Chaingang

15

WATERTON CITY LIMITS

There were ten tracts of land, each a complex negotiation in itself, where dual abstracts had been drawn up by both parties, and the contractual boilerplate was mind-boggling to Royce Hawthorne. He promptly became lost in a cloud of easements, adjacencies, parcels, and legalspeak; adrift in a choppy sea of restrictions and covenants.

The tracts were far from equal in size—the smallest being a four-acre divot at the edge of Luther Lloyd's river ground, the largest being the entire Weldon Lawley farm.

Lloyd's was simplest, too, regarding paperwork. Perkins Realty had a slim folder on the deal consisting of map coordinates and title search, general warranty deed with statutory acknowledgments, dual abstract updates, letter of freedom of incumbrances, copy of clerks reply, the bill of sale, the canceled cashier's check, and a couple of pages of notes on the negotiation and purchase.

Each time he'd begin reading, something would throw him. The first sale was a “lot, tract, or parcel of land lying north of County Road ‘598’ and being situated in the NEA of the NEA of Section 9: T915N; R174E of the Third Principal Meridian, Waterton County, Missouri, more fully described by metes and bounds: beginning at a point in the center line of County Road ‘598’ therein distant east 347.83 feet from the northeast corner of Section 11-71-T915N; thence..."

At approximately the fifth “thence,” he would start to fog up.

All of the general warranty deed documents were signed with the formal “TO HAVE AND TO HOLD the premises aforesaid, with all and singular the rights, privileges, appurtenances, and immunities thereto belonging or in anywise appertaining unto the said parties of the second part, and unto their heirs and assigns forever, the said

[Cullen Alberson and Regina Alberson, his wife]

hereby covenanting that they are lawfully seized of an indefeasible estate in fee in the premises herein conveyed; that they have good right to convey the same; that they will Warrant and Defend against the lawful claims and demands of all persons whomsoever. IN WITNESS WHEREOF, the said parties of the first part have hereunto set their hands and seals this the day and year first above written.

(Signed) [Cullen Dale Alberson] (SEAL),

[Regina Louise Alberson] (SEAL)."

A notary public had stamped her stamp in testimony whereof, a copy of the thing had been microfilmed, the instrument had been filed for record in the recorder's office by the clerk of the circuit court and ex officio recorder of Waterton, one Elizabeth Smythe.

On all of these documents the party of the second part was a very well heeled and anonymous buyer calling itself the Community Communications Company, headquartered in Alexandria, Virginia.

He drove to the nearest isolated pay phone and punched in money and the 703 area code for Alexandria, Virginia.

“Jean, what city please?"

“Alexandria."

“Yes?"

“May I have the number of the Community Communications Company, please?"

“One moment ... Hold for the number.” A recorded voice dropped the digits into the long lines:

He hung up and dialed direct. An operator asked for money. He complied and the line rang.

“Communications Company."

“Yes. My name is Royce Hawthorne and I'm phoning long distance about a piece of property your company has purchased. I need to speak with your general manager or president, or whoever acts as chief executive officer for the company. Who would that be, please?"

“You want Guy Kelber. Would you like me to connect you with his secretary?” Royce said yes, and when a female voice identified it as being Mr. Kelber's office, he repeated his message. After a wait of nearly a minute, she came back on the phone.

“Who did you say you were with?"

“I didn't say, but I'm representing a law enforcement agency in regard to the disappearance of a man who had dealings with your company. It's vital I speak to Mr. Kelber.” He kept a hard edge to his tone. He waited, hoping the “law enforcement” bit wouldn't come back to kick his ass.

“Hello. This is Guy Kelber."

He went through the routine again. Kelber had never heard of the land deal or Sam Perkins. Nor had he ever talked with a Sinclair.

“This is the Community Communications Company of Alexandria, Virginia, isn't it?"

“This is the Communications Company, Mr. Hawthorne. You apparently have the wrong firm. Sorry.” Royce apologized and rang off.

