“Right,” he says. “Because we wouldn’t be with the department anymore. I’m all in favor of settling scores, but not at the expense of the job.” He gives his badge a pat, reassuring himself it’s still in place.

He’s probably right. I could’ve made trouble for Keller, but not enough for it to matter. People would have closed ranks, because that’s what you do when a brother officer is challenged. None of us knows when he’ll be forced into the same situation, making a mistake that needs covering.

“I’ll tell you one thing,” he says. “If you’re gonna slip a knife into somebody’s back – whether they deserve it or not – you gotta make sure you sneak up on them first. Get my drift?”

Yeah, I do. And showing up in Keller’s office, putting myself front and center like that, it probably wasn’t the best move. Maybe Nix already heard the news and is letting me know. If he’s just spouting random advice, it’s pretty good advice.

From now on, I’d better start listening.

For the second time I show up at task force headquarters late, with no explanation, and for the second time Cavallo chooses not to call me on it. She eyes me silently as I approach, then slides a stack of interview forms across the table, picking up where we left off before. I recap my late-night visit to the Robbs’, giving her the various accounts of the vandalism incident.

Yawning, she digs through her box of files, pulling a couple of sheets out. I skim them quickly. The thirteen-year-old youth group girls Gina Robb said were in her class gave statements to the police early on, including the accusation that Hannah had bashed up the car of an unnamed boyfriend of Evangeline Dyer.

“How does stuff like this get missed?” I slap the pages down.

She shrugs. “Information overload. Nobody knows it’s important at the time. And anyway, is it important? If it’s true Hannah keyed his car, then I guess that gives him some kind of motive – but I thought you’d already ruled Fontaine out.”

“Maybe. But we should at least follow up on Evey Dyer, get her side of things. If she was such a good friend of Hannah’s, no matter how they left things, she might be able to tell us something useful.”

“Anything’s worth a try.” She throws her hands up in frustration.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” She brushes her hair back. “Everything.”

I remember Bascombe’s words about the Morales case. A cool breeze blowing. The same thing’s happening here, and Cavallo’s not taking it well. The reason professionals don’t invest too much of themselves in a case like this is that it’s almost certain to end badly. But of course professionals do it all the time, because they’re human like anyone else. Cavallo lets out a sigh, then rubs her eyes until she can’t rub anymore. She starts back on the interview forms, making me wonder if she’s more human than most.

“So you want me to follow up on the Dyer girl?” I ask.

“Knock yourself out.”

After an hour of hunting and pecking on the computer keyboard, I decide to take a shortcut around my technological limitations, placing a long distance call to Detective Eugene Fontenot, a New Orleans homicide detective who helped me out years ago on my most celebrated case, the Fauk stabbing, which was the basis for Brad Templeton’s book The Kingwood Killing. We had a good laugh about that, Gene and I, when he stayed at my place after Hurricane Katrina blew his house down. Like Evangeline Dyer’s mother, he’d toyed with the idea of a new life in Texas before nopd reeled him back.

“Don’t you people have such a thing as databases out there in Texas?” he asks. “I’m lucky you didn’t talk me into staying.”

“There’s nothing like the human touch, Gene. Besides, I heard you’d gotten fat and could use some exercise.”

Over the line I hear him patting his belly. “My ex-wife been talkin’ again?”

He asks about Charlotte, then gives me an update on his leisure time, which seems mainly to be taken up by fishing. Finally, I get his attention by explaining the link between the favor I’m asking for and the case that’s on every television screen.

“This is connected to that girl?” he says, wonder in his voice.

“The one you’d be locating is supposed to be her best friend.”

Fontenot hums a tune, thinking things over. “For you, I wouldn’t lift a finger. You’ve never brought me anything but trouble. Still, I’ve got kids of my own, and if one of them went missing, I’d want anybody who could lift a finger to do it.”

“That’s noble of you, Gene.”

“I’m a noble sort of man.”

“Not according to your ex-wife, you’re not.”

He laughs with me a little, then at me, and then hangs up the phone. Cavallo, who’s been making an effort not to pay attention – or at least, not to seem to be – can’t help looking up with an inquisitive lift of the eyebrows.

“Gene Fontenot,” I explain.

“That name sounds familiar,” she says. Reaching under the table, she digs through her shoulder bag for a couple of seconds, then produces a dog-eared copy of The Kingwood Killing. “I’ve been reading up on you, March.”

I snatch the book away, flipping absently through the pages. “I wish you wouldn’t.”

“Not everybody around here has a book written about them.”

“It’s not about me.” I hand it back to her. “Trust me, when you’re at your prime, the last thing you want is for someone to capture it like that. You’ll always be reminded of what you used to be.”

She fingers the book contemplatively, then stashes it away. She has questions to ask, I can tell, but I’m not in the mood to answer them. With Evey Dyer taken care of for the moment, I still have Thomson to worry about. I excuse myself from the table and go in search of a telephone directory.

I wait until the shift ends, then call from behind the wheel of my car. A woman’s voice answers.

“Is Joe there?”

“No, I’m sorry. Can I take a message?”

“Is this his wife?”

A pause. “Yes, it is.”

So what Wilcox said is true. He really has put his marriage back together. The same woman who divorced him is now waiting at home by the phone. I can’t quite fathom how a life so shattered can be put back together like that, but remembering Charlotte’s words this morning, the idea gives me hope.

“Do you know where I can reach him?” I ask.

“Ah… can I ask who’s calling?”

“Just a friend.”

She’s about to hang up, and for some reason I don’t want her to. I have this crazy notion all the sudden that she can tell me something.

“I didn’t catch your name,” I say.

“Stephanie.”

“Hi, Stephanie. Listen. I heard Joe’s taken up sculpting?”

She clears her throat. “Yeah…”

I can tell from her tone that she’s a little perplexed by my call. Nix’s words about sneaking up come to mind. Time to end this.

“Never mind,” I say. “I was just thinking… Anyway, it’s great that you two are back together. It’s great about the… art.”

“Thanks.”

After I hang up, a strange laugh echoes in the car. It’s me, only I can’t think what’s so funny all the sudden. Maybe it’s the desperation of my phone call, trying the guy at home instead of waiting for him to touch base. Now that I’ve put in an appearance at the office and chatted with his wife, Thomson’s bound to come out of the woodwork. When he does, I’ll tell him what Wilcox said. Putting the Morales case down is all well and good, but there are bigger fish to fry. If he wants the written assurances I collected from Internal Affairs, he’s got to give me nothing less than Reg Keller.

Perhaps the reason I’m laughing is because, for the first time, I’m starting to believe Thomson will actually be able to deliver.