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He liked to spend time alone with it. Boyd said he was doing the same thing.

Pete laid out bourbon and aspirin. He turned on the window unit and cooled off the living room just right. He leveled off his headache and ran some fresh odds.

The odds they could kill Jack the Haircut. The odds that Santo would kill him and Kemper, deal or no deal.

All the odds hit inconclusive. His living room took on a rather shitty medicinal glow.

Littell loved Dougie Frank’s pedigree. The fuck was ultra-right and FBI-filthy.

Littell said, “He’s perfect. If Mr. Hoover is forced to investigate, he’ll put a blanket on Lockhart and his known associates immediately. If he doesn’t, he’ll risk exposure of all the Bureau’s racist policies.”

Lockhart was holed up in Puckett, Mississippi. Littell said, Go there and recruit him.

He strolled through the main MPD squadroom last night. He saw three prospective motorcade maps. They were tacked to a corkboard in plain fucking view.

He memorized them. All three routes ran by their gun shop and For Rent signs.

Boyd said he felt awe more than fear.

Pete said, I know what you mean.

He didn’t say, I love this woman, If I die, I came this far and lost her for nothing.