Janie showed up, but she wasn’t happy about it, now uncertain about what her role was. She dropped into the chair across from Donnally where he sat behind Hamlin’s desk.

“There’s no expectation of confidentiality,” Donnally said. “She didn’t seek you out in your professional capacity and she didn’t ask you to come. You showed up here last time looking for me.”

“She knows what I do for living, that’s part of the reason why she talked, part of the reason I hoped she’d talk and unburden herself.”

“She also knows you’re an employee of the Veterans Administration—and no money changed hands between you and her. There’s no rational way she can see herself as your patient. At most, as a new friend.”

The sound of the opening door drew their attention to the outer office. Jackson looked toward them as she walked toward her desk, then stopped. Donnally rose. Jackson spun away, heading back toward the entrance.

“Wait,” Donnally said.

Jackson turned toward him. “This some kind of setup?” she asked, her eyes fixed into a glare as they shifted between Donnally and Janie.

Janie stood. “Only if you treat it that way.” She gestured toward Donnally behind her. “He’s getting close to the guy who killed Mark and Frank, but he needs your help.”

“Like what?”

“I need to see the payment history for the clients who cooperated.”

That wasn’t all he wanted, but it was a safer start.

Jackson took a step into the office and pointed at Hamlin’s monitor. “It’s in there.”

“I couldn’t find it.”

Jackson sighed like a frustrated little girl, then walked around the desk. Donnally stepped aside so she could sit down. She tapped a few keys, clicking tab after tab too fast for Donnally to follow until a report appeared on the monitor. He spotted Camacho’s nickname, Nacho. Short for Ignacio.

He tapped the screen. “Can you . . . what’s the word?”

Again with the sigh. “Drill down. It’s called drilling down.”

Jackson double-clicked.

A shorter report appeared, showing a deposit of fifty thousand dollars in the form of a check from the U.S. Treasury, marked Rafa.

Rafa was the drug dealer Camacho had rolled on, and this must be his reward, or at least a down payment on what could go five times higher.

Below that was twenty thousand dollars withdrawn in increments and in cash and paid out to Camacho, and twenty more that had been transferred to one of Hamlin’s personal accounts.

Hamlin had split the reward with Camacho fifty-fifty, except for ten thousand paid out in a check to Reggie Hancock.

Hancock had gotten a cut because it was his client, Guillermo Gutierrez, who had rolled on Camacho.

“There,” Jackson said, her face angled up toward Donnally. “You happy now?”

Jackson was acting like she was being forced to confess a sin of her own, and maybe she was. One of omission.

Donnally pointed at the couch. Jackson rose, walked over, and dropped down into it, arms folded across her chest.

Janie sat at the opposite end, not close enough to make Jackson feel any more cornered than she already was.

Donnally returned to the chair behind the desk and backed out of the shorter report. The routine showed him how to produce more of them. He felt Jackson staring at him. He tried a few.

“Is this up to date?” Donnally asked her, not looking away from the monitor.

“I don’t know. Mark entered the data himself.”

Donnally found a tab to print out a detailed report of the entire account. He pressed it, and Hamlin’s printer activated. He closed the program and swiveled the chair toward Jackson.

“I need you to get in contact with Ryvver.”

Donnally watched her right hand tighten around her left bicep, her knuckle skin lightening as it stretched.

“I know you’ve been in contact with her.”

Jackson’s head pivoted toward Janie. “Isn’t there some rule about confidentiality?”

“I’m not your therapist.”

Jackson looked back toward Donnally. “What do you want from her?”

“Probable cause.”

“Whatever she can tell you is hearsay.”

“I’m not asking her to repeat what anyone told her, just what she said to Camacho. Her own words. That’s not hearsay.”

Jackson looked down at her forearms, then lowered them and folded her hands in her lap. Donnally could see her eyes moving side to side, as though she was watching a boxing match, but it was all in her mind, and he wondered what the fight was about.

Finally, she spoke. “That might make her a coconspirator.”

“How do you figure?”

Her body stiffened. “Don’t play games. You know the law. Foreseeable consequences.” More internal boxing. “Let’s say I didn’t tell her how bad a guy Camacho was until afterwards. Maybe she was just warning him to get a new lawyer, not asking him to do something.”

Donnally didn’t challenge her. Whatever rationalization she wanted to make, whatever lie she wanted to tell herself was fine with him, as long as it got him to where he was going: his boot kicking in Camacho’s front door.

“That’s fine,” Donnally said. “Then she’s in the clear. What do we need to do to meet up with her?”

“Will you put that in your report?”

Donnally nodded. “Just like you said it.” As a lie.

Jackson reached into her purse and pulled out her cell phone. She searched the memory, pressed “send,” and waited with the phone against her ear.

“It’s me . . . hang in there, baby girl. It’ll be okay.”

Jackson listened. Eyebrows knitted, biting her cheek.

“There’s a man who wants to meet with you. The special master . . . No, he’s not a cop. He can’t arrest you for anything. He needs your help.”

Jackson listened again, then looked at Donnally.

“She wants to know about witness protection.”

“The program was created so the government could get witnesses to testify against crooks exactly like Camacho,” Donnally said. “I’ll go to the feds myself. Judge McMullin will help. When can we meet?”

Jackson spoke into her phone. “He can do it . . . Can we get together?” She fell silent, then covered the mike. “She won’t meet, but she’ll talk to you on the phone.”

Donnally shrugged his assent.

“Here he is,” Jackson said, then reached out her phone toward him.

Donnally took it, introduced himself, and said, “I don’t need much at all. Just a couple of questions.” He could hear sniffling on her end. “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of you.”

More sniffling as Ryvver drew in a breath. “What do you want to know?”

“Did you talk to Hector Camacho?”

“A couple of times.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Just that Mark Hamlin set up things so a man in LA would cooperate against him—but I didn’t know he would kill Mark. I just wanted . . .”

“Wanted what?”

“I wanted him to find out from Mark who he got to roll on Little Bud. That’s all.”

“Hold on.” Donnally walked to the printer and scanned down the pages. The entries ended two months earlier, just before Little Bud pled out and went off to prison.

“I’ll find out and do something about it,” Donnally said. “But I won’t be able to tell you who it was until it comes out in court.”

“I’m done with this. First Mark, then Frank. I didn’t think this is how it would end.”

Donnally heard her sobbing, so he lied. “Don’t blame yourself,” he said. “Eventually Camacho would’ve figured it out on his own. He’s responsible for what he did.”

Another sniffle.

“Okay,” Donnally said, “let’s run through it front to back.”

Donnally listened and took notes. It matched what he’d overheard Jackson tell Janie, just a few more details about the dates and times of the calls.

“Don’t you think you should call your mothers?” Donnally said at the end. “They’re worried about you.”

Ryvver’s voice toughened. “They’ve always had a crude way of showing it.”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s between them and me.”