“And there was no blood except on him. He got shot and hanged, he’d have bled out and there’d be blood on the ground,” Suitcase said.

“So,” Jesse said. “He was shot somewhere else and kept awhile before they brought him up to the hill and hanged him.”

“You think it’s more than one?” Molly said.

“A two-hundred-pound corpse is hard for one person to manhandle around and hoist over a limb,” Jesse said.

“But not impossible,” Molly said.

“No,” Jesse said.

They all sat quietly.

“Anyone reported missing?” Jesse said.

“No,” Molly said.

“Anyone else know anything?”

“Nobody I talked with,” Suitcase said.

Molly Crane and Peter Perkins both shook their heads.

“Even if you knew the guy,” Simpson said, “be kind of hard to recognize him now.”

“Anyone want to speculate why you’d shoot some guy,” Jesse said, “hold his body until it started to ripen, and then hang it on a tree?”

“Symbolic,” Molly said. “It must have some sort of symbolic meaning to the perps.”

Jesse waited.

“Obviously they wanted him found,” Suitcase said.

“But why hanging?” Peter Perkins said.

Suitcase shook his head. Jesse looked at Molly. She shook her head.

“Perk,” Jesse said. “Any theories?”

Perkins shook his head.

“Okay,” Jesse said. “It looks like, for now, we wait for the forensics report.”

“Unless something turns up,” Suitcase said.

“Unless that,” Jesse said.

4

Dix was as shiny as he always was. His white shirt was crisp with starch. His slacks were sharply creased. His shoes were polished. His thick hands were clean. His nails were manicured. He was bald and clean shaven, and his head gleamed. The white walls of his office were bare except for a framed copy of his medical degree and one of his board certification in psychiatry. Jesse sat at one side of the desk, and Dix swiveled his chair to face him. After he swiveled, he was motionless, his hands resting interlaced on his flat stomach.

“I’m making progress on the booze,” Jesse said.

Dix waited.

“I quit for a while and it seemed to give me more control of it when I went back.”

“Enough control?” Dix said.

Jesse thought about it.

“No,” he said. “Not yet.”

“But some,” Dix said.

“Yes.”

Dix was still.

“If I can control it,” Jesse said, “life is better with alcohol. Couple of drinks before dinner. Glass of wine with dinner. Civilized.”

“And without it?” Dix said.

“A lot of days with nothing to look forward to,” Jesse said.

“Behavior can be modified,” Dix said.

“In terms of drunks,” Jesse said, “I’m not sure that’s politically correct.”

“It’s not,” Dix said. “But it’s been my experience.”

“So I’m not fooling myself.”

“You may or may not be,” Dix said. “It’s possible that you’re not.”

“Day at a time,” Jesse said.

Dix smiled.

“Now,” Jesse said, “to my other problem.”

Dix waited.

“I’ve met a woman,” Jesse said.

Dix was still.

“Like the perfect woman,” Jesse said.

Dix nodded slightly.

“She’s good-looking, smart, very sexual. Even professionally—she’s a private detective. Used to be a cop.”

Dix nodded. It seemed to Jesse almost as if he were approving.

“She’s tough. She can shoot. She’s not afraid. And she’s a painter, too. Oils and watercolors, not houses.”

“Anyone else in her life?” Dix said.

“She’s divorced, like me, and she might still be a little hung up on her ex.”

“Gee,” Dix said.

Jesse grinned at him.

“Like me,” Jesse said.

Dix was quiet. The only window in the small room opened onto a budding tree against a blue sky. They looked almost like trompe l’oeil painting. When he was in this room with Dix, everything seemed remote to Jesse.

“Which is, of course, the problem.”

“She can’t let go of her ex-husband?” Dix said.

“I can’t let go of Jenn,” Jesse said.

“Because?”

“Two possibilities,” Jesse said. “I still love her, or I’m pathological.”

Dix smiled again without speaking.

“Or both,” Jesse said.

“The two are not mutually exclusive,” Dix said.

“But I feel like I love Sunny, too. That’s her name, Sunny Randall.”

“One can have feelings for more than one person,” Dix said.

“And how does one resolve those feelings,” Jesse said.

“If they need to be resolved,” Dix said, “one would talk to one’s shrink about them.”

“Well, something needs to be resolved,” Jesse said. “I can’t just live with both of them.”

“There may be other options,” Dix said.

“Like what?”

“We’ll have to explore that,” Dix said. “Is Jenn with anyone else at the moment.”

“Jenn is usually with someone else at the moment.”

“Are you attempting to be monogamous with Sunny?”

“We haven’t talked about that yet.”

“Is she with anyone else at the moment?” Dix said.

“I don’t think so.”

Dix was silent. Jesse was silent. The faux-looking trees stirred in the light breeze outside the window.

Then Jesse said, “Are you trying to inject a note of sweet reason into this discussion?”

“And me a licensed shrink,” Dix said. “How embarrassing.”

5

Molly Crane came into Jesse’s office as he was making coffee. She carried a yellow cardboard folder.

“Forensics report is in,” she said. “I organized it for you and put it in a folder.”

“You wouldn’t consider living with me, would you?” Jesse said.

“Maybe,” Molly said. “I’ll discuss it with my husband.”

She put the folder on the desk. Jesse poured water into the coffeemaker and turned it on.

“Any surprises?” he said.

“A little one,” Molly said. “They ID’d the body.”

Jesse sat at his desk.

“Anybody we know?” he said.

Molly smiled.

“Walton Weeks,” Molly said.

“The talk-show guy?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jesse said.

“Can you say national media?”

Jesse nodded.

“Walton Weeks,” he said.

Molly nodded.

“Well,” she said, “if somebody had to go.”

“I never listened to him,” Jesse said.

Molly said, “I never agreed with him about anything.”

“Doesn’t make him a bad person,” Jesse said.

Molly smiled.

“No,” she said. “Come to think of it, I agree with my husband about very little, either.”

“Let’s not share any personal views with the national media.”

Molly drew herself to attention.

“Protect and serve,” she said.

“That would be us,” Jesse said.

He picked up the yellow folder and looked at the cover. Molly had labeled it WALTON WEEKS. Jesse sighed.

“It’ll be worse than the serial killings,” Molly said.

“The media? Yes, it will. This guy’s a national figure.”

“What was he doing here?” Molly said.

“Molly,” Jesse said. “I just found out who he is.”

“The question was rhetorical,” Molly said.

“For now,” Jesse said.

He opened the folder and began to read. Molly watched him for a moment. Then she went to the coffeepot, got two mugs, poured the now-brewed coffee into each. She put one mug on Jesse’s desk and took the other one with her to the front desk.

An orgy would sound boring, Jesse thought, if it was described in a forensics report.

White male, five feet eleven inches, two hundred three pounds. Appeared to be about fifty. Victim was overweight, and appeared out of shape. No evidence of a struggle. Abrasions on body appeared postmortem.

Probably when they moved him and strung him up.

Cause of death, three .32-caliber bullets. Any one of which would have done it. The victim had bled to death. Had been dead probably two days before the body was hung from the tree.

Nice call, Perk.

Fingerprint ID established that the victim was Walton Wilson Weeks, age fifty-one. Jesse wondered if they had estimated his age before they ID’d him. There was evidence of liposuction on his belly and buttocks.