Frank, Bert, and Les watched Molly on the security monitor, exchanged some comments about her breasts, laughed nervously after five minutes passed without her surrender, and tried to look busy when she emerged from the aisle carrying a five-gallon can of roof-patching tar, a roll of fiberglass fabric, and a long-handled squeegee.

Molly stood at the counter, shifting her weight from foot to foot. Bert and Les squinted into a catalog set on a rotating stand while concentrating on sucking in their guts. Frank manned the register and pretended he was doing something complex on the keyboard, when, in fact, he was just making it beep.

Molly cleared her throat.

Frank looked up as if he’d just noticed she was there. “Find everything you need?”

“I think so,” Molly said, taking both hands to lift the heavy can of tar onto the counter.

“You need some resin for that fiberglass fabric?” Les said.

“And some hardener?” Bert said. Frank snickered.

“Some what?” Molly said.

“You can’t patch a trailer roof with that stuff, miss. You live down at the Fly Rod, don’t you?” They all knew who she was and where she lived. She was often the subject of hardware store gossip and speculation, even though she’d never set foot in there before today.

“I’m not going to patch a roof.”

“Well, you can’t use that on a driveway. You need asphalt sealer, and it should be applied with a brush, not a squeegee.”

“How much do I owe you?” Molly said.

“You should wear a respirator when you work with fiberglass. You have one at home, right?” Bert asked.

“Yeah, right next to the elves and the gnomes,” Les said.

Molly didn’t flinch.

“He’s right,” Frank said. “Those fibers get down in your lungs and they could do you a world of harm, especially with those lungs.”

The clerks all laughed at the joke.

“I’ve got a respirator out in the truck,” Les said. “I could come by after work and give you a hand with your little project.”

“That would be great,” Molly said. “What time?”

Les balked. “Well, I, um…”

“I’ll pick up some beer.” Molly smiled. “You guys should come along too. I could really use the help.”

“Oh, I think Les can handle it, can’t you, Les?” Frank said as he hit the total key. “That comes to thirty-seven sixty-five with tax.”

Molly counted her money out on the counter. “So I’ll see you tonight?”

Les swallowed hard and forced a smile. “You bet,” he said.

“Thanks then,” Molly said brightly. Then she picked up her supplies and headed for the door.

As she broke the doorbell beam, Frank whispered “Crazy slut” under his breath.

Molly stopped, turned slowly, and winked.

Once she was outside, the clerks made miserable old white guy attempts at trading high-fives while patting Les on the back. It was a hardware store fantasy fulfilled—much better than just humiliating a woman, Les would get to humiliate her and get her naked as well. For some reason they’d all been feeling a little randy lately, thinking about sex almost as often as power tools.

“My wife is going to kill me,” Les said.

“What she don’t know won’t hurt her,” the other two said in unison.

Theo actually felt his stomach lurch when he went into his victory garden and clipped a handful of sticky buds from his pot plants. They weren’t for himself this time, but the reminder of how much this little patch of plants ruled his life made him ill. And how was it that he hadn’t felt the need to fire up his Sneaky Pete for three days? A twenty-year drug habit suddenly ends? No withdrawal, no side effects, no cravings? The freedom was almost nauseating. It was as if the Weirdness Fairy had landed in his life with a thump, popped him on the head with a rubber chicken, bit him on the shin, then went off to inflict herself on the rest of Pine Cove.

He stuffed the marijuana into a plastic bag, tucked it into his jacket pocket, and climbed into the Volvo for the forty-mile drive to San Junipero. He was going to have to enter the bowels of the county justice building and face the Spider to find out what he wanted to know. The pot was grease for the Spider. He would stop by a convenience store on the way down and pick up a bag full of snacks to augment the bribe. The Spider was difficult, arrogant, and downright creepy, but he was a cheap date.

Through the safety-glass window, Theo could see the Spider sitting in the middle of his web: five computer screens with data scrolling across them illuminated the Spider with an ominous blue glow. The only other light in the room came from tiny red and green power indicator lights that shone through the darkness like crippled stars. Without looking away from his screens, the Spider buzzed Theo in.

“Crowe,” the Spider said, not looking up.

“Lieutenant,” Theo said.

“Call me Nailgun,” the Spider said.

His name was Irving Nailsworth and his official position in the San Juni-pero Sheriff’s Department was chief technical officer. He was five-foot-five inches tall, weighed three hundred and thirty pounds, and had taken to wearing a black beret when he perched in his web. Early on, Nailsworth had seen that nerds would rule the world, and he had staked out his own little information fiefdom in the basement of the county jail. Nothing happened without the Spider knowing about it. He monitored and con-trolled all the information that moved about the county, and before anyone recognized what sort of power that afforded, he had made himself indis-pensable to the system. He had never arrested a suspect, touched a firearm, or set foot in a patrol car, yet he was the third-highest-ranking officer on the force.

Besides a taste for raw data, the Spider had weaknesses for junk food, Internet porn, and high-quality marijuana. The latter was Theo’s key to the Spider’s lair. He put the plastic Baggie on the keyboard in front of Nails-worth. Still without looking at Theo, the Spider opened the bag and sniffed, pinched a bud between his fingers, then folded the bag up and stuffed it into his shirt pocket.

“Nice,” he said. “What do you need?” He peeled the marshmallow cap off a Hostess Sno Ball, shoved it into his mouth, then threw the cake into a wastebasket at his feet.

Theo set the bag of snacks down next to the wastebasket. “I need the autopsy report on Bess Leander.”

The Nailgun nodded, no easy task for a man with no discernible neck. “And?”

Theo wasn’t sure what questions to ask. Nailsworth seldom volunteered information, you had to ask the right question. It was like talking to a rotund Sphinx. “I was wondering if you could come up with something that might help me find Mikey Plotznik.” Theo knew he didn’t have to explain. The Spider would know all about the missing kid.

The Spider reached into the bag at his feet and pulled out a Twinkie. “Let me pull up the autopsy.” His fat fingers flew over the keyboard. “You need a printout?”

“That would be nice.”

“It doesn’t show you as the investigating officer.”

“That’s why I came to you. The M.E.‘s office wouldn’t let me see the report.”

“Says here cause of death was cardiac arrest due to asphyxiation. Suicide.”

“Yes, she hung herself.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I saw the body.”

“I know. Hanging in the dining room.”

“So what do you mean, you don’t think so?

“The ligature marks on her neck were postmortem, according to this. Neck wasn’t broken, so she didn’t drop suddenly.”

Theo squinted at the screen, trying to make sense of the data. “There were heel marks on the wall. She had to have hung herself. She was depressed, taking Zoloft for it.”

“Not according to the toxicology.”

“What?”

“They ran the toxicology for antidepressants because you put it on the report, but there was nothing.”

“It says suicide right there.”

“Yes, it does, but the date doesn’t corroborate the timing. Looks like she had a heart attack. Then she hung herself afterward.”