He redialed directory assistance. Went through his request from the top.

“Sorry, sir. We don't show a Community Communications Company in Alexandria."

“Do you show a Community Communications Company in Washington, D.C., or is that a different area code?” Knowing.

“That would be two-oh-two, sir.” He thanked her. Dialed. Ran it by another operator.

“We show a Community Communicators in Bethesda. And there is a Communications Company in Alexandria and Arlington, Virginia. But we do not show a Community Communications Company. Would you like to try one of these other numbers?"

He told her yes, he'd try them all. He wrote down the three numbers, including the one he'd just dialed. The Bethesda, Maryland, number proved to be for a school that taught teachers who specialized in learning-impaired students. The Arlington number was a separate listing for the first place he'd called. They were in the broadcasting business. Had no land holdings. Yes. Mr. Kelber was chairman of the board. No, he'd never heard of a Community Communications Company of Alexandria.

Royce Hawthorne's adult life, much of it, had been lived on phones, or through events and transactions that had transpired or gone down with the aid of that instrument. He knew people who were very much “into phones.” It was one of those persons he called next, leaving a terse message on a recording, and hanging up.

If there was a more nagging brand of angst than doper paranoia, it had to be “phoneman” disease, a uniquely lethal strain that apparently spawned in the invisible energy bogs that surrounded high-voltage transformers, microwave transmitters, and Lord knows what else, and that headed—like iron to a magnet—for the nastiest dope burns it could find. Telephones and junk—what a combination!

Royce felt it prod him like a hard jab to the kidneys, and he suddenly visualized Happy and a couple of cartel wire-tappers: alligator clips, recorders, headset all in place, tapping into Jefe Hawthorne as he set them up for double-digit bits in the slamarooney. They would not be amused. Happy would not be happy.

Royce's hand was slick with sweat as he reached for the pay phone again, stopped in midair by a frightening apparition, a sight that froze him in the warm noonday sun of Willow River Road. He saw someone or something coming out of the woods.

Shades of Beaudelle Hicks's kid appearing from out of nowhere, but my God—this was the most frightening-looking man Royce had ever laid eyes on, just gigantic, a hulking behemoth moving through the trees, carrying what looked like a couple of large wooden cases under one arm, and a thing like a heavy punching bag slung over one shoulder. It came through the trees, and Royce saw the behemoth look at him just as he saw the huge man moving out of the woods.

This fearsome giant, bigger than anything imaginable, looked at Royce with the most venomous stare he'd ever seen, and it chilled him to the bone.

There was just a beat when it looked like the man was stopping in his tracks, trying to make up his mind whether to come over and kick Royce's ass for the fun of it, but he turned and kept going, moving across the road and disappearing into the brush again.

Who the fuck was he? Royce had never seen him before, and for a few seconds he got mixed into the dope equation—he sure as hell could have passed for a stone killer—but then he regained control and realized how he was letting his imagination screw him around. He took a very deep breath, hopped back in his ride, and headed out Cotton Avenue to talk with Cullen Alberson, if he could find him, visions of “Bigfoot” still stomping around in his head.

Royce Hawthorne had spent the better part of two days calling and visiting and calling again. He'd come nearly full circle, and only managed to actually interview—if that's the word—two persons who'd sold ground to the mysterious Community Communications Company of Alexandria, Virginia. Weldon and Cullen, the first two guys he'd tried to reach, had both been open and accessible. But as luck would have it, he'd spun his wheels the rest of the next day trying to make contact with the other eight property owners.

