“You’re not going to tell me what I want to know, are you? About Mills?”

“Like you said… that’s for you and Jean.”

I saw in her face that she was done. She’d had the last word and was content. She settled back into her chair and picked up the piece of whittled wood, gestured to my truck with it. “Go on,” she told me. “I’ll tell Jean you stopped by.”

I walked away and didn’t look back until I was in the truck with the engine on. She didn’t know it, but she’d given me something. More than what she’d intended. I was in her way, she’d said. That meant that Jean still cared for me, one way or another, and that was better than nothing.

I called Pizza Hut as I drove away and was told that Jean was not working today. For the next hour, I drove around town, looking for her car. I checked the mall, the movie theaters, and doughnut shops. She was nowhere. Finally, in quiet desperation, I called her house again. No one answered.

At five o’clock, I left for Charlotte to meet Hank Robins. Traffic was unusually light on I-85, so I made good time. By six, I was ensconced in a deep leather booth at the back of the bar. The place was dimly lighted, and there was soft music that sounded vaguely Celtic. I found a half-empty pack of Gitanes cigarettes next to the glass ashtray and shook one out. I tore off a match, lit up, and dropped the pack onto the lacquered wood table as the waitress weaved through the room. She reminded me of Jean, something in the way she walked. The smile she offered was tired. I wanted a Manhattan, something strong, but I ordered a beer instead, a Beck’s.

For all intents and purposes, I had the place to myself, so I sipped my beer and blew smoke rings through the dim shaft of light that speared my table from above.

“Nice,” a voice said, and Hank Robins slid into the booth opposite me. He pointed at the ragged remains of the smoke ring. “Good form.”

“You’re late,” I told him.

“Sue me,” he said.

He took my hand and pumped it a couple of times, smiling through the smoke. “How are you, Work?” he asked, then went on without a pause. “I’m real sorry about all this. I know it’s got to suck.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“That bad?”

I shrugged.

“What’s a guy got to do to get a drink around here?” he asked, then raised his voice. “Waitress. Two more.”

Hank was an anachronism. He stood five eight, weighed about 140, yet was the most fearless man I’d ever met. I’d never seen it myself, but word was that he’d take on guys twice his size and come out on top. He had thick black hair, merry green eyes, and a chipped front tooth. Women loved him.

We’d worked a dozen cases together and I knew he was good. We got along, because neither one of us labored with illusion; we were realists, although he managed to do it without giving a damn. To him, the world would never make sense, so he just went with it. Nothing surprised him, yet he found humor everywhere he looked. I admired that about him. The world I saw was ragged.

Our waitress appeared with drinks and the same tired smile. She kept her eyes on Hank, so I studied her. Midforties, I guessed, with heavy features and bitten nails. “Thanks, doll face,” he said, and gave her his dazzling chipped-tooth smile. She looked embarrassed, but she swept away with a livelier step.

“Do you ever piss them off?” I asked.

“Only the smart ones.”

I shook my head.

“Hey,” he said. “Everybody likes a compliment. It’s a cheap way to make the world a better place.” He sipped his beer. “So what’s up with you? You look like shit.”

“Where’s my compliment?” I asked.

“That was your compliment.”

“Thanks.”

“Seriously, man. How are you?”

Suddenly, my eyes felt heavy. I couldn’t pull them up from the bottle they stared at so intently. There was no answer for his question. Because no one wanted to hear the truth of how I was.

“Hanging in there,” I finally said.

“I bet you’re tired of giving that answer,” he said, letting me know that I wasn’t putting one over on him. Then he smiled to show that he was okay with that. “If you change your mind…”

“Thanks, Hank. I appreciate that.”

“So,” he said. “Let’s talk business. I assume you want me to help figure out who killed your father.”

My surprise must have shown on my face. But of course that was what he’d think; I should have seen it coming. I had to be careful. Hank and I were colleagues and occasional drinking buddies, but I had no idea how far his loyalty would extend. He was clearly puzzled.

“I never liked him much,” I said. “The cops can handle that one.”

“Okay,” Hank said slowly, obviously at a loss but not wanting to push. He drummed his fingers twice on the table. “So…” He waited for me to fill in the blanks. So I did. Somewhat. It took a while. Then I told him what I wanted.

“Jesus,” he said. “I didn’t know you had such a high opinion of me.”

“Can you do it?” I asked.

“I wish I could say yes, but I can’t. You want to find out who tossed that chair down the stairs, and I don’t blame you. But I’m not a fingerprint technician and I don’t have access to AFIS or any other fingerprint database. What you need is a cop and a full crime-scene work-up. That’s out of my league.”

“The cops won’t go there,” I told him. “They don’t believe me, and I’m not sure I want to push it.”

“Then you’re screwed, man. I’m sorry.”

I shrugged. His answer didn’t really surprise me. But I wanted to know who was responsible. It had happened, and it had happened for a reason. Maybe it had something to do with Ezra’s death and maybe it didn’t; either way, it was important. “What about the safe?” I asked.

“For that, you need a locksmith or a criminal. I’m neither.”

“I thought that maybe…”

“What? That maybe I’d know someone?” I nodded. “As it turns out,” he said, “I do. But he’s in lockup. Ten to twelve. Why don’t you just use a locksmith?”

“Because I don’t know what’s in there, and I don’t want some stranger knowing, either. Not when the cops are so interested.”

“You hoping to find the gun?”

I nodded. If the gun was in the safe, then maybe Jean hadn’t killed him after all. And if she hadn’t… then I’d get rid of the evidence. Besides, who knew what other secrets Ezra had tucked away in that safe?

“I’m sorry, Work. I feel like I’m letting you down. All I can tell you is this: People are predictable. When they set combination locks, they usually use numbers that are important to them. You should think about that.”

“I already tried. Birthdays, Social Security numbers, phone numbers.”

Hank shook his head sadly, but the twinkle in his eyes was not unkind. “I said predictable, Work, not stupid. Think about your father. Figure out what was important to him. Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

“Maybe,” I echoed, unconvinced.

“Look, man. I’m sorry you wasted your time. I wish I could help.”

“Well, there is one other thing,” I told him. “It’s personal.”

“I can do personal.” He pulled on the beer, waiting.

“It has to do with Jean.”

“Your sister.”

“Right.” Then I told him what I wanted.

He took out a piece of paper and a pen. “Okay,” he said. “Tell me everything you know about this Alex Shiften.”

So I told him what I knew. It didn’t take long.

He tucked the paper away in his shirt pocket just as two women seated themselves at the bar. They were both in their midtwenties, both beautiful. They looked at us, and one of them waved minutely. Hank played it off, but I wasn’t fooled. “Did you set this up?” I asked, gesturing at the women.

His grin gave him away even before he spoke. “I thought you could use the cheering up.”

“Well thanks, but I’ve got enough women in my life right now. One more is the last thing I need.” I started out of the booth. He stopped me with a hand on my arm.

“This one doesn’t have to be in your life, Work. Just your pants. Trust me.”