Irv slides into the house gingerly and smiles at Melinda, who does not smile. She slams the door closed behind him with a flick of her wrist and a blink.
“So that all went swimmingly,” Irv says to her, checking his watch and rubbing his face.
“Why did you come back here?” Melinda manages to say as her robe falls open to reveal an extra-large Go-Gos concert shirt underneath. “You couldn’t get a motel?”
“You kidding? It’s creepy out there.”
“Of course.”
Irv pats her on the shoulder and tells her to come to the office at ten rather than eight and bring Sigrid with her. Though Melinda’s eyes are almost completely closed, she still manages to squint out a message of confusion.
“She won’t pull an O.J. on us,” Irv says. “I converted her. She’s on our side now.”
“How did that happen?”
“I agreed with everything she said.”
“And that worked?”
“Isn’t that how you win over any woman?”
“Are you planning to stay too, boss?”
“Me? Hell no, I’ve got a home. I’ll see you both tomorrow.”
Irv caught four hours of rack time figuring that—as sheriff—he could stretch out his boots after lunch and take a nice power nap like his Western forebears who had the same jobs. When he arrives at the office, Cory is already there and the evidence of yesterday’s birthday party has been erased by the overnight cleaning crew. Everything is back to normal except for a bright light on Irv’s telephone answering machine that blinks away like a warning.
Ignoring it for now, as he does most warnings, Irv plops down at his desk, powers up the desktop computer, and ventures forth into the unknown by pressing that flashing light and activating the recording that turns out to be a request for a call back by the New York State Sheriffs Association: they want a rundown on the state of affairs in the county and they’ve asked whether Irv might be good enough to ring them back.
Technically speaking, which is how he typically chose to think about it, Irv didn’t have a boss or a line manager. As an elected official the buck stopped with him, and while he did have to account for his actions to the county commissioner—and occasionally speak with the Sheriffs Association and their chums—he didn’t actually have to punch any clocks or kiss any real ass; if the voters didn’t like him, they could express that disapproval during the cyclical bloodless political revolution America called voting. They don’t get to do that, however, for another two years, which is precisely why democracy is not very effective.
But Irv isn’t a dummy. He knows that unless he is on proper terms with the powers that be, his own powers would be nullified because no one will return his calls. The whole checks and balances thing plays out in lots of complex ways, but in the end it all boils down to calling people back. Which is also what makes democracy ironic: It’s only because it’s ineffective by design that it’s accountable at all.
The person at the center of the cobweb, as best as Irv can reason it out, is Howard Howard—who understandably goes only by Howard. He is the right-hand man of the commissioner, and whatever Howard says into the commissioner’s ear comes out his mouth. It’s a neat trick, actually.
Howard is as tall as a tree and has feet like flippers. He should have been a backstroker in high school but missed his calling. His voice is a Barry White baritone that regularly bottoms out Irv’s telephone speakers. Cory’s dog, Muppet, hurries to Irv’s office door whenever Howard calls: mouth agape, ears up, eyebrows in the awe position. Irv suspects that Muppet would chew off his own paw if Howard were to command it.
Irv calls Howard back on the office phone. The sound through copper wires, he notes, is always warmer than the digital buzz through the cell.
“Howard Howard Howard.”
“Just Howard.”
“How’re ya doin’, Howard?”
“Sheriff Wylie.”
“When are you going to sing ‘What a Fool Believes’ for me? Huh? People say Barry White, but I think more Michael McDonald.”
“I only sing in the shower.”
“You could have had two, three ex-wives by now if you’d ’a let your freak flag fly.”
“What’s new, Irving?”
“The usual, Howard.”
“No, I mean it. What’s new?”
“Oh. That missing Norwegian? His sister showed up. All the way from Norway.”
“That’s quite a coincidence.”
“Not really. He dropped off their radar too, so she came looking for him. Same as us, mostly. The fun part is that she’s a cop. Maybe a good one. She’s cooperating. Or she’s playing me for a fool. It’s definitely one of those.”
“What’s your plan?”
“It’s her plan. She thinks he might come looking for her if he learns she’s in town looking for him.”
“Unless he hides deeper.”
“Maybe. But I’m not going to find him with either manpower or technical know-how. I’m not exactly running the NSA over here,” says Irv, glancing at Cory, who is right now trying to open a tape dispenser with the business end of a mail opener, which Irv figures is only going to end in tears. “I’m feeling optimistic about it. For this plan to work out though, Howard, I’m going to need some time.”
“What kind of time?”
“The time it takes to get it done. I need you to open that space for me, Howard. I don’t want people getting nervous. People usually mistake thinking for doing nothing because they can’t see anything. Especially politicians and the media. Which is why we’re all doomed, but no one asked me.”
“So you already know what the answer is.”
“I do.”
“And you know why.”
“I do.”
“Lydia Jones was black.”
“She was.”
“She was a black woman. And now she’s dead.”
“She is.”
“Not just any black woman. A professor. An intellectual. A community leader.”
“By all accounts she was sort
