can draw a holster from the gun locker.'
'Plainclothes,' Flynn breathed, in the way someone might have said, 'The Holy Grail.'
'I haven't practiced with a pancake or shoulder holster!'
A disapproving sound rumbled out of the back of the chief's throat. He stood up. 'Look. Maybe this is going too far too fast for you two-'
A clamor of noise from the front of the station cut him off. There was a flap-flap of footsteps, and a squeaky-pleased 'Hel-lo!' from Harlene, and then MacAuley was ushering in Reverend Clare, whose neat black clerical garb looked at odds with her flushed face and falling-down twist.
'The Reverend here arrived near the end of the press conference,' MacAuley said. 'Some of the reporters got a little overexcited.'
'Thank you so much, Lyle.' She laid a hand on MacAuley's arm. 'I wasn't expecting to be keelhauled by the Fourth Estate.'
MacAuley's eyes half closed, and he smiled a wide, wicked smile. 'Shucks, ma'am. 'Tain't nothing.'
'Don't you have a case to clear?' the chief snapped. 'What are you doing here?' he asked Reverend Clare. 'Is it the Christies?'
'The Christies? No. I, uh'-she glanced around, taking in Hadley, Flynn, and McCrea-'need to speak to you.'
The chief gestured impatiently.
'Privately.'
He exhaled. 'My office.' He motioned for her to go through the doorway ahead of him, perhaps not noticing Reverend Clare's narrowed eyes and set jaw. They stalked away through the dispatch room. This time, Harlene didn't say anything.
MacAuley pursed his lips. When they heard the chief's door slam shut, he asked, 'Did he have that stick up his ass before Reverend Fergusson got here?'
Hadley looked at Flynn to see if he was going to say anything. No way she was going to answer that one.
'Nope,' McCrea said.
'Interesting.'
Flynn shook his head, as if dismissing the chief, his moods, and the minister from his mind. 'I've got a change of clothing in my car. Do you have something here, or do we need to hit your house before we go?'
'Wait a minute,' Hadley said. 'I think he was about to tell us not to go.'
He looked at her like she'd grown a second head. 'That's why we have to move now. Do you wanna take your car? Or my Aztek?'
She thought about her less-than-half tank of gas. 'Your Aztek,' she said, then realized she was committing herself. 'Wait!'
'I'll get you a pancake holster. Trust me, it'll feel just as natural as the one you're wearing now.'
Oh, there was a great recommendation.
'Do you want me to drive you to your house or meet you over there?'
'Meet me,' she said without thinking. Flynn nodded and headed out the door. 'Wait!' she said.
A bellow from the chief's office stopped her short, but Flynn kept right on going. The baritone yell was followed by a loud and impassioned alto voice, which was drowned out by more deep and angry words, which were topped by an even more strident female response. Hadley couldn't make out what they were fighting about, but it sounded like a doozy.
'Interesting,' MacAuley repeated.
McCrea pushed back from his desk and gathered his notepad and phone book. 'I'm getting out of the kill zone,' he said.
MacAuley nodded. 'You might want to think about that as well,' he told Hadley.
She groaned and shouldered her tote. Looked like will-she, nil-she, she was going to be driving around the North Country acting as Kevin Flynn's translator. As she ducked down the stairs, the sound of her minister and her boss going at it hammer and tongs, she was already trying to come up with a civilian outfit as ugly and unflattering as her uniform. It wouldn't do to give Flynn any ideas.
IX
Kevin Flynn was having the best day of his life. He had the window rolled down and his arm hanging out, the late-May sun warming his skin, dry sweet air blowing through the Aztek. No heater like in March, no manure smell like in April, no blackflies like in-well, they were a plague all summer long, but they weren't getting in at forty-five miles an hour. He was in plainclothes, his polo shirt hanging loose over his Colt.44, managing-managing!-the investigation, deciding where they would go and who they would question next.
The best-looking woman in Millers Kill sat beside him, listening to his Promise Ring CD, and if she wasn't saying much, she also wasn't tearing his head off. When they had stopped for lunch, she had even let him buy her a sub, after he told her it'd be her turn next time.
She had on a T-shirt and those baggy shin-high pants only girls wear, with a vest to cover up her Glock 9mm, and she looked so damn cute it was all he could do to keep from grinning at her. It was a relief, he decided, getting smacked down by the chief. Embarrassing as hell at the time, but after he'd cooled down, the no-fraternization rule started to seem like a sturdy fence along an observation post at, say, Niagara Falls. Something that let him look all he wanted at the magnificent work of nature without getting swept away and killed.
For real, it didn't get any better than this.
'Flynn,' she said. She leaned forward and turned down the music. 'I don't think this is getting us anywhere.'
For a minute, he panicked. Was she talking about… could she be talking about… then he realized she meant the interviews.
'All we're getting is a bunch of negatives. 'No, I didn't see anything. No, I don't know anything. No, I don't recognize the man in the picture.' ' They'd been showing the best head shot they had of John Doe one-although even cleaned up and in tight focus he didn't look anything other than good and dead.
'That's what you hear in most interviews. Unless, you know, you're breaking up a fight or something. Where everybody in the crowd saw what happened.
'I get that, but what are we going to learn? I mean, what if the guy we want is working on one of these dairies? What's he going to do? Give it up to us?'
'Sometimes. Yeah.' Kevin glanced at her. She was worrying her birthstone ring. 'The chief or MacAuley gets a guy into the interrogation room, they ask him a few questions, and
She looked at him skeptically. 'We're not the chief and MacAuley.'
'Hey, everybody's got to start somewhere.' He pointed his elbow toward their folder. 'Who's next on the list?'
The three farms after that were repeats of the morning interviews. It was slow work, trailing after workers scattered between the barn and the field and the machine shed, assuring them and their employers that no, they weren't from ICE and no, they didn't have any interest in seeing visas or work permits or