He was now around to the tenth seller, Bill Wise, who owned, among many other holdings, Bill Wise Industrial Park, a precariously prosperous gamble that had once held great promise for Waterton. Wise, who'd made a fortune in used office furniture down in Nashville, had moved to Waterton thinking it was virgin investment territory. He'd set up a used office furniture outlet in Maysburg, which had done well, and purchased large pieces of ground in both Maysburg and Waterton, calling them—optimistically—industrial parks, and landscaping them for the flood of industry that would someday push out from Paducah, and Memphis, and St. Louis, looking for low-rent settings for plants, factories, offices, and other building sites. When the industrial parks had withered on the vine, Wise had filled them himself: with office furniture showrooms, warehouses, and sprawling flea markets that always seemed on the verge of going under.

Bucky Hite, another drinking/smoking/snorting buddy of Royce's, was one of a dozen men working in the corner of Wise's northeast property, on the piece being developed by Community Communications Company.

There were several cats and backhoes at work, and some heavy equipment Royce wasn't familiar with, and he was parked at the edge of the field waiting for Bucky, who was busy being harangued by a man who appeared to be the foreman on the job. He looked at his notes that summarized what he'd learned on Mary's behalf during the last couple of frustrating days:

1. CULLEN ALBERSON—He had been presented a “killer offer,” his words, fifty thou, so much money he hadn't even talked it over with the missus—he just signed the deal then and there. He'd had no further contact after the deal was consummated with Sam Perkins, and no dealings with any Mr. Sinclair or the buyer.

2. WELDON LAWLEY—Sam had done the initial leg-work, and Lawley had looked at the contract. Said okay. The company sent him a bank draft. (It had taken a visit by Mary to pry the info out of First Bank of Waterton's office manager Lester Peebles.) The draft came via a New York bank, Chase Manhattan. Another hour of LD calls had netted the information that the draft had been purchased by Merchant's Bank in Washington, D.C. They had no information, or were not able or willing to find out, about the initiation of the large cash draft.

3. GILL POINDEXTER—Sam had finalized the deal, and they had again deposited money. This time First Bank was unable to help. The family was apparently out of town, and neither Royce nor Mary had been able to get hold of Gill or Betty Poindexter.

4. RUSSELL HERKEBAUER—He and his sons were on a hunting trip out West. Would be gone for a couple of weeks. Mrs. Herkebauer did not know the details of the deal, or she wasn't talking without her husband's okay.

5. DOYLE GENNERET—Gone on a business trip. His foreman, Dean Seabaugh, was busy with the animal auction and didn't have time to talk. Royce had tried to get him to open up, telling him a man had disappeared and that if Seabaugh didn't talk to him, he'd eventually have to talk to the cops. This had really frightened Seabaugh, who had said, “Big fucking deal,” and slammed the door on him.

6. LUTHER LLOYD—Gone. Mrs. Lloyd said he was “running around somewhere” and didn't know when he'd be back. “Probably late.” Royce left word. When nobody called back that evening, he dialed the Lloyds’ and nobody answered.

7. RUSTY ELLIS—Gone. Nobody had seen him around the farm in a while. Royce had driven out to the farmhouse and found some papers in the driveway. He peeked into the mailbox and saw a collection of junk mail.

8. CELIA and LETITIA BARNES—Out-of-town owners. He had not been able to reach either of them by telephone. Their sharecroppers knew nothing about the land deal.

9. AUGUST GROJEAN—Just about took his head off when he called. “I ain't saying nothing about nothing without my lawyer.” He'd just been through extensive legal battles over his ground, and he refused to listen to reason. He had given Royce his Memphis lawyer's number for a telephone contact, and so far he'd been unable to reach the lawyer by phone.

10. BILL WISE—Last on the list. He had just missed Wise, somebody said at the flea market, and was waiting for a word with Bucky, whose voice carried across the field.

“They do that to everybody. They do it every damn time. I don't see how the crooked sum'bitch stays in business."

“I called him,” the foreman shouted from his truck. “I told him, ‘You short me two yards every time you pour out here, goddammit, and I ain't taking that shit off you people again. If you short me again, I'll buy from fuckin’ Flat River if I have to, but I won't use you again.’ I told him."

“What did he say to that?"

