“Short of digging up a grave, that’s probably the best we can do. Have you told Evelyn?”

He shook his head.

“We’ll get that over with, then.”

If Jack expected Evelyn to go off on her “see, I told you he was a loser” tangent about Baron, he was mistaken. She took the information in, said “Well, there’s one fewer theory for you, Dee” and moved on.

Evelyn’s source for Manson information had gotten back to her with a list of three possible Manson sons: a former Manson family member turned Nevada brothel owner, a drug dealer who boasted of an ongoing prison correspondence with Manson and a B amp;E artist who claimed to be Manson’s illegitimate son.

“Door number three sounds promising,” I said.

“He’s probably bandying the story around to gain street cred,” Evelyn said. “But we should look him up.” She turned back to her computer. “What’s the name on that sheet again?”

“Benjamin Moreland.”

“State?”

“Right here in Indiana.”

“Hold on.”

Jack shook his head and sunk back into the couch. Five minutes of keyboard-clicking later, Evelyn stopped.

“Well, that’s promising,” she said.

She swung around from the computer and waved at a grainy, enlarged photo on the monitor. Jack and I peered at the screen. A thin, wide-eyed face peered back.

“That good?” Jack asked.

“You don’t see the resemblance?” Evelyn said.

When neither of us answered, she sighed, retrieved the Helter Skelter book from the shelf, opened it to a page of photos and passed it to us. The guy did look like Manson, especially in the upper half of the face, through the eyes and hairline.

“Now, he could be trading on a coincidental resemblance to back up his story,” Evelyn said. “But I’d check it out. DNA is DNA.”

Twenty minutes later, she turned from her computer again. “I found Moreland. Seems he’s currently enjoying the hospitality of a mental institution outside Indianapolis.”

“So he’s Manson’s son after all,” I said. “Or, I suppose, one could argue that claiming to be related to the man is grounds for committal in itself. Either way, it can’t be him.”

“Not so fast,” Evelyn said. “We have no idea what kind of security this hospital has. If this was our killer, it would make one hell of an alibi.”

She pointed to the screen. “He had a series of arrests in the late eighties, then nothing. Maybe he’s moved up in the world. For all his fuckups, Manson was a bright guy. Let’s assume his kid inherited those brains.”

I glanced at Jack. “Do we have anything better to follow up on right now?”

He shook his head.

“How far to Indianapolis?”

“’Bout two hours.” He checked his watch. “Leave now? Should make visiting hours.”

We’d barely made it out of the driveway before Jack said, “Evelyn told me. What happened. At the motel.”

“Ah.”

He drove for another few minutes in silence, then said, “Something else, isn’t there? With Evelyn.”

“I don’t think she expected me to shoot-”

“Not what I meant. About Evelyn. What’d she do?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“Don’t doubt that. What was it?”

When I didn’t answer, he pointed at the glove box. “Can you grab-?”

I had it open before he finished. A box of American cigarettes nearly fell in my lap. When he nodded, I opened the pack and handed him one. Even lit the match for him. He nodded his thanks, took the first drag and made a face, lips curving in a silent oath.

I arched my brows. “Not your normal brand, I take it.”

“Does it smell like it?”

“No, but I wasn’t about to assume that what you normally smoke at the lodge is your normal brand.” When he gave me a look, I shrugged. “Hey, if you smoked something different, trying to throw me off track, I wouldn’t blame you.”

“I don’t pull that shit, Nadia. Not with you.” He lifted the cigarette. “This? Just while I’m on a job. Other’s too…”

“Distinctive?”

He nodded. “’Course, if I had any brains? Quit altogether. Worst habit a pro can have. Started quitting ten years ago. Got down to maybe one a day. Then…stuck.”

Another drag. He shook his head and reached for the ashtray then stopped and held the cigarette out to me. I shook my head and he stubbed it out.

“About Evelyn,” he said. “Whatever happened? Like to know.”

He wasn’t going to let that slide, so I told him about Evelyn’s stunt in the parking lot, then said, “So what was that about? Testing me or trying to go after the guy herself?”

“Probably both. You spot her trick? You pass. You both go. You fail?” He shrugged. “Better to leave you behind.”

He passed a transport, then turned back to the slow lane before speaking again.

“Either way? Fucking waste of time. You’re pissed? Got a right to be.”

“She likes games, doesn’t she?”

“All there is. This investigation? A big game. That hitman? Smaller game. Testing you? Tiny game in that one. Like fucking nesting dolls. She pulls that shit again? Walk away.”

TWENTY-FIVE

The nurse behind the desk worried her identification badge, the surface dulled from handling. She looked no more than twenty-one. From the way she flinched every time a patient walked by, this was the only job she’d been able to find, and she was counting the days until she could transfer.

“Mr. Moreland doesn’t get many visitors.”

“But he is allowed to have them, correct?” I said.

She shot a nervous glance around. I couldn’t see the cause of her discomfort. There were no drooling, ranting, half-naked lunatics wandering the halls. The ID badges were the only way I could see to tell the patients from the staff.

“Mr. Moreland is permitted visitors, is he not?”

“Umm, right.”

“And your evening visiting hours are 7 to 9 p.m., correct?”

A nod.

“Then forget this”-I gestured to my business card on the counter-“and consider me a visitor.”

“Do you need a special room?” she asked.

“For privacy, yes, that would be best.”

She fingered her badge and bit her lip.

“Is that a problem?” I asked.

“No, I guess not.” She looked around, as if searching for someone. “Everyone’s on break, but I guess-” She swallowed. “I guess I could take you.”

So that was the problem. She didn’t want to leave her protective cage. I hoped she got a new job soon…for the patients’ sake.

After another worried look up and down the hall, she stepped out.

Nurse Nervous left me in a small windowless room that could have passed for a corporate meeting room. I studied the posters on the wall. Good taste on a budget. The furnishings were likewise a compromise between quality, comfort and cost: decent upholstered chairs and a sturdy conference table. A long way from padded rooms and leather restraints.

Outside the room, the silence was broken only by the occasional swoosh of a door and staccato clicks of staff passing by, their steps quick and purposeful. When I caught a whiff of cleaning solution, I thought of Jack and hoped he wouldn’t have a problem finding Moreland’s room.

While I waited, I ran through the list of questions I was going to ask Moreland. Basic queries, easily answered, none of which would reveal any hint of our suspicions because my main role was to get Moreland out of his private room long enough for Jack to get what he needed.

As footsteps squeaked down the hall, I listened. Voices drifted in, both female. The first I recognized as the young nurse.

“-ever tells me anything.”

An older woman answered, her voice clipped with authority. The squeal of a cart covered her first few words. “-show up, demanding access to Ben, saying it’s part of this horrible Helter Skelter killer mess. We’ve had to notify the director, round up every doctor Ben’s ever spoken to, alert security-believe me, Angela, informing a junior nurse was the last thing on our mind.” The women’s footsteps receded around a corner. “Who did you say wants to talk to Ben now…?”