It was odd to see how the pieces realigned. When Dolan had first given me my copy of the murder book, I’d read these same reports, many of them more than once. The entry about the missing girl had been only one of a number of items that had meant nothing outside the current context. The name itself didn’t seem significant until Stacey remembered it. It was the same with Frankie Miracle’s place of employment. In early readings, the note had seemed incidental. Now the information fairly leapt off the page.

Three things struck me: First, in filing the missing-persons report, Medora hadn’t been quite as prompt as she’d led me to believe. She’d implied she’d gone straight to the police, when she’d actually waited more than a week. I’d have to go back and ask her about the delay. Secondly, Charisse’s July 27 departure from Quorum would place her in easy range of Frankie Miracle’s road trip after the murder of Cathy Lee Pearse on July 29. I still couldn’t figure out how the Mustang ended up in Lompoc, unless Charisse had stolen it herself. Despite Medora’s claim that she had no license, she might have known how to drive. If so, she might have gone as far as Lompoc, abandoned the vehicle, and tried hitching a ride from there. And finally, I wondered who’d made the call pretending to be Charisse’s mother. If Frankie’d had anything to do with Charisse’s murder, Iona could have made the call to cover for him. By August 11, when that call came in, Charisse’s body had been discovered and attempts were under way to determine who she was. What better way to eliminate the link than to claim the missing girl was home? As nearly as I could tell, that call had effectively removed Charisse’s name from the loop.

I put the murder book and my index cards in the desk drawer and pulled out my trusty pint-sized phone book, which covered Quorum, Blythe, Mesa Verde, Hazelwood Springs, Palo Verde, Ripley, Creosote, and eight towns in Arizona. I flipped to the yellow pages and found the listing for paint contractors. There were only four in the area—two in Blythe, one in Palo Verde, and one in Hazelwood Springs. According to his boxed ad, Lennie Root of R&R Painting was a residential painting specialist who also did condominiums, apartments, and commercial accounts. He was insured, bonded, and state licensed, promising reasonable rates, prompt work, and free estimates. There was a phone number, but no street address, which probably meant he operated on an answering machine from his home. I checked the white pages under “Root” and, sure enough, there he was. I was becoming quite fond of these small towns for the ease of access to its citizens. Big-city paranoia with its unlisted phone numbers only made my job tougher. I had ways of acquiring the information, but not as readily as this. I picked up my bomber jacket and got in the car.

When I got to the Burger King it was 12:15 and Stacey’s rental car was already parked in the side lot. I went in, scanning the crowd until I spotted him at a table on the far side of the room. Even here, there were Easter decorations—big posterboard eggs and posterboard Easter bunnies. Stacey waved when he saw me.

I slid in across from him, saying, “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Who said anything about waiting? I already had a Whopper and an order of fries.”

“Well, good for you. I hope you don’t mind sitting while I grab a bite myself.”

“Oh, I’ll be eating again. The Whopper was good, but it didn’t fill me up. I’ve been thinking we should do a study— purely scientific—a side-by-side tasting, a Whopper and a Big Mac, to see which we prefer. Or go vertical—McDonald’s hamburger, cheeseburger, a QP with cheese, and a Big Mac. What do you think?”

“You sit. I’ll go. You want a Coke with that Whopper?”

“I’d prefer a chocolate shake.”

Over lunch (my first, his second), I brought Stacey up to date on my visit to the canvas shop and my review of the murder book with its reference to Lennie Root. “How was your interview with George Baum?”

“What a pain,” he said. “He’s the consummate salesman— all capped teeth and phony charm. He tried talking me into a BMW, but I nixed that idea. Point is, when I asked him about Charisse, he sidestepped the whole subject. He thought he was being slick; like I never heard a guy equivocate. I’m guessing he diddled her, but now that he knows she was murdered, he’d like to distance himself. He nearly shit when I told him where I got his name. He’s maneuvering like crazy, doing anything he can to get me off his back, so he gives me some information I think you’ll find interesting. He tells me Charisse and Cornell’s sister were thick as thieves.”