“Who the hell else?”

“What can of worms are you talking about?”

“You know damn well. You’re off on some tangent, stirring up talk.”

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

“Not from Mrs. Fitzhugh’s perspective. She’s had enough wackos making claims about the child over the years.”

“Could you just tell me what you’ve heard and who you heard it from?”

“Cheney Phillips. He says he talked to some kid who thinks he saw Mary Claire’s body being buried. Phillips sends the guy to you and you get the cops all in a lather, thinking there’s been a break. Turns out it’s all bullshit and you’re responsible.”

“You want to hear my side of it?”

“No, I do not! How come I’m calling you when you’re the one who should be calling me? You should have told me about this on day one.”

“Why would I tell you?”

“Because it was my case,” he snapped. And then, grudgingly, “At least until the FBI stepped in.”

“How was I supposed to know?”

“Because everybody knew.”

“I was in high school. We didn’t meet until years later.”

“Didn’t Cheney mention my name when he sent the Sutton kid your way?”

“No. If I’d known you were involved, I’d have been on your doorstep, begging for information. I’ve been working out here on my lonesome and I could have used the help.”

“You didn’t know I was the lead detective?”

“Cheney never said a word. This is the first I’ve heard.”

“Are you blind? It’s right there in the files.”

“The files are sealed. And even if they weren’t, the police aren’t going to invite me down for a cozy chat about the case.”

“Well.”

“Yeah, well,” I said.

“Maybe I spoke in haste.”

“You certainly did. You owe me an apology.”

“Consider it done.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

I could hear him take a puff on his cigarette. “Okay, then. I’m sorry. Is that good enough?”

“Not quite, but I’ll give you the opportunity to atone.”

“How so?”

“Invite me over for a drink. You and Stacey and I can sit down and talk about old times while I pick your brain.”

A pause while he took another puff. “What have you come up with so far?”

“I’m not telling you without an invitation.”

Dead silence.

“Be here at three,” he said, and hung up.

23

Friday afternoon, April 15, 1988

Con Dolan’s house was on a narrow side street on the east side of town. It hadn’t occurred to me that he might have information to share. Cheney Phillips hadn’t mentioned him, and since Dolan was retired, I had no idea he had a hand in the case. I parked in front of a large brown clapboard bungalow with long horizontal lines, open porches, mullioned windows, and widely overhung eaves. Dolan came to the door, cigarette in hand, wearing bedroom slippers, baggy chinos, and a T-shirt under a flannel robe cinched at the waist like an overcoat. He motioned me into the house and I followed. I’d never had occasion to visit him at home, and I was making a secret study of the place.

“Sorry I went off on you,” he murmured.

“Think nothing of it. I didn’t,” I said, netting a smile.

Dolan’s housemate, Stacey Oliphant, sat in the living room with a small battery-operated fan that he directed at Dolan’s burning cigarette. This place couldn’t have been more different from Stacey’s rented apartment, which I’d visited when he was being treated for cancer. He’d been told he was dying and he was in the process of vacating the premises. I’d found him disposing of the bulk of his possessions and packing up the rest for delivery to the Salvation Army. I walked in on him shredding family photographs, which made me shriek. It seemed sacrilegious to destroy the images of his kinfolk and I’d begged him to give the pictures to me. I didn’t know most of my relatives anyway so his would serve. I adopted them as my own, the odd assortment of unknown faces from times gone by.

Once he’d rid himself of all the paraphernalia, his intention was to kill himself before the cancer put him in a position where he had no choice. Con Dolan was vigorously opposed to the plan, in part because his wife, Grace, had taken a similar route before the disease had a chance to mow her down. But Stacey had been given a reprieve, which took the subject off the agenda for the foreseeable future. In the meantime, he and Dolan ended up sharing a place, which suited them both, even with the occasional snit.