“'Oh, I never shorted you no two yards,’ he says. Well, I know better.” Another comment was drowned out by the equipment noises.

“He's nothing but a fuckin’ crook."

“I'm going."

“All right."

The truck pulled out across the bumpy field, and soon Bucky Hite made his way to where Royce was waiting.

“Sorry about that. The boss had a bug up his butt."

“Sounded that way."

“Fuckin’ Jerome Thomas crooked us outta some more concrete. Nothing new there.” He frowned.

“So I've heard."

“Got anything?” Hite asked.

“Say what?"

“You holding?"

“I got a joint."

“No. I mean blow."

“Not right with me,” Royce said.

“Oh well, no biggie."

“I wanted to ask you about this deal. What's cooking with all this?"

“Some big company, man. Outta D.C., I hear. Going to make a big park like Six Flags. That's confidential. Going to mean a shitload of new jobs.” He raised his eyebrows. “You know—some of us got to have them things."

“Fuck you.” They laughed. “Six Flags? Out here? Bullshit."

“No—really. That's what I heard. Foreman says in a few days they going to pour footings, and man, it's going to be big. You trying to get a gig?"

“Not so's you'd notice. I'm just asking for a friend.” He decided he'd tell Bucky. If anybody in Waterton hadn't heard about the disappearance, this would take care of it. “Sam Perkins? I don't know if you heard yet, but he's missing. I'm a friend of the family. Just, you know, asking around."

“Yeah. I heard. Cops asked everybody already. They got hold of some dude that he was doing business with, and he told the cops he didn't know anything. So I heard.” This guy driving a backhoe knew more than the man's wife, Royce thought.

“What dude? Somebody Sam was dealing with?"

“Yeah."

“Was it a guy named Sinclair?"

“Beats the shit out of me.” He shrugged. “Ask the cops, man."

“Me and the cops aren't on the best of terms."

“Yeah, I hear that,” Bucky said.

“Where'd you hear that anyway?"

“Foreman. No ... shit, I don't remember. Maybe it was some guy at Judy's. Hell, I can't remember."

“Try."

“We were eatin’ at Judy's. Seems like—oh, I know who it was. Kelly McCauley's husband."

“Who's Kelly McCauley's husband?” He was getting very tired of this. He wanted to go back to the cabin and do some tootski and get his shit together.

“Jeezus. Kelly's the chick with the big guacamoles that works in Kerns's office. She overheard him talking about this guy who'd been doing business with the real estate dude, okay? He told ‘em he didn't know anything. They had two or three missing people, and they all had some mutual connection with the project.” He pointed at the construction work behind him. “It turned out to be nothing. Just coinci—"

“Hold it, Bucky. What people? I never heard anything about any two or three missing people. Who were they?"

“Beats my ass.” He shrugged again. “You wanna know—go ask Kelly McCauley. Don't she live over near you?"

“I don't know her."

“Kelly McCauley,” he repeated, cupping his hands in front of his chest. “Lives over there by Waterworks Hill next to Diane's."

“Oh. Wait a minute.” Royce's mind finally slipped back into gear. “She lives in that trailer next to Diane's Hairquarters."

“That's the lady."

“I know who she is. Yeah—I'd seen them around, I just didn't know the last name. Where does he work, do you know?"

“Uh-uh."

“Okay. Thanks, man. Hey—if you hear anything about Sam Perkins, or hear anything else about these missing people ... do me a favor? Call me. If I'm not there, just leave word, ‘kay?” He got out a pen and wrote Mary's phone number on a scrap of paper.

“Okay. No problem."

“What the hell would somebody wanna put a Six Flags way the crap out here for?"

“Not a real Six Flags, man. Some kind of ... um ... you know, like Expo deal, where they do scientific shit and people take tours through it. Hey—how the fuck do I know? Just don't knock it, I'm draggin’ double time and a half!"

