Vapor Trail

“Enter Lymon,” Broker said.

Gloria leaned forward. “Don’t get distracted by the boy-girl and the racism. Bottom line: Harry has it worked around in his head that if he had stayed on the case Dolman would have been convicted.”

Broker studied her. She came across as bright, candid, and brave; plus sinewy in her armless blouse and raven crew cut. She looked as if she belonged on the front of a Patagonia catalog, scaling a sheer rock face. Gloria Russell conquers El Capitan over a long lunch.

“Do you know what it was like, losing that case?” Gloria said. “I was so mad at first that I stormed out of the chambers. But then I realized I had to go back. .”

She drew herself up, and Broker watched it come, a memory like electrodes clipping onto her body, sending electric current up the corded muscles of her neck, into her face, and burning in her eyes.

“Because. . I left that little boy in there alone watching Dolman grinning and pumping the hand of his attorney.”

She shook her head violently. “And we said we’d never leave him alone. We always said we’d be there to protect him.”

Gloria was tough. Gloria didn’t cry. She kept talking in a dead, level voice. But her body cried. It was like looking at a statue of grief and seeing the unmoving bronze eyes trying to water.

“We had to go back and explain to Tommy and his parents. How do you explain that to a six-year-old? Here we told him that we were going to protect him. . Christ, do you have any idea what we put that kid through? The physical examinations-our doctor, the defense’s doctor. .”

And Broker watched her dissociate with the moment and retreat into a private limbo. Gloria spoke as if to Tommy Horrigan. “We told you we’d get the guy who did those things to you. But we didn’t get him. We didn’t do our jobs good enough, and he got away.”

In a purely visceral way Broker now understood why John had brought him in. Nobody who’d been close to the thing wanted to pick up this particular live wire.

“Worst day of my life,” Gloria said.

Gloria caught herself and looked across her desk. “I don’t have to be here carrying water in county, you know. I could be almost a partner by now in a legal money factory in St. Paul or Minneapolis, driving a Beamer, working seventy hours a week, and taking files on stressed-out vacations to wherever. I chose not to do that because I believe there’s more to life than making money. And I believe in being involved in this system out of self-interest, to protect all of us from people who will take the law into their own hands.”

“So Harry gets your vote for Saint,” Broker said.

An expression of painfully acquired revelation came over Gloria’s face. She said, “Just as I’m sure I get his. But Saint is much too kind a word. The next time you see Harry, take a good look at him. He’s the face of the mob.”

Chapter Twenty-six

“Majority of U.S. Bishops Have Protected Abusive Priests,” declared the headline in the newspaper box at the front door to the county building.

Broker walked out into the heat with Gloria’s parting shot stuck in his mind. Fuckin’ Harry. He crossed the parking lot and kicked the Crown Vic’s tires. Fuckin’ Harry’s car. As he flopped behind the wheel, his phone rang. He whipped it open and braced for another Harry mind game.

“Mr. Broker, this is Annie Mortenson; I’ve been thinking about what you said and we should talk.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m at the library, but I’m through for the day.”

“I’ll meet you on the front porch in ten minutes.”

Eight minutes later, after scalding his hands on the red-hot steering wheel, he met her on the library steps. They sat down side by side on a bench.

“Harry did contact me and asked me for a favor. Am I in any trouble?” Annie asked.

“No, no. What was the favor?” Broker said.

“He asked me to call you and give you this information anonymously.” She handed him a note written in concise Palmer penmanship: Broker’s truck can be found in the vicinity of County Road 97 and Merril Lane today after 3 P.M.

Broker took the note and tucked it in his chest pocket.

“Your truck isn’t going to wind up like my car, is it?” Annie said.

“I hope not,” Broker said as a shadow fell across them.

“Is this guy bothering you, Miss?” an amused voice said.

Broker looked up. The tallish man standing in front of him had calm, angular features and straight blond hair falling an inch over his ears. His powder-blue eyes ruminated behind wire-rim glasses.

Drew Hensen, Janey’s husband, had always reminded Broker of Garrison Keillor’s radio persona: congenial and wise in a cute way and several comfortable steps removed from the real world. Broker remembered him lanky in chambray shirts and faded jeans. Today the heat had him in a tank top and running shorts and flip-flops.

Taken by surprise, Annie put her right hand to her throat, then dropped it to the top button of her blouse. Self-consciously, she twirled the button with her fingers. “Drew? Oh no, we were just talking. .”

Broker stood up. “Drew, how you doing?” They shook hands.

Drew shrugged. “Same old stuff, waging war against junk food and prime-time TV.”

“You two know each other?” Annie said.

“Sure, we used to work together,” Drew said.

“You two, really?”

“In another life. At the Bureau of Criminal Apprehension. I used to be a police artist,” Drew said. “Remember, I told you.”

“Okay,” Anne said. Her eyes rolled back, placing a memory.

“It’s been a while, though,” Broker said, practicing small talk while he checked Drew out. The artist appeared totally relaxed and untroubled by any marital discord Janey had alleged. However, Broker did notice that, in his presence, Drew and Annie adjusted their gaze to avoid looking directly into each other’s eyes.

“Janey tells me you married a soldier,” Drew said with a sly smile.

“An Amazon hoplite, actually,” Broker said.

“Hoplite. Now there’s a word you don’t hear every day,” Annie said.

Drew smiled, warming to the repartee. “They burned off their breasts, didn’t they?”

“The right breast. So it wouldn’t get in the way drawing a bow,” Annie said.

“Now I think they just burn off men’s balls,” Broker said, smiling pleasantly.

“Always the mellow fellow,” Drew said. “So are you still on the job?”

“I’m filling in as a deputy for John Eisenhower, just for a few days,” Broker said.

Drew nodded. “Sure. I know John. Are you, ah, working now?” He nodded toward Annie.

“No, we have an acquaintance in common. That’s all,” Annie said.

“Well, I gotta go in and set up this program,” Drew said.

“He has this afternoon reading group for third graders,” Anne said.

“Watch yourself, Annie. Broker worked deep undercover; he’s a sneaky sort of guy,” Drew said amiably.

“I’ll be careful,” Annie said.

“See ya,” Broker said.

Drew waved good-bye and went in the library. When he was gone, Annie said, “Do you know his books?”

Broker nodded. “He draws these friendly monsters like Sendak, but in brighter colors. I read a couple to my daughter.”

“He’s very good,” Annie said.

“Right. Look, Annie: keep in touch about Harry. Anything at all.”

“I will.”