“Are you expecting him soon?”

She smiled as though the question were a double entendre. Then she gave him a look that flushed his cheeks. “No,” she said slowly. “He won’t be home for hours.”

Heavy accent on the word hours.

“Well then, I won’t bother you anymore.”

“It’s no bother.”

“I’ll come by another time,” he said.

Madelaine (he liked that name) nodded demurely. “I’ll look forward to it.”

“Nice meeting you.” With Myron, every line was a lady-slayer.

“Nice meeting you too,” she singsonged. “Good-bye, Myron.”

The door closed slowly, teasingly. He stood there for another moment, took a few deep breaths, and hurried back to his car. Whew.

He checked his watch. Time to meet Sheriff Jake.

Jake Courter was alone in the station, which looked like something out of Mayberry RFD. Except Jake was black. There were never any blacks in Mayberry. Or Green Acres. Or any of those places. No Jews, Latinos, Asians, ethnics of any kind. Would have been a nice touch. Maybe have a Greek diner or a guy named Abdul working for Sam Drucker at the grocery store.

Myron estimated Jake to be in his mid-fifties. He was in plainclothes, his jacket off, his tie loosened. A big gut spilled forward like something that belonged to someone else. Manila files were scattered across Jake’s desk, along with the remnants of what might be a sandwich and an apple core. Jake gave a tired shrug and wiped his nose with what looked like a dishrag.

“Got a call,” he said by way of introduction. “I’m supposed to help you out.”

“I’d appreciate it,” Myron said.

Jake leaned back and put his feet on the desk. “You played ball against my son. Gerard. Michigan State.”

“Sure,” Myron said, “I remember him. Tough kid. Monster on the boards. Defensive specialist.”

Jake nodded proudly. “That’s him. Couldn’t shoot worth a lick, but you always knew he was there.”

“An enforcer,” Myron added.

“Yep. He’s a cop now. In New York. Made detective second grade already. Good cop.”

“Like his old man.”

Jake smiled. “Yeah.”

“Give him my regards,” Myron said. “Better yet, give him an elbow to the rib cage. I still owe him a few.”

Jake threw back his head and laughed. “That’s Gerard. Finesse was never his forte.” He blew his nose into the dishrag. “But I’m sure you didn’t come all this way to talk basketball.”

“No, I guess not.”

“So why don’t you tell me what this is all about, Myron?”

“The Kathy Culver case,” he said. “I’m looking into it. Very surreptitiously.”

“Surreptitiously,” Jake repeated with a raised eyebrow. “Awfully big word, Myron.”

“I’ve been listening to self-improvement tapes in the car.”

“That right?” Jake blew his nose again. Sounded like a ewe’s mating call. “So what’s your interest in this—aside from the fact that you represent Christian Steele and you used to have a thing for Kathy’s sister.”

Myron said, “You’re thorough.”

He took a bite out of the half-eaten sandwich on his desk, smiled. “Man does love to be flattered.”

“It’s like you said. Christian Steele. He’s a client. I’m trying to help him out.”

Jake studied him, waiting again. It was an old trick. Stay silent long enough, and the witness would start talking again, elaborating. Myron did not bite.

After a full minute had passed Jake said, “So let me get this straight. Christian Steele signs on with you. One day you start chatting. He says, ‘You know, Myron, the way you been licking my lily-white ass and all, I’d like you to go play Dick Fuckin’ Tracy and find my old squeeze who’s been missing for the last year and a half and the cops and feds can’t find.’ That how it went, Myron?”

“Christian doesn’t curse,” Myron said.

“Okay, fine, you want to skip the dance? Let’s skip it. You want me to give, you have to give back.”

“That’s fair enough,” Myron said. “But I can’t. Not yet, anyhow.”

“Why not?”

“It could hurt a lot of people,” Myron said. “And it’s probably nothing.”

He made a face. “What do you mean, hurt?”

“I can’t elaborate.”

“Fuck you can’t.”

“I’m telling you, Jake. I can’t say anything.”

Jake studied him again. “Let me tell you something, Bolitar. I’m no glory hound. I’m like my son was on the court. Not flashy but a workhorse. I don’t look for clippings so I can climb up the ladder. I’m fifty-three years old. My ladder don’t go no higher. Now this may seem a bit old-fashioned to you, but I believe in justice. I like to see truth prevail. I’ve lived with Kathy Culver’s disappearance for eighteen months. I know her inside and out. And I have no idea what happened that night.”

“What do you think happened?” Myron asked.

Jake picked up a pencil and tapped it on the desk. “Best guess based on the evidence?”

Myron nodded.

“She’s a runaway.”

Myron was surprised. “What makes you say that?”

A slow smile spread across Jake’s face. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.”

“P.T. said you would help.”

Jake shrugged and took another bite from yet another sandwich scrap. “What about Kathy’s sister? I understand you two were pretty heavy.”

“We’re friends now.”

Jake gave a low whistle. “I’ve seen her on TV,” he said. “Hard to be friends with a woman who looks like that.”

“You’re a real nineties guy, Jake.”

“Yeah, well, I forgot to renew my subscription to Cosmo.”

They stared at each other for a while. Jake settled back in his chair and examined his fingernails. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything,” Myron said. “From the beginning.”

Jake folded his arms across his chest. He took a deep breath and let it loose slowly. “Campus security got a call from Kathy Culver’s roommate, Nancy Serat. Kathy and Nancy lived in the Psi Omega sorority house. Nice house. All pretty white girls with blond hair and white teeth. Kind that all look alike and sound alike. You get the picture.”