“Lotta new hands around?” Royce glanced around.

“Some."

“What's that big fucker do? You know who I mean—about the size of two refrigerators?” Royce held his hands apart as wide as he could. But Bucky just looked at it, obviously having no idea who he was referring to.

“What big fucker?"

“You'll recognize him if you see him, dude.” Royce laughed. “He blots out the sun.” He thanked the man and they said good-bye. Hite went back to work, and Royce started driving back to town. He was surprised the big boy wasn't one of the new construction guys.

As soon as Royce was out of sight, Bucky Hite crumpled up the phone number and threw it into the dirt.

Fuck it.

Waterworks Road was a short piece of well-traveled blacktop that ran from Cotton Avenue, at the base of Waterworks Hill, to the boonies beyond Waterton's remote water treatment plant and reservoir.

The low-rent housing started about fifty yards off the road on some corner pastureland where an old single-wide was visible behind a thicket of weeds. Royce thought about knocking. Asking his questions real friendly.

Next to the broken mailbox a piece of rubber tire lay coiled like a dead blacksnake. He'd seen Kelly McCauley before. A slightly heavy young woman with a child's hands, big, bouncy breasts, and a provocative if rather porcine look around the eyes and nose. She lived there—in the trailer—and the look of the place stopped him.

Maybe he thought her old man would hassle him, coming up to the crib to rap with little Mama. Everybody was always sniffing around Kelly. Checking out those big, soft handfuls of love. Hanging around the city administration building, where the jail was, trying to get a look down those low-cut things she wore to work sometimes. Maybe Kelly had a little problem, too.

Or maybe he could imagine her slamming that door in his face when he started asking questions about what she overheard her boss, Chief Kerns, say about this and that. That's striking pretty close to the lunch bucket. If Kelly had half a brain, she'd clam up. Next thing—Marty Kerns would be bringing him down to the jail for a little talk and a late night swim in the fish tank.

Whatever brought him to his senses in time stopped him dead and turned him around, sent him back to his ride, and headed him on down Waterworks past Diane's Hairquarters and around the corner.

One of his fave pay phones was located in front of a ma-'n'-pa grocery. He stopped. Got out. Dropped change and dialed the McCauley residence. Three rings.

“Hello."

“Is this Mrs. Kelly McCauley?” he asked, putting as much hard twang in it as he could muster.

“Yes."

“Mrs. McCauley, this is Sheriff Guthrie. Are you the lady works for Marty Kerns over in Waterton?” Tough and coarse, with most of the resonance coming right out of the nasal passages. A rumble he could almost feel in his face.

“Yes, sir.” A little question mark in her tone now. The voice she used when Marty got pissed at her. Her deferential kissy-ass voice.

“Ma'am, I understand that you have been overheard making some statements that several persons are being sought in missing-persons cases in Waterton. Do you know you could get in serious trouble repeating what you heard there on the job? That's privileged law enforcement information."

“I don't know what you're talking about."

“Don't bother denying it, ma'am. Marty Kerns has already heard the tape, and so have I. You were recorded in a surveillance of another investigation, and you were taped at a place of business called Judy's Cafe, Mrs. McCauley. Your voice has been ID'd as being the one who divulged information about an ongoing case. Don't you know that's punishable under three different Missouri statutes?” He was really getting into it. In the pause for air he could almost hear her brain going a mile a minute. Trying to remember what she might have said. He pushed it. “Now, why did you tell Mr. McCauley that all these other persons were missing?"

“I didn't say that,” she blurted. “I just was telling him about the one Perkins case. And, you know, I might have said that Rusty Ellis and them Poindexters was missing, too. That's all I told him, honest. It was just them three cases, and they wasn't related at all. And what I say to my husband don't go any further.” She was starting to get hot about it.

“Chief Kerns is not pleased about you talking like that in public where anybody can hear you. You know better than to be discussing cases like that."

“I'm sorry.” She put a little whine back in her tone.

