"I'll know a lot more when I find out where he was on May twenty-first," I said.

"Why would he lie? Especially when it's so easy to check? From what you've said, if he was actually in jail, all you have to do is go back and look at his paperwork."

"But why would David Barney lie about it when the same possibility applies? Apparently, nobody's thought to verify the date so far-"

"Unless Morley Shine checked it out before he died." Henry imitated the "significant moment" music on a radio drama: "Duh-duh-duh."

I smiled, mouth too full of sandwich to articulate a reply. "Oh, great. That's all I need," I said when I could. "I do my job right and I die, too." I wiped my mouth on a paper napkin and took a sip of Pepsi.

Henry gestured dismissively. "Barney's probably generating some kind of smoke screen."

"I hope that's what it is. If some of this shit checks out, I don't know what I'm going to do."

Famous last words. Before I left, I put in a call to Lieutenant Becker to see if he'd heard from Inmate Records.

"I just got off the phone with them. The guy was right. Curtis McIntyre was being arraigned that day on a burglary charge. He might have passed Barney in the hall on his way to see the magistrate, but he'd have been shackled to the other prisoners. There's no way they could have talked."

"I better find out what's going on here," I said.

"You better do it quick. McIntyre got out of jail this morning at six."

I headed back to the office and called Sergeant Hixon, a friend of mine out at the jail. She checked Curtis McIntyre's records and gave me the address he'd provided his last parole officer. Curtis seemed to spend a portion of each year taking advantage of the rent-free accommodations provided by the Santa Teresa County Sheriff's Department, which he probably considered the equivalent of a Hawaiian condominium vacation time-share. When he wasn't enjoying the free meals and volleyball at the local correctional facility, he apparently occupied a room at the Thrifty Motel ("Daily, Weekly, Monthly… Kitchens") on upper State Street.

I parked my VW across the road from this establishment, which quick calculation told me was within walking distance of the jail. Curtis didn't even have to spring for a taxi on release. I imagined that his was that one room without a ratty car parked out front. The occupants of the other units boasted Chevies and ten-year-old Cadillacs, vehicles favored by auto insurance defrauders, which is what they might have been. Curtis hadn't been out of jail long enough to engage in any illegal activities. Well, maybe littering, lewd conduct, and public spitting, but nothing major.

The Thrifty Motel looked like the sort of "auto court" where Bonnie and Clyde might have holed up. It was L-shaped, built of cinder block, and painted the strange green that yolks turn when they've been hard-boiled too long. There were twelve rooms altogether, each with a tiny porch a little bigger than a doormat. Someone had planted marigolds in matching coffee cans arranged in twos and threes by the front steps. The office at the entrance was dominated by a Coke machine and the front window was obscured by mock-ups of all the credit cards they took.

I was just about to cross the road and verify his presence when I spotted him emerging from the very room I'd mentally assigned him. He looked rested and freshly shaved, wearing jeans, a white T-shirt, and a denim jacket. He was in the process of running a pocket comb through his hair, which was damp from the shower and formed a curly fringe around his ears. He was simultaneously smoking and chewing gum, a refreshingly aromatic combination for the breath. I fired up the VW and followed at a distance.

I kept him in sight as he headed west, passing numerous small businesses: a pizza parlor, a gas station, a U-Haul rental, a home improvement "emporium," and a garden shop. Beyond these, where the road curved around to the left, was a combination bar and grill called the Wander Inn. The door was standing open. Curtis flipped his cigarette toward the pavement and disappeared through the front. I pulled into the gravel parking lot around at the back and left my car in one of ten empty slots. I entered the rear door, passing the rest rooms and the kitchen, where I could see the fry cook shaking the oil from a wire basket piled with golden fries.

The interior of the bar was all polyurethane and beer smell, illuminated by a wide shaft of daylight coming in the front. Already, the cigarette haze gave the room the misty quality of an old photograph. The only colors I could see were the vibrant primary hues of the pinball machine, where a cartoon spacewoman with big conical breasts straddled the earth in a formfitting blue space suit and thigh-high yellow boots. Behind her, a big red dildo-shaped spaceship was just blasting off for the moon.

At the bar, six men turned to look at me, but Curtis wasn't one. I spotted him in a booth, a beer bottle to his lips, Adam's apple thrusting up and down like a piston. He set the empty bottle on the table and paused to produce several noisy burps in succession, like a furious sea lion barking at his mate.

A waitress in a white blouse, black slacks, and crepe-soled deck shoes emerged from the kitchen with a tray of hot food, which she took to his booth. I waited until he'd been served a cheeseburger and a mound of fries, all of which he doctored with liberal doses of salt and ketchup. He piled lettuce, tomato, pickle, and onion on the burger, put the top of the bun back, and mashed it into place. He had to hold it with both hands in order to bite in. I approached the booth and slid into the seat across from him. He expressed as much enthusiasm as he could muster with his mouth full and his lips smeared with ketchup. "Hey, how are you? This is great! Glad to see you. I don't believe this. How'd you know I'd be here?" He swallowed his cheekful of burger and wiped the bottom half of his face with a paper napkin. I handed him a second napkin from the dispenser and watched him as he cleaned up his fingers, after which he insisted on shaking hands with me. I didn't see a polite way to refuse, though I knew my palm would smell like onions for an hour afterward.

I folded my arms, leaning on my elbows, to discourage any further contact. "Curtis, we have to talk."

"I got time. You want a beer? Come on and let me buy you one."

Without waiting for assent, he signaled the bartender by holding up his beer bottle and two fingers. "You want some lunch, too? Have some lunch," he said.

"I just ate."

"Well, have some fries. Help yourself. How'd you know I was out? Last time you seen me I'se in jail. You look great."

"Thanks. So do you. That was yesterday," I pointed out.

Curtis popped up and crossed to the bar to get the beers. While he was gone, I ate a couple of his french fries. They were wedge cut, with the skins on, and perfectly cooked. He returned to the booth with the beers and I saw him make a move as if to slide in on my side.

"No way," I said. He was acting like I was his date and I could see the guys at the bar begin to eye us with speculation.

I refused to give him room and he was forced to sit down again where he'd been. He handed me a beer and grinned at me happily. Curtis seemed to think that along with all the beer, cigarettes, and saturated fats, he might just get lucky and get laid this afternoon. He put his chin in his fist and tried his soulful, puppy-dog gaze on me. "You're not gonna be mean to me, now, are you, hon?"

"Finish your lunch, Curtis, and don't give me any more of that hangdog look. It just makes me want to hit you with a rolled-up newspaper."

"Damn, you're cute," he said. Love had apparently diminished his appetite. He pushed aside his plate and lit a cigarette, offering me a drag, like we were postcoital.