“Yes,” she said. “And this too I found funny. Very funny.”

“Ha-ha funny or strange funny?”

“You decide,” she said. She smoothed her lab coat. “I’m no ballistics expert, but I know a little something about bullet slugs. I pulled two slugs from Yeller. One from the rib cage, one from the head.”

“Yeah so?”

“The two slugs were of different calibers.” Amanda West put up her index finger. All traces of a smile were gone now. Her face was clear and determined. “Understand what I’m telling you, Mr. Bolitar. I’m not just saying two different guns here. I’m talking about different caliber. And here’s the funny part: all the officers on the Philadelphia force use the same caliber weapon.”

Myron felt a chill. “So one of the two bullets came from someone other than a cop.”

“And,” she continued, “all those secret service men were carrying guns.”

Silence.

“So,” she said, “ha-ha funny or strange funny?”

Myron looked at her. “You don’t hear me laughing.”

40

Myron decided to ignore Jake’s advice. Especially after listening to Amanda West.

Finding Officer Jimmy Blaine’s current address had not been easy. The man had retired two years ago. Still Esperanza found out he lived alone on some small lake in the Poconos. Myron drove through the wilderness for two hours until he pulled into what he hoped was the right driveway. He checked his watch. He still had plenty of time to see Jimmy Blaine and get back to the office in time for his meeting with Ned Tunwell.

The house was rustic and quaint, about what you’d expect to find nestled away in the Poconos. Gravel driveway. Dozens of small wooden animals guarded a front porch. The air was heavy and still. Everything—the weather vane, the American flag, the rocking chair, all the leaves and blades of grass—stood frighteningly motionless, as if inanimate objects had the ability to hold their breaths. As Myron climbed up the porch stairs, he noticed a modern-looking wheelchair ramp that also led to the front door. The ramp looked out of place here, like a doughnut in a health food store. There was no doorbell, so he knocked.

No one answered. Curious. Myron had called ten minutes ago, had heard a man answer, and hung up. Could be out back. Myron circled around the house. As he hit the backyard, the lake stared him in the face. It was a spectacular picture. The sun shone off the still—again, frighteningly motionless—water and made Myron squint. Placid. Tranquil. Myron felt the muscles in his shoulders start to unbunch.

Sitting in a wheelchair facing the lake was a man. A Saint Bernard lay by his feet. The dog too was frighteningly motionless. As Myron approached he saw that the man was whittling wood.

“Hi,” Myron called out.

The man barely raised his eyes. He wore a red T-shirt and a John Deere cap pulled down over a weathered face. His legs were covered with a blanket, even in this heat. There was a portable phone within reach. “Hi.” He went back to whittling. If he was surprised or upset to have company he was certainly taking it all in stride.

“Beautiful day,” Myron said. Mr. Engaging Neighbor.

“Yep.”

“Are you Jimmy Blaine?”

“Yep.”

Even without the wheelchair it was hard to picture this guy working the city bowels of Philadelphia for eighteen years. Then again, it was hard to picture the bowels of Philadelphia, period, when you were out here.

Silence. No birds or crickets or anything but the whittling.

After some time had passed, Myron asked, “Had much rain this year?” Myron Bolitar, Salt of the Earth. Mr. Farmer’s Almanac.

“Some.”

“This your dog?”

“Yep. Name is Fred.”

“Hi, Fred.” Myron scratched the dog behind the ears. The dog wagged its tail without moving any other part of its body. Then it farted loudly.

“Great place you have here,” Myron tried. Yep, just two good ol’ boys shooting the breeze. Eb and Mr. Haney on Green Acres. Myron half expected denim overalls to materialize on his body.

“Uh-huh.” Whittle, whittle.

“Listen, Mr. Blaine, my name is—”

“Myron Bolitar,” Blaine finished for him. “I know who you are. Been expecting you.”

He shouldn’t have been surprised. “Jake called you?”

Blaine nodded without looking up from his whittling. “He said you were stubborn. Said you wouldn’t listen to him.”

“I just want to ask you a few questions.”

“Nothing I care to say to you though.”

“I’m not here to hound you, Mr. Blaine.”

He nodded again. “Jake told me that too. Said you were okay. Said you liked to right wrongs, is all.”

“What else did he say?”

“That you don’t know how to mind your own business. That you’re a wiseass. And that you’re a major pain in the butt.”

“He left out snazzy dancer,” Myron said.

For the first time since he arrived Jimmy Blaine stopped whittling. “You trying to right the wrong done to Curtis Yeller?”

“I’m trying to find out who killed him.”

“Simple,” Blaine said. “Me.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

That stopped him for a brief moment. He gave Myron the once-over and then began whittling again.

“Could you tell me what happened that night?” Myron asked.

“The boy pulled a gun. I shot him. That’s it.”

“How far away were you when you shot him?”

He shrugged, whittled. “Thirty feet. Maybe forty.”

“How many shots did you fire?”

“Two.”

“And he just dropped?”

“Nope. He swung around the corner with the other one—that Swade kid, I guess. They disappeared.”

“You shot a man in the face and ribs and he kept running?”

“I didn’t say they kept running. The two of them were by a corner. They disappeared around it. Didn’t know it at the time, but the Yellers lived right there. They must have climbed in a window.”

“With a bullet in his skull?”

Jimmy Blaine shrugged again. “The Swade kid probably helped him,” he said.

“That’s not how it happened,” Myron said. “You didn’t kill him.”

Blaine eyed him and then went back to his whittling. “Second time you’ve said that,” he noted. “You want to explain what you mean?”