The Joan/Jack Leahy theory torqued him. His first Joan suspicion: she’s got a Fed friend. Three years later, he tenuously knows.

Peeper Crutchfield torqued him. The meddlesome little cocksucker. Fucking prescient and super-human persistent. They let him live. He knew everything then. Who knew what he knew now?

The big issue: convergence. The sub-issue: the Marsh-Scotty bond. The big question: does the fruit shake mean we abort?

Dwight chased three aspirin with coffee. Auspicious: his first migraine since Silver Hill.

The bolt slides always worked. The oil coating never left tool marks. His shades supplied haunted-house light.

Dwight locked the door behind him. The living room smelled ripe. Incense dregs lingered. Marsh splurged on a new Kandinsky. It fucked up the north-wall symmetry.

Dwight prowled. It was B amp;E #6,000. Futile repetition cop work-he loved that shit.

He tapped panels, he opened drawers, he reached under couches and rugs. He saw dust leak from a ceiling beam. The beam was smooth-finished. That shouldn’t be.

He pulled a chair over and stood on it. He squinted. He saw faint markings on one side of the beam. The dust leaked from a near-invisible seam.

He pushed against it. The wood piece opened inward. A tiny hinge and runner squeaked. The door was near invisible and rectangular. The dimensions were eight by ten.

Paper scent. Right off-the very first thing.

He reached in. It was leather-bound. Stylish Marsh-raw-cut pages.

He pulled it out and stepped off the chair. He prepped his Minox. He carried it to Marsh’s desk and read.

He knew Marsh. The diary confirmed it straight off. Their narrative styles were similar. They both knew how smart they were. They both had the same dry wit. They both worshiped ruthlessness. Marsh was new to it and in awe of it. Oh, you kid. Oh, my brother. You don’t know what it costs.

It was 10:21. He had twelve rolls of film. He could shoot most of the text.

It was cumbersome. Fold the pages, aim the camera, shoot. He got in close and read as he snapped. It was all there. It was his world and Brother Bowen’s world combined.

The heist as Holy Grail. His kid crush on D. C. Holly. His duplicitous union with Scotty B. Wayne Tedrow and long-lost Reggie. Reggie as heist survivor and emerald conduit. The Lionel Thornton snuff. The three Haiti trips. Marsh ID’s Joan as the Woman. He withholds it from Scotty.

He shot seventy-three pages. He ran out of film. He memorized most of the text. He replaced the diary and cleaned up the dust. He left the room pristine.

His migraine was gone. The Operation was in jeopardy. He felt calm and light and something else.

The fallback was dark. Joan was out. Karen played the Grosse Fuge at full volume. He walked to the terrace. Karen’s bathroom light was on. The music roared from a bright little square.

The darkroom was fully equipped. Joan developed film better than he did. He knew the basic drill. He red-lit the space, filled the trays and unfurled his film rolls. It was four full hours’ work.

He cut film strips, dunked them and pinned them up. He watched words on paper appear. He took a break and called Peeper. The punk never got a word in. He dropped hints about emeralds, Joan Klein and the heist. Do nothing, Dipshit. Do you understand?

Peeper gulped and said, “Yes.” Dwight went back to work.

He finished the film dunks. He clotheslined all the photos and let them drip dry. He pulled them and carried them into the living room.

Let’s create a narrative. Let’s expose it eye level. Let’s shape a scan-and-read.

He pinned the photos. It told Marsh’s story and their story. He told it in three around-the-wall strips.

The photos were slightly dark and buckled. It didn’t matter. The living room lights were fine.

He walked out to the terrace. Karen’s bedroom light was still on. He trained his binoculars. Dina ran into the room, crying. Karen picked her up and held her. Dear child, bad dream.

The lights went out. He waited for the bathroom light and more music. He didn’t get it. Skyscraper lights blinked downtown.

A key went in the front-door lock. The door swept and slammed. Her footfalls were too light. She didn’t hurl her handbag.

He waited. He scanned the sky and saw City Hall. It was ‘51. LAPD was headquartered there. He saw a young cop manhandle a suspect. Six-five, crew cut-Scotty B. presaged.

He saw her shadow and smelled her hair. He leaned into the terrace rail. She walked up and leaned into him.

“I haven’t ever lied to you or betrayed you.”

“I know that.”

“Marsh has put a good deal of it together.”

Dwight turned toward her. She embraced him. His chin brushed the top of her head.

“I recruited Reginald Hazzard. Jack and I have been friends for many years. We planned the robbery together. Reginald has been in Haiti for a very long time.”

Dwight touched her hair. Last week’s black was gray and gray was white.

“The heist gives this a whole new dimension. Scotty knows that Marsh is not the lone-assassin type. It’s a level of scrutiny we can’t afford. Scotty will know that we’re behind it in a heartbeat.”

Joan said, “I disagree.”

Dwight shook his head. “They’re shafting each other. Scotty’s pulling a sex shakedown on Marsh. Marsh knows your name and knows that you were my informant. They killed Lionel Thornton. Marsh is not going to walk into a sniper’s perch with all this going on.”

Joan said, “I disagree.” Dwight balled his fists. Joan cupped them and placed them on her chest.

“It densities every level of our subtext. It indicts Scotty Bennett and facilitates the need for an LAPD cover-up, which will extend the paper trail and greatly increase the degree of public exposure. We can combine the diaries. We can remove the references to Jack Leahy, Reginald Hazzard and me. We can edit out the references to Lionel Thornton, so that his people don’t get hurt. Think of this as a social document that unfailingly takes us back to Mr. Hoover and every evil thing that he’s done. The heist will muddy the trail and enhance the overall readership and scholarship. The Bennett-Bowen friendship explicates every point about hatred and greed that I’ve ever wanted to make.”

Dwight pulled away. Karen’s bathroom light went on. He strained his ears. No music played.

“Tell me about Lionel Thornton.”

“He was a comrade of sorts.”

“He laundered the money for you and Jack.”

“Yes.”

“Jack went in with the bank examiners. He got the basic sum out beforehand. He left some money behind to be found.”

Joan said, “Yes, you’ve got all of it, but there’s the thing you haven’t said and the question you haven’t asked.”

Dwight looked at her. “I don’t blame you for any of it. Given what I’ve done, I simply can’t.”

“And the question?”

“The question is, ‘Who got the money?’ The answer is, ‘It’s all been going to the Cause.’ ”

The music started low. Dissonant strings. It was very late. She wanted them to hear it soft.

Joan said, “I don’t want to lose this.”

Dwight strained for the music. A low wind obscured it.

“Marsh knows about you, Scotty could learn about you. You’d be in danger then, and your name would be revealed in the end.”

Joan shook her head. “Scotty doesn’t know about me. Marsh won’t tell him or anyone else. He’s a greedy, covetous little man. He wants everything for himself. You saw the diary pages. No one else did. I’ll be kept out of it, and no one will believe anything that Scotty says about you. He’s the faggot nigger’s white cop buddy, and you’re the government’s star witness who cracked up and has to confess.”

Dwight brushed tears from his eyes. Joan squeezed his hands, white-knuckled.