Warpath

“I see.”

I light a new smoke. “A guy rolls into your house, commits at least four felonies that I can pick out from your statement right now. The PD gets nowhere. More than twenty years go by and you want to meet. You very deliberately want it to be dusk because dawn and dusk are the two hardest light conditions to see under. Ask any driver staring into a low-lying su

n who gets into a wreck. You rent a car, you wear sunglasses, a hat, a high collar and I see you’ve grown a goatee. Your ads on the bus benches and your TV commercials have you clean-shaven. You passed by three times before you parked down the street. Bottom line: you don’t want witnesses.”

“I’m careful,” he says. “I lead a public life. All I need is someone seeing me speaking with a private detective and they’ll think I am digging around against one of my competitors. I have seven-figure deals on the table right now, Mr. Buckner. I—”

“I don’t care,” I say. “Like you give a shit about your competitors.” I know for a fact that Howard Michigan has done just that kind of work for Petticoat here. His veil is thinning as we speak.

“You drop money in my lap to ‘listen’ and then you show off a bunch more. You’re very deliberate in the sums you offer, and after what you’ve shown me inside your jacket, there’s still some wads that have not been accounted for. I’m assuming I get to empty your pockets if I show up with a man who...took some time dying.”

“You said you’re not an assassin.”

“I did. But I’m sure you’re thinking to yourself it won’t hurt to ask.”

“I brought the money to negotiate with. That’s all. You don’t advertise your fees.”

“Oh. Boy Scout. I see.”

“Business.”

“You’ll pay on delivery.”

“Yes.”

“So what’s to stop me from just looking up a known rapist, beating him into a coma and dropping him on your front door? Will you take anybody? Is your thirst for revenge that blind?”

“You’re reputation bars against that, Mr. Buckner. I have full faith you’ll solve this—”

“So tell me, Mr. Petticoat, I have just one question.”

“Is it, where do I sign?”

“No. How do you expect me to get anywhere further than Gillispie did back when the crime was still hot? Why even bother now?”

He rubs his face. His hands shake. “Mr. Buckner, that’s two questions.”

“Don’t correct me.”

“I’m sorry. I’m just so...so damn tired. Like I said I’m having an operation next week—”

“Like I said—” Bored with this game now. “—cut the shit.”

He huffs long and exhausted. His eyes dart about. I note his pupils, even in this dim light, are pinpoints. A tell.

“You’ll succeed where the police failed because I...I have information I—” He looks down and balls a fist. Holds it to his mouth. He mumbles something like forgive me Sheila as his eyes quake with guilt.

Very small, as if the utterance of these words is enough to tear silk: “I have information I did not give them.”

The room is still. Even the ghosts I have made throughout my life who cling to me now stop their haunting and lean in closer.

“What information?” I ask.

“The rapist’s girlfriend. I know who she is.”

2

“You held back that kind of information?”