“Your brother?”

“Yes, my twin brother. He lives in Des Moines. Lovely town. Have you been?”

“No.”

“You mustn’t miss the cow made of butter at the state fair. My brother recently was given a new cell phone, and I’ve been trying to reach him but have gotten no answer.”

“Did he give you the number?”

“Yes, or my aunt did. Someone. I must say, I didn’t recognize the area code. Do you suppose there was a mix-up of sorts?”

“I’m sure that’s it. Could you tell me your aunt’s name?”

“My aunt?”

“Just for our information.”

“Gloria,” he said. “Gloria Spangler.”

“Do you have a phone number for her?”

“Not offhand, but I could get it for you, I suppose.”

“Thank you.”

Spangler stared at her for just a moment, as if waiting for her to say it was not necessary. She stared back flatly at him until he finally stood and walked to a little table by the television console. He flipped the pages of an address book and read out a number for Ramirez.

“Is my brother in trouble?” he said, still standing by the television.

“No, Mr. Spangler. I’m sure it is just a mix-up. But why were you calling so frequently? Over and over?”

“He’s been sick lately, and I’ve been quite worried.”

“Nothing serious, I hope.”

“But it is, I’m afraid. Quite fatal. And as a twin, I can sense his emotions and well-being. Those things you’ve heard about us? All true. And more. What I sensed was a shift taking place. So you can see the reason for my distress. But if the number is wrong, then I am quite relieved. That explains why he wasn’t answering.”

“I’m sure that’s it. I notice some blisters on your hands and face. Were you in a fire recently?”

“Fire?” He stared at his hands, turning them over as if they were fascinating artifacts that he had never in his life seen before. “No, these are not burns, Detective. The condition of my hands comes from a disease I have. Chronic psoriasis. Heartbreaking, actually.”

“So they say. Are you going on a trip?”

“Why would I . . .” He stopped, swiveled his head toward the direction of the bedroom. “Ahh, so you’ve seen my bag. You are a detective, aren’t you?”

“It’s part of the job to be observant.”

“And someone’s been training you well. I’ll have to write my councilman about the improvements in the force. Yes, I am going away, actually.” He took a watch fob out of his cardigan, gave it a quick look. “In fact, I need to be going. Off to Des Moines to visit my brother.”

“Flying?”

“No. I can’t afford such luxuries. And being in an airless tube hurtling through the heavens makes me nervous. I’m a bit of a scaredycat, I’m afraid. So I’m driving.”

“Long drive.”

“Not as long as if he lived in Omaha.”

“I suppose not,” she said, forcing out an appreciative laugh. There was something very strange going on here. She’d like to look in that bag, she’d like to look in that sink or see what the movie was in the projector. But he had the right to refuse to allow a search, and if she pushed, he might sense her suspicions. It was better not to kick this sleeping dog while she tried to figure out what the hell was going on.

“Thank you, Mr. Spangler,” she said, standing. “I so appreciate your help.”

“It is no problem,” he said, standing himself. “Especially being interrogated by someone as pretty as you.” He dipped his chin, gave a strange, devilish grin, smoothed a fake eyebrow with the flat of his finger. “You wouldn’t perhaps want to have coffee sometime, would you, Detective?”

He was . . . oh, my gosh, he was preening like a movie star and asking her on a date as if he were a genuine lothario. There was something unnerving, and terribly sad, in the disconnect between his selfimage and his reality. But it could be useful, too. “I’m not sure I’m allowed, Mr. Spangler,” she said, putting a girlish note in her voice.

“Call me Bobby.”

“I don’t know, Bobby. We’re prohibited from fraternizing with witnesses we meet on the job.”

“Is that what I am? A witness?”

“Yes.”

“How exciting.”

“And there are rules.”

“Oh, rules,” he said with a dismissive wave of his blistered hand. “It’s only coffee. And we can discuss your Mr. O’Malley a bit further.”

“Well,” she said with a smile of her own. “Maybe you’re right. Coffee does sound nice.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a card.

As he reached for the card, the sleeve of his white shirt extended from the cardigan. A French cuff. She held on to the card a few seconds to take a better look. A round silver cuff link. And was that a spot on the cuff link? Dark. Like a drop of something. Something like blood. She looked up at his face, at the deranged eyebrows and the lidded eyes that were hiding everything but their dementia. In a strange way, she wanted to hug him like a lost child even as she wondered where he was in such a hurry to get to.

Still holding on to the card, she stared into his eyes and said, “What’s your brother’s name, Bobby?”

He licked his lips. “Eugene.”

“Eugene Spangler of Des Moines, Iowa.”

“He’s in a home now, a hospice, preparing for his death. They overcook the green beans.”

“Please give Eugene my best wishes,” she said before letting go of the card.

“I’ll do that . . .” He glanced at the card, looked back up at her. “Lucia.”

“Give me a call when you get back,” she said in a voice as breathless as Marilyn Monroe’s. “I’ll be waiting.”

CHAPTER 45

A SENATOR WALKS INTO A BAR.

The amazing sight of Senator Francis Truscott IV walking into a joint like Bubba’s seemed so surreal to Kyle that it could only be the setup of a joke.

A senator walks into a bar. He orders ten martinis lined up in a row. “What’s the occasion?” says the bartender. “I’m celebrating,” says the senator. “I just raised a million dollars for my reelection campaign.”

Truscott, a tall man in his late forties, wore a pair of jeans, a leather jacket, and a baseball cap, trying hard to hide his senatoricity. But the jeans were pressed, and the leather of the jacket was butter soft, and it was a Phillies cap he was wearing, which was like a sign saying not from here. And of course there was the gaunt and severe face, chiseled by the gads of press coverage he had garnered over the years into something like a monument.