones get disconnected,” Lloyd said.

“I thought your father-”

“Stepfather.”

“Yeah, I thought he was pretty, um, together. Steady.”

“Even people with jobs get their phones cut off. It’s the easy one to let go, this time of year.”

“This time of year?”

“Still too cool to let the gas and ’lectric get turned off, especially with all those kids. Plus, Murray’s got a cell, so they can get by without the home phone.”

“Call on Murray’s phone.”

“I don’t wanna waste my time trying to get past him. He’s big on questions. My mama will get the phone turned back on next month, probably.”

There was no recrimination in Lloyd’s tone, no self-pity. He spoke of the world he knew as casually as Crow might speak of playing Little League in Charlottesville or going to Luray Caverns on field trips.

“Hey, you get Internet access on this phone,” Lloyd said. “You know that?”

“Probably costs an arm and a leg to access it.”

“Everything cost, man.”

“True. Hey-see if you can get that e-mail from Tess. The one with the photos attached.”

It was as if technology were Lloyd’s second language, Crow marveled. A week ago he hadn’t known what instant messaging was. Now he quickly opened three e-mails from Tess, each with a photo attachment. “White dude,” he said, showing Crow a photo of a youngish man. “Old white dude.” A middle-aged man. “Brother-Shit.”

“What?”

“Nothin’.” Lloyd’s face was closing down, his eyes slanting sideways.

“Lloyd. No more secrets. You agreed.”

“I know this guy. Well, I don’t know him, but I seen him. He’s the guy who gave Le’andro the card.”

“You always said Le’andro gave you the card, that you didn’t know where he got it from.”

Lloyd shifted uncomfortably. “I thought we’d all be safer if I left that part out.”

“You were supposed to tell us everything, Lloyd. That was the deal-no lies, no omissions.”

“I know,” Lloyd said. “But I didn’t know the guy, and he doesn’t know I was there. I was hiding. Le’andro didn’t want him to know that he was going to contract it out, you know? So I stayed in the car when he went for the meeting, but I could see them in the rearview mirror. Didn’t seem no harm to it.”

“You’re saying this guy is connected to Gregory Youssef’s murder?”

“I’m saying he had the card and the code, and he told Le’andro what to do with it. I didn’t know him. Bennie Tep told Le’andro to do him a favor, no big deal. We thought this guy was from New York or Philly. He didn’t dress like anyone special, and his car was really shitty. He looked trifling.”

“Lloyd, this is a DEA agent. This is one of the guys who’s been trying to get your name out of Tess ever since the article appeared. Tess thought it was because the feds want you as a witness, but he may just want you.”

“Shit.”

Lloyd’s face was as frozen in desperation as Paul Sand’s, although Crow didn’t find it the least bit comic.

“I’m going to call Ed,” he said. “He’s a former cop. Maybe he knows someone over here who can take us in, protect us.”

Ed’s phone rang and rang, and Crow had a moment of wondering where he could be at ten o’clock. No answering machine either. How typically Ed. But he picked up on the eighth ring, and his voice sounded sharp, not as if he had been asleep or outside.

“Ed, it’s Crow. I think Lloyd and I need to turn ourselves in to someone, but someone we can absolutely trust. Definitely not anyone in the DEA or the FBI. Do you have any contacts in the department back in Baltimore, anyone you can vouch for-”

“Wrong number,” Ed said.

“Ed, it’s Crow-”

“I’m telling you, you’ve got the wrong number. You call here again, I’m gonna Star 69 your ass, turn you over to the local cops. You hear me? The local cops, the Delaware state troopers up to Rehoboth. You think they’re small-time, but they’ll know what to do with your punk ass. I’m sick of this shit.”

He’s giving me instructions, Crow realized-and maybe risking his own life in the process.

33

“Was that him?” Barry Jenkins asked when Ed Keyes hung up the phone.

“Was that who?”

“Edgar Ransome-the young white man who’s traveling with a young black man who happens to be a person of interest in the murder of a federal prosecutor. You’ve practically been harboring a fugitive, Mr. Keyes. How did a former cop get mixed up in something like this?”

Jenkins and Collins had arrived at Keyes’s trailer-park address just after ten. It had been Collins who pointed out that it would look weird, calling in sick and then going to arrest the suspect in the Youssef case. This way they could say honestly that they’d followed up on a lead that Dalesio had shared with Collins before he died. But Jenkins always forgot how long it took to cover the 130 miles between Baltimore and the Delaware beaches, even in the off-season. The first hour flew by, making you cocky, but then came Delaware and the long, dark stretch of 404, a two-lane road where one stubborn farmer could bring the average speed down to forty-five miles per hour. At night the landscape seemed desolate and eerie, the kind of countryside where people broke down in horror films. And Collins, so bold in every other respect, was restrained behind the wheel of a car. That probably came from a lifetime of DWB.

They could have left earlier, but Jenkins wanted to go through the motions, walk through the steps that they would later claim to have taken. One less lie to keep track of. They had even gone by Gabe’s house, although they didn’t need to go in. After all, Gabe had already told Collins what they needed to know-the name of the likely contact, his address over in Delaware. They were almost to the Bay Bridge when that cunt called, suddenly ready to play, and Jenkins had agreed to meet her rather than let her know that he was nowhere nearby. She wouldn’t be the first woman he’d stood up.

Once they arrived in Fenwick, they had decided not to go straight to the ex-cop’s trailer. They chatted up some neighbors in the trailer park. They were skeptical types, but again official ID and badges worked wonders, and they eventually loosened the jaw of one old biddy, who had noticed a strange young man hanging around.

“White or black?” Jenkins had asked.

The woman had cast a nervous look toward Collins, as if unsure of the propriety of referencing race in his presence.

“Why, white,” she said, lowering her voice to a whisper. “He sat outside and drank a beer with Ed on Sunday, bold as you please.”

Bold because it was Sunday, because it was beer? Jenkins wasn’t sure of her logic.

“You get a name, or any information about him?”

“I think Ed said he’s a seasonal worker, helping him out at the park.”

“The park?”

“You know, the place he runs down to the boardwalk.”

Of course Jenkins didn’t know. But she volunteered the info eventually, in her own scattered way. So while Jenkins was sitting with Ed Keyes, sharing a beer with him and trying to get him to open up about his “seasonal worker,” Mike Collins was already en route to FunWorld to make his acquaintance.