“Did he?”

“Yes, sir,” Quinn said. “Those two convicts had bragged to Dixon about all that money they stole and hid. You know Dixon was a chaplain at Parchman? He came out of there a full ordained minister.”

“And started that church out in the county,” Stevens said. “The one in the barn. The River?”

“Dixon used their confessions and told Johnny Stagg about that armored car, who used some of that money for Dixon’s pardon and took the rest for his trouble.”

“But that part can’t be proved,” Stevens said. “Just stay with the basics. Two escaped convicts kidnapped your sister, who was Jamey Dixon’s girlfriend, and her young son.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And those convicts demanded their money back?”

“One convict,” Quinn said. “The other one got killed while on the run.”

“So that one convict, Esau Davis, wanted to exchange cash for your sister and nephew? You were scared as hell they might be harmed.”

“Yes, sir,” Quinn said. “Lillie found a vantage point in the hills by that old landing strip. She was to provide cover if Davis started shooting. You know Dixon only had twenty grand on him? And that wasn’t from the bank job. That was from donations after the tornado.”

“And how did Chief Chappell and his officer figure into this?”

“They were waiting for all of us to show,” Quinn said. “They knew about the exchange and came for the money and to protect Stagg’s interests. They also had a sniper in the hills on the opposite side of Lillie who took out Dixon and Davis. When the shooting started, that’s when Chappell and his man turned on me.”

“Me and you both know Leonard Chappell was a joke as police chief and the head stooge for Johnny Stagg,” Stevens said. “But one lawman killing another lawman makes for bad press and lots of political pressure on the DA.”

“Leonard had no reason to be there but to steal that cash.”

“Of course,” Stevens said. “But the story the DA will tell is that they came to save the goddamn day and that you and Lillie killed them both to cover y’all’s ass. That way all that money was yours without witnesses.”

“Bullshit,” Quinn said. “They had another man up in the hills. He killed the two men there to make the money exchange. No one seems to be wondering who killed those convicts, Dixon and Davis.”

“They’re going to say it was Lillie Virgil.”

“Guns didn’t match,” Quinn said. “State tests prove it.”

“They’ll say she brought another gun.”

“That’s insane.”

“You bet,” Stevens said. “But you better prepare for that part of their story.”

Stevens swallowed and moved from the window. He reached for a cut-glass decanter at a small bar near his desk and motioned to Quinn. Quinn declined. It was two in the afternoon. Stevens poured some bourbon into a coffee mug and swished it around a bit. He was deep in thought, looking across his old office, with all those barrister bookshelves and faded certificates, Citizen of the Year and Outstanding Ole Miss Alumnus, as he sipped.

“They can twist the story as they please,” Stevens said. “We got two dead lawmen, two dead convicts, and a shitload of cash, flying wild and free, after this all went down. They claim nearly ten thousand is still unaccounted for.”

“You know how many people went out into the hills after this happened?” Quinn said. “Families went there on weekends with butterfly nets and duffel bags. That money was found but never turned in.”

“However this goes, it’ll destroy your name,” Stevens said. “They’ll destroy Lillie’s, too. They’ll ask questions about y’all’s relationship, relationships she might have with other, um, individuals. You got an election in April.”

“You saying I should make a deal?”

“No, sir,” Stevens said, sipping a bit more from the mug. His light blue eyes and red cheeks brightened a bit, him inhaling deeply as things were getting settled. “There’s no deal to make. Not yet. Just preparing you for the shitstorm as we go into an election year. I don’t think that fact is lost on anyone, particularly not Johnny Stagg.”

“Mr. Stevens, how about we not discuss Johnny Stagg right now,” Quinn said. “I just ate lunch.”

“Whiskey makes it a little easier,” he said. “Soothes the stomach. Stagg’s been running the supervisors for a long while. I’ve gotten used to the fact people like him walk among us.”

“Lillie saved my ass,” Quinn said. “I shot Leonard Chappell because he was about to kill me. But Jamey Dixon and Esau were killed by someone else.”

“Could’ve been any one of Stagg’s goons.”

“This individual wasn’t a goon,” Quinn said. “This person was a pro, a hell of a precise shot at a distance.”

“You see anything at all?”

“Hard to look around when you hit the ground and crawl under a pickup truck.”

“Imagine so,” Stevens said. “And Lillie?”

“No, sir,” Quinn said. “But you need to ask her.”

“How could you be sure Leonard wanted you dead?”

“He was aiming a pistol straight at my head,” Quinn said. “This was an ambush.”

Stevens turned and leaned back against the windowsill and stared out at the rebuilding of downtown Jericho. Among the piles of brick, busted wood, and torn-away roofs, all that remained standing on that side of downtown after the storm was the old rusted water tower by the Big Black River. Now they were even repainting the tower from a rusted silver to a bright blue. New sidewalks. New roads. The Piggly Wiggly had reopened, with the Dollar Store not long to follow. There was word that Jericho might even be getting a Walmart.

“Did you hear Stagg is going to cut the ribbon when they reopen the Square?” Stevens asked.

“I did.”

“To read about it in the papers, he is the sole person responsible for the rebirth of this town with the grants and handshakes he’s made in Jackson.”

“I guess anyone can be a hero.”

“We’ll get this matter straight, Quinn,” Stevens said, “don’t you worry. Just keep doing your job. Lots of folks appreciate all you done for this place since coming home from the service.”

“And what can I do while we wait to hear from the DA?”

“Not much,” Stevens said. “But if they indicate for a moment this goes beyond just an inquiry, you better have my ass on speed dial.”

•   •   •

In Memphis, Johnny Stagg slid into a booth at the Denny’s on Union, across from the Peabody Hotel and down the street from AutoZone Park. He accepted the menu but shut it quick, telling the waitress a cup of coffee and ice water would be just fine, smacking his lips as he watched her backside sway in the tight uniform. His new man, Ringold, took a seat up at the bar near the kitchen, giving Stagg a little space for when Houston arrived. Houston had called the meeting, saying it was about time, as Stagg always had someone else talking business, making the exchanges, and figuring out just what in Memphis was black and what was white. Stagg had relayed one message since Bobby Campo was put in prison: All of Memphis was nothing but green.

Stagg toasted Ringold with his coffee mug. Ringold nodded back. Man probably didn’t weigh a hundred eighty pounds or stand much higher than five foot ten. He was plain and bland as Wonder Bread, with a shaved head and stubbled black beard, his blue eyes almost translucent. While you wouldn’t notice Ringold in a crowd, he probably had a hundred ways to kill a man with a salad fork.

Ringold had come to him that summer, not long after the storm, looking for work and laying out credentials that made him smile. He was three years out of uniform, a former Special Forces soldier, Blackwater operator, and all-around bad dude with a gun. Stagg had made some calls to some people Ringold had worked for and they couldn’t say enough about how he handled himself. Stagg figured losing Leonard had been a damn blessing. He’d traded out a goddamn Oldsmobile for a Cadillac.

Stagg sucked a tooth, turned the Denny’s fork, and grinned a good long while when Houston and his four thugs walked into the restaurant. Ringold stopped the thugs and motioned Houston to go take a seat in that back booth facing across the alley to the Rendezvous rib joint. Houston was black, short and muscular, wearing a flat-billed St. Louis Cardinals ball cap and hexagonal rose-colored glasses.