“What else did you hear about the Poindexters or Rusty Ellis or Sam Perkins? Did you overhear other things about the case?” He knew the second he said it, he'd lost her, but he was patting his pockets looking for notes, a pen, something to write on, trying to keep his voice in character, and he knew as he uttered it that it didn't sound official enough.

“Who the hell is this, anyway?” She was smarter than she appeared. He mumbled something about being in touch with her later and hung up. Back in the car and hooking back to Cotton and down King's Road in the direction of the Perkins house. More cocaine paranoia with claws perched on his shoulder, ready to go for the throat.

“Hi.” She was surprised to see him at her door.

“I—” He choked up and coughed, so full of information, he couldn't pull it all together. She knew it was something bad.

“Come in and sit down, Royce. You're so pale you look like you're about to pass out."

“Something's wrong, babe. I don't know what the hell's happening here, but...” He shook his head, not believing the thoughts bouncing around inside it. “Sam isn't the only person missing.” He took a deep breath.

“I've been asking everybody who was part of the land deal, that I could find. Some don't want to talk. Some don't know anything, or they're damn good actors. Others—they've vanished or they've gone into hiding or been abducted or ... whatever. I know this guy, I see him around the bars and stuff. He's got a job out there at the big construction site. He let it slip that he'd overheard Kelly McCauley, Marty Kerns's secretary, talking about others being missing. Mr. and Mrs. Poindexter. Rusty Ellis. Sam. All parties to the big land deal. And Sinclair or somebody else Sam had been dealing with has been in touch with the cops or they've found him.” For the first time he was consciously aware he'd neglected to ask the McCauley girl about who that was.

“I acted like I was a sheriff and called her. Confirmed the business about Gill and Betty Poindexter and Ellis being missing. But I forgot to ask about the cops having had contact with the firm Sam was representing. She probably wouldn't have known much. Marty Kerns knows a lot of information that he's been keeping from you."

“Son of a—” She was beet red with anger. Getting up to get her purse and car keys. “I'll get an answer from him, and it had better be a good one or—"

“Keep your cool if you can, Mary. You might need him before this is over."

“I'll keep my cool, all right.” She was raging. This was no surprise. She'd known that Kerns had information he wasn't giving her. “Come on, if you want to go with me."

“I probably would just make it worse. He'll be more likely to talk if I'm not there. We don't get along."

“Stay here, Royce. I'll come back as soon as I talk to him."

“Okay."

“Thanks.” She looked at him with deep feelings, wanting to say more, but too full of this news to articulate it. He nodded and smiled, and she was gone.

At first Marty Kerns was cool, and tried to play it close to his vest, but when she started screaming she was going to the paper, calling her state senators, and suing the town—among other things—he opened up and told her about the case for the first time.

“It's something that looks a lot worse than it really is, Mary; that's part of the reason you weren't brought up to speed about the others that are missing. We're pretty certain it is just coincidence, and the last thing you want to do is start rumors in a little town like Waterton. That's the other aspect of it. If some of these folks got the idea people were vanishing or somethin', you'd have a panic on your hands in no time. People would be spotting UFOs, and serial killers, and God knows what! The truth is that people turn up missing all the time, even in small towns. The police get routine calls every day from somebody whose wife or husband has been missing for a couple days. Ninety-five percent of the time it's a ... uh ... domestic problem or something. Not like your situation with Mr. Sam. You get older folks vanish all the time, Mary. They wonder off and get lost or lose track of what time it is—things like that. Usually it's no big deal. It isn't this time either. It just could be blown up outta proportion because a couple of the people happened to have been doing some business in a real estate deal. That's the only reason you weren't told. It wasn't necessarily that relevant."

“Relevant? It seems very relevant to me. And why did you purposely withhold the information that you'd been in touch with somebody who had business dealings on the land sale and had been in contact with Sam? Wasn't that relevant either?"

