“You’re saying it was her fault she was murdered?”

Taft made a face. “You’re twisting my words.”

“How ’bout a straight question, then? I couldn’t find anything in her desk drawers. Did you go through them, sir?”

Taft tightened his fists. “What are you getting at?”

Schultz said, “You were accused of harassment by this woman. According to her coworkers, Ophelia documented many of the charges. Know what I think? I think you took some pertinent material out of her desk but left behind other things to make it look like you didn’t take out pertinent material.”

“Get out of here!”

“You want to add a murder charge in addition to your other pile of woes, be my guest.”

“Murder charge…” Taft turned pale. “I didn’t kill her!”

“But you did mess around with her desk.”

The boss turned quiet.

Schultz said, “Show me what you removed. Might give me a clue as to who did this.”

Slowly, the boss rose, went over to a locked cabinet. He took out a key, opened the drawer, and removed a file. “Here.” He gave the papers to Schultz.

Materials documenting harassment. Schultz started to page through them.

Taft said, “I have a meeting to attend. I’ll be back in around a half hour.”

Schultz nodded. A half hour should give him time to look things over.

All packed up by the time Taft came back. Nothing so lucky as to give them Justice Flatt on a silver platter. But Schultz did find an unsigned fax from Jordon, Missouri, a rustic small burg around a hundred miles south of Kenton. A picturesque place used by campers and tourists in the summer. The letter was graphic, hence the lack of signature. Schultz showed it to Taft. “Do you know who wrote this to Ophelia?”

The boss read it, turned red and indignant. “No, I do not!”

“Then why’d you pull it from the file?”

Taft seemed to stumble. “Because… she accused me of harassing her. For all I know, she was planning to use this letter against me. A letter I didn’t even write! Look, Sheriff, I don’t owe you anything. I sure don’t owe her anything. So will you kindly leave?”

“One more thing.” Schultz took out the coat, gave it to Taft. “This look familiar at all?”

“This coat? It’s a woman’s coat.”

“Yes, it is. Have you ever seen it before?”

“I couldn’t absolutely swear to that. But it looks unfamiliar to me.”

“Check it out carefully… you know, go through the pockets.”

Taft made a few perfunctory gestures, handed it back to Schultz. “What? Is it Ophelia’s coat?”

“Yes.”

Taft shrugged. “Anything else?”

Schultz shook his head.

Dry-eyed, Wells identified the body. “It’s her.” He turned away. “When are you going to release the body?”

“She’s a murder victim, Mr. Wells. An autopsy has to be done.”

“What’s the point?”

“The point is, it’ll give us information as to who might have killed her.”

“But she’s still dead.” Wells heaved his big shoulders.

Schultz looked at him. “Don’t you want to know who killed her? Don’t you want to see him punished?”

“Justice system’s a sham,” Wells said. “Justice… Justice… both of them are bastards.”

Schultz said, “You’ll have to fill out some paperwork to get the whole ball rolling. Want to start on it now?”

Wells shrugged. “Why not?”

Showing no anxiety. Either Wells was a psycho, or he was numb. Schultz said, “So you don’t know anything about this Justice Flatt?”

“I told you, no.”

“Well, what did Ophelia say ’bout him when she wrote you that note?”

“She wrote mostly about us… about how our passion had died, how our marriage was a shell. That it wasn’t good for either of us to go on. Then she said she’d found someone who was impetuous and passionate… spontaneous. That she needed to be with him…” Wells broke into tears. “Oh God, poor Ophelia. Poor, poor Ophelia.”

And he cried with what looked like true grief.

Schultz poured him a cup of coffee, then left him drowning in sorrow and official paperwork. Told him if he had any questions, to ask Cale.

Straight on to Jordon, the Ford passing miles of skeletal forest poking through carpets of compost and detritus. A leaden sky held storm clouds, and the air, though clean, looked dirty. Whipping down the highway, Schultz made it in less than an hour. He managed to get there before the official building closed.

He went through the property tax files, which listed the names of the owners of residences.

No Justice C. Flatt.

A dead end.

Hitting your head against a wall.

A solid, hard, flat wall. As in a solid, hard, Flatt wall.

Justice C. Flatt.

As Wells had stated, Justice Flatt was a weird name. Probably made up by some psycho.

Flatt.

Conjuring up images of being one-dimensional… robotic… emotionless.

Ironic because Ophelia had left her husband for someone she had deemed passionate, impetuous, spontaneous.

Or was something amiss?

Had Brian Wells found out about his wife’s dalliances on the Net? Was he trying to woo her back, using this Flatt character? Or could he have been trying to get even with Ophelia for straying over the wires?

Was Flatt a deliberate play on words?

A husband’s final declaration?

You want passion, baby, I’ll give you passion. Passion from the man you labeled passionless.

Still, Schultz didn’t figure Wells as a killer. The deputy had gone through all the pockets of Ophelia’s coat, including the small inside slit. The slit where he had found the credit-card receipt. It wouldn’t have made sense for Wells to leave that.

Unless he wanted to be discovered.

Flatt.

Justice C. Flatt.

C. Justice Flatt.

C. J. Flatt.

Now, why did that name look familiar?

And then Schultz remembered.

C. L. Taft. Or better yet-C. LTaft. A little anagramming with LTaft, and guess what name popped up?

Quickly, Schultz looked up all the Tafts in Jordon. No permanent resident by that name. Next he called a local Realtor. A brief introduction along with an explanation of the situation.

“Has anyone using the name of Justice C. Flatt or Charles Lawrence Taft rented a house here in Jordon?”

The Realtor informed him of a C. L. Taft. Could that be the man Schultz was looking for?

Yes, that very well could be the man.

Walking out of Fred’s Café, Schultz held a Styrofoam cup of coffee in his gloved hands. The day was fiercely cold but less cloudy, the sky thin strips of gauze rather than sheets of anodized gun-metal. Cale was bundled up in a parka. Joe wore a leather jacket and earmuffs. He looked like Barney Fife.

To the boys, Schultz said, “After Ophelia rejected Charles Lawrence Taft, the boss got an idea. If he couldn’t get her as Taft, maybe he could get her using an alias. He knew Ophelia was a chat-room fan. Figured he could woo her online if not in person. Hence the name Justice. Because this relationship was the just one.”

“Or so he thought,” Joe said, pointing a finger in the air.

“The man didn’t have a clue,” Schultz answered. “He thought he could waltz into Ophelia’s life as this Justice character and everyone would live happily ever after. He had meant to surprise her. Just show up and say, ‘Guess who lover boy really is?’ But then Ophelia dumped this harassment thing on him. Taft was completely freaked. He had no idea how much Ophelia hated him as C. L. Taft.”

Cale said, “So he had to kill her?”

“He hadn’t started out with the idea of killing her, no,” Schultz replied. “He showed up at their designated meeting spot. When Ophelia saw Taft, she freaked. Spat in his face and told him she never wanted to see him. He asked her to hear him out. She said no. They went back and forth until a physical struggle ensued. He pushed her. She hit her head on something sharp. Taft panicked, dumped her, and left.”