“Two bullets hit Yeller.”

“I just told you I shot twice.”

“But two different caliber slugs were pulled out of him. One of the shots—the one in the head—was from close range. Less than a foot away.”

Jimmy Blaine said nothing. He concentrated hard on his whittling. It looked like he was sculpting an animal of some sort, like the ones on the front porch. “Two different calibers, you say?” He aimed for nonchalance, but he wasn’t making it.

“Yes.”

“That kid I shot didn’t have a record,” Blaine continued. “You know what the odds are of that? In that part of the city?”

Myron nodded.

“I checked up on him,” Blaine continued. “On my own. His name was Curtis Yeller. He was sixteen years old. He did well in school. He was a good kid. He had a chance at a good life until that night.”

“You didn’t kill him,” Myron said.

Blaine whittled with a bit more intensity now. He blinked a lot. “How did you find out about those slugs?”

“The assistant M.E. told me,” Myron said. “You never knew?”

He shook his head. “I guess it makes sense though,” he said. “Blame me for it. Why not? It’s easier. It’s a legit shooting. No one questioned it. IAD barely broke a sweat. It didn’t hurt my record. Didn’t hurt anyone. No harm done, they figured.”

Myron waited for him to say more, but he just kept whittling. Two long ears were now evident in the wood. Maybe he was making a rabbit. “Do you know who really killed Curtis Yeller?” Myron asked.

There was a long moment of the same whittle-filled silence. Fred farted again and wagged his tail. Myron’s eyes kept going back to the lake. He stared out at the silver water. The effect was hypnotizing.

“No harm done,” Jimmy Blaine said again. “That’s what they all probably thought. Good ol’ Jimmy. We won’t let him take the rap. It’ll be washed clean from his record. No one will know. Hell, some of the guys will even treat him special—making a shooting like that. They’ll say he saved his partner’s life. Good ol’ Jimmy will come out of this looking like a hero. Except for one thing.”

Myron was tempted to ask what, but he sensed the answer was coming.

“I saw that boy dead,” Blaine continued. “I saw Curtis Yeller lying in his own blood. I saw his mother hold him in her arms and cry. Sixteen years old. If he was a street punk or a drug addict or …” He stopped. “But he wasn’t any of those things. Not this kid. He was one of the good ones. I found out later he never even touched the senator’s kid. The other one—the Swade punk—he did the stabbing.”

Two ducks splashed madly for a second, then stopped. Blaine put down the whittling, then thinking better of it, picked it back up again. “I replayed that night a lot of times in my head. It was dark, you know. There was barely any light. Maybe the Yeller kid wasn’t going to fire the gun. Maybe what I saw wasn’t even a gun. Or maybe none of that mattered. Maybe it was a legit shooting, but the pieces still never quite added up. I kept hearing the mother’s screams. I kept seeing her press her dead boy’s bloody face into her bosom. And I think about it, you know, and thinking ain’t always a good thing for a cop to do. And four years later, the next time a kid is pointing a gun at me, I think about seeing another crying mother. I think long and hard. Too long.”

He pointed to his legs. “And this is the result.” He changed tools and kept whittling. “Nope, no harm done.”

Silence.

Myron now understood Jake’s attitude on the phone. Jimmy Blaine had gone through enough. If he’d done wrong in the case of Curtis Yeller, he had already paid an enormous price. Problem was, Jimmy Blaine hadn’t done wrong. He hadn’t killed Curtis Yeller—legit shooting or not. In the end Jimmy Blaine was yet another victim of that night.

After some time had passed, Myron tried again. “Do you know who killed Curtis Yeller?”

“No, not really.”

“But you have a thought.”

“A thought maybe.”

“You mind telling me?”

Blaine looked down at Fred, as if looking for an answer. The dog maintained his bear-rug pose. “Henry and I—he was my partner—got the call at a little past midnight,” he began. “The two suspects had stolen a car from a driveway three blocks from the Old Oaks tennis club. A dark blue Cadillac Seville. We spotted a vehicle matching the description coming off the Roosevelt Expressway twenty minutes later. When we pulled up behind the stolen vehicle, the suspects sped off. We then engaged in a high-speed pursuit.”

His voice had changed. He was a cop again, reading from a notepad he had read too many times in the past. “Henry and I followed the vehicle down an alley not far from Hunting Park Avenue, off Broad. The chase then proceeded on foot. At the time we had no identification on the two youths and thus no address. We only had the car. The chase proceeded for several blocks. As we turned a corner, the driver drew a firearm. My partner told him to freeze and drop his weapon. Yeller responded by aiming the firearm at Henry. I then fired two shots. The youth fell or stumbled out of sight beyond the next corner. By the time Henry and I turned the same corner, there was no sign of either youth. We figured that they were hiding in the nearby vicinity and awaited backup before proceeding. We secured the area as best we could. But the cops didn’t get there first. The so-called secret service guys did.”

“Senator Cross’s men?”

Blaine nodded. “They called themselves ‘national security,’ but they were probably mob guys.”

“Senator Cross told me he had no mob connections,” Myron said.

Jimmy Blaine raised an eyebrow. “You serious?”

“Yes.”

“The mob owns Bradley Cross,” Blaine said. “More specifically, the Perretti family. Cross is a major gambler. I know he’s also been arrested twice with prostitutes. One of his early opponents—this is back when he was just a congressman—ended up in the river during the primaries.”

“And you traced it back to Cross?”

“Nothing anyone could prove. But we knew.”

Myron considered this for a moment. Clearly, the beloved senator had lied to him. Big surprise. He had played Myron for a sucker. Another big surprise. Win was right. Myron always went astray when he believed the best about people. “So what happened next?”