collection. He could not believe it now resided in his neighbor’s stomach.

“Is that laughter I hear coming out of your mouth?” Mabel asked.

“Sorry.”

“I get the feeling I haven’t totally ruined your day.”

“The image of you biting the end off, then realizing what you’d done—”

“Stop it,” she scolded him.

“Sorry.”

“So now that you’ve had a good chuckle, please explain what makes this candy bar so special? It certainly didn’t taste like it was worth a hundred big ones.”

“How much did it taste like it was worth?”

“Stop it!”

“Sorry. The manager kept the candy bar on the counter, next to where customers put items to be rung up. If a customer put down four items or more, he added the candy bar to the total. If someone looked at the receipt and questioned him, he pointed at the candy bar and said, ‘Didn’t you want that?’ The person would say no, and he’d apologize and give them their money back. It looked like an honest mistake, so no one ever reported it.”

“How much did the candy bar actually cost?”

“A buck.”

“You’re saying he did this a hundred thousand times a year?”

“Yeah. He had hundreds of customers a day. He cooked the books to hide the theft.”

“So what you’re saying is, I could have replaced the candy bar with one I bought at the grocery, and you wouldn’t have known the difference.”

This time Valentine couldn’t help himself and burst out laughing.

“What’s so funny?” she said.

“That’s something I would do,” he told her.

“Oh my, would you look at the time?” his neighbor said. “I’m off to the movies. Mustn’t let my one free day go to waste. Ta-ta.”

Valentine started to reply, but the phone had gone dead in his hand.

He retrieved the envelope he’d found in the foyer and opened it. Mabel probably hadn’t liked being strung along like that. He promised himself to make it up to her when he got home. The envelope contained a white sheet of stationery, with the faint scent of women’s perfume. He’d never liked things that were left anonymously. If the author wouldn’t look him in the face, why should he believe what was written on a piece of paper? His let his eyes scan the page.

WE MET THIS MORNING. I WOULD LIKE TO TALK TO YOU. MEET ME IN THE HIGH SCHOOL LIBRARY TOMORROW. FRONT DOOR OF SCHOOL WILL BE OPEN. WALK TO BACK, TAKE A LEFT, GO TO END OF LONG HALL. 9:00.

He found himself shaking his head. A clandestine meeting in the school library on a Sunday morning? It didn’t get any more spellbinding than that. He guessed the woman in the pickup had finally gathered the courage to talk to him. He smothered a tired yawn. The day had finally caught up with him.

The lumpy bed in the master bedroom felt surprisingly comfortable. He lay down in his clothes and stared at the ceiling. Sometime tonight he was going to wake up in a cold sweat. It had happened every time he’d shot someone. He would then lie awake and replay what had happened, just to reassure himself that he’d made the right decision. Sometimes, he’d drift back asleep. But most of the time, he’d do ceiling patrol.

As his eyes closed, he thought about Gerry. They hadn’t talked all day. He wondered how Gerry’s meeting with Tex Snyder had gone. He guessed Gerry hadn’t learned much. Otherwise, he was sure his son would have called.

He was still thinking about it as he drifted off to sleep.

22

Gerry’s insistence on not giving a statement until he had a lawyer did not sit well with the two highway patrolmen who appeared on the scene ten minutes later. The three dead men were locals; Gerry was a New Yorker recently transplanted to Florida. One of the patrolman wagged a finger menacingly in Gerry’s face.

“You better start talking, boy,” he declared.

“Not until I have a lawyer,” Gerry said.

So they cuffed his wrists and threw him in the back of their cruiser and eventually drove him to the Harrison County jail. On the way they passed several sprawling industrial plants and a refinery. The patrolmen continued to give him a hard time, and Gerry lowered his head and stared at the floor. His father had once told him that cops usually followed their first impressions. He obviously hadn’t made a good one here.

The jail was three stories of generic yellow brick topped by razor wire. Inside, the patrolmen turned Gerry over to a tobacco-chewing plainclothes detective in a three-walled cubicle. The detective asked questions—current address, date of birth, arrest record—while hawking gobs of spit into a trash can. Gerry felt his stomach turn over.

“So you’ve been arrested for selling drugs,” the detective said.

“Pot. When I was a kid. It was a little bag.”

“How little’s little?”

“A quarter ounce.”

“Where was this?”

“Atlantic City. It’s where I’m from.”

“How old were you?”

“Fifteen.”

“Fifteen-year-olds in Mississippi drive cars and get married,” the detective said.

Gerry got his drift. The detective told him to stand up. They walked down a corridor to where fingerprinting equipment was shoved into a corner. The detective unlocked Gerry’s handcuffs and did his prints, rolling each finger carefully on the inkpad and then on the form. Then he did them again in weird groupings; four fingers together, both thumbs, until Gerry’s fingers were so black he couldn’t see the nails. The detective gave him a paper towel and a plastic spray bottle and led him to the bathroom.

“Don’t be long,” he said.

“How long’s long?” Gerry asked him.

Gerry thought he saw the detective crack a smile. Next stop was the mug-shot room, which also served as the snack room. The detective bought a Butterfinger bar from the candy machine while Gerry got a front and side shot taken by a techie.

“I need you to e-mail those shots to me,” the detective said.

“I’m kind of backed up,” the techie said.

“This can’t wait. I need to send them to the NCIC.”

The techie shot Gerry a look. “Okay,” he said.

Gerry was back in the detective’s cubicle when he remembered what NCIC stood for. National Crime Information Center. The tobacco-spitting detective was going to send his prints and mug shot to a law enforcement database to see if Gerry was wanted for any other nefarious deeds. He glanced at the clock hanging from the wall: 3:00 A.M.

“How long is this going to take?” Gerry asked.

The detective was staring at his computer screen like a kid stares at a test with questions he’s never seen before. Without looking away, he said, “Depends if I can ever get this stuff to send. Once they get the information, who knows? They get pretty backed up on weekends.”

“Give me a hint.”

The detective’s head jerked away. “One more wiseass remark out of you, and I’ll toss you in the holding pen.”

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