“I don't know what you mean. We never had contact with any ... Oh, you mean the guy with CCC? That didn't have a bearing on your husband's disappearance."

“How can that be?"

“He had never been in personal contact with Sam. Only with his representative, who was Mr. Sinclair, the one who had the dealings here in town. He knew nothing about Sam being gone."

“Well, where is this Sinclair?"

“He's out of the country, is what Mr. Fisher said."

“Who's Mr. Fisher?"

“He's the man putting together the park out there.” He gestured to the north of town. “If you want to talk with him, I'll be glad to set it up for you, but I promise you you'll be wasting your time."

“Please give me his number. I certainly do want to talk to him.” She felt like this stupid slob had violated her, lying to her as he had about her husband.

“I understand he'll be in town tomorrow. Why don't you get together with the gentleman if it will ease your mind?"

“Fine."

“I'll take you out to meet him myself, in the morning if you like."

“That's all right,” she said. “I've got my own car."

“Fine. I'll call him when he gets in town tonight and tell him you will be coming out sometime in the morning to talk with him. How's that?” She nodded. “He'll be somewhere out there with the construction crew, I imagine. Name is Joseph Fisher. Okay?"

“I'll be there."

“As I say—you won't learn anything about Sam. But feel free. I don't want you talking about the Poindexters and Mr. Ellis being missing, Mary. There's no reason to get people worried more than they are."

“I won't say anything.” Her eyes hardened. “At least for a while. But I'm telling the FBI and the sheriff's office about it."

“They already know,” he said, letting a smirk show on his face for the first time since she'd gotten on his case. “Speaking of the sheriff, you know this dope fiend you been talking to about the case, this Royce Hawthorne, I want you to tell him it's only out of deference to you that his tail isn't sittin’ back in my jail.” Mary felt a hard knot in the pit of her stomach. It was bad enough with Sam—she didn't want to cause anybody else problems.

“He's been stickin’ his nose everywhere, asking questions where he has no business, and then he has the gall to pose as the county sheriff and interrogate my personal secretary. It took me exactly one minute with his good friend and fellow junkie Mr. Hite to know who had bothered Kelly."

“He was trying to help me find out something. It was more than the police seemed willing to do. You would have never said a word to me, would you?"

“Not until there was some reason to, no. But let me ask you—now that you know what you think you know, are you any more informed? Do you know anything more about Sam's disappearance? No, little lady. You don't really know anything more. It's just upset you, is all it's done."

She wanted to spit in his ugly face. The “little lady” really brought the red back into her cheeks, but she remembered what Royce had said and forced herself to keep her mouth shut.

“Do you know what Mr. Hawthorne is, Mary? This friend you seem so willing to confide in about a police investigation and whatnot?"

“I know him very well."

“He's a dope addict. He's a cocaine dealer, did you know that?"

“No.” She shook her head. “He's a friend, is all I know."

“We're watching him very closely. He's going to make a serious mistake one day, and he'll end up in the hoosegow for a long time. I'm telling you for your own good—not to help him. He's not about to change. He's been no good as long as I been knowin’ him. You'd be well advised to cut loose of him, Mary."

“Please—” He'd thrown her off with this talk of Royce. She knew that what he was saying now was probably the truth. “Just help me find my husband,” she said, quietly. Then she turned and left. Empty and hurting in the hollowness of her stomach. She imagined that Marty Kerns would be pantomiming blowing a kiss to her parting back, and she imagined she could hear the laughter of the other officers.

Royce had brought her a wealth of information. He'd caught the cops in lies—big lies—about a major missing-persons case. She'd thrown all of it in Kerns's face, and somehow it had all bounced off of him. He'd turned it around so that she and Royce had ended up looking like idiots, and he'd come off as the responsible public servant. If the FBI had all this information—and there were four persons gone, all connected in a land deal—what were the implications?

She'd go home and ask her personal adviser, her junkie buddy.