“Your ass is paranoid,” she said.

He went to the door, locked it. “Anyone follow you here?”

“No. I kept looking. I never saw anyone.”

He pointed to the bed. She went over, sat on the edge, set her purse on the floor. He pulled the desk chair out and sat down, knowing he was in shadow. The way he wanted it.

She was younger than he expected. When he looked at her, he thought about Cassandra, felt something tug inside him. The woman wore her hair straight and back, designer jeans, a soft green man’s shirt. He could sense her uncertainty, the fear she was hiding. Wondering if she should have come out here, what would happen next.

She looked at the door, then back at him.

“You talk to Mikey?” she said. “You know who I am?”

He nodded, pointed at the envelope. “What’s that?”

“Police reports. Coroner’s report, too. And two newspaper stories I cut out. The names are all in there. I found their addresses, too. The man who shot Derek is named Flynn. He had a woman cover for him, named Cross. They’re the ones that killed him.”

“You sure about that? About the woman?”

“She was with him.”

She held the envelope out. He took it, put it on the desk.

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” she said. “I’m taking Derek home.”

“Good.”

“What are you going to do?”

“About what?”

“Mikey said you’d take care of this. Take care of the people that hurt Derek. What happened to him wasn’t right. He didn’t deserve that.”

Mikey don’t give a shit about Derek, Morgan thought. If you think he does, you’re as big a fool as that boy was.

Pain in his stomach then, the first time in days. He grimaced.

“You all right?” she said.

“What else you find out?”

“They said the case is closed. No charges.”

“What about the car?”

“They impounded it. They’re keeping it, I guess.”

“They find anything else in it?”

“Like what?”

“Anything.”

“Not that they told me. And there’s nothing in those reports.”

He got up, walked past her into the bathroom, took the Vicodin bottle out of his overnight bag. He shook out a half tablet, filled a plastic glass with water from the sink, washed it down. He could feel her watching him.

“Mikey give you anything for me?” she said.

“Like what?”

“Money.”

He went back out, shook his head.

“He owes me for what happened,” she said.

“You need to take that up with him.”

He went to the window and pushed the curtains aside to look out. Insects fluttered around the outside light.

“Mikey tell you how much he paid Derek to come down here?” she said. “Four thousand dollars. That what his life was worth?”

He let the curtains fall closed.

“It’s not fair,” she said. He looked at her, saw water in her eyes. She blinked it away.

“He needed that money for us,” she said. “For his little boy. That’s the only reason he came down here. If he hadn’t, he’d still be alive.”

“You need some cash? I could give you a hundred or so.”

He saw the anger then, pushing away the fear. Liking it, the strength there.

“A hundred?” she said.

“I can maybe go two.”

“You’re all the same, aren’t you? You and Mikey and C-Love, all of them. You don’t care what happens to anyone else, do you? It’s all about the money.”

“What did you think it was about?”

“We’re owed,” she said. “I’m owed. And my little boy. For Derek, for what happened to him down here.”

This woman is trouble, Morgan thought. Trouble for Mikey, trouble for C-Love. Once she walked out that door, though, not his trouble anymore.

“Like I said, you need to get with Mikey on that.”

“I will.”

She stood, picked up the purse. “I’ll wait outside. I don’t like the smell in here.” She started for the door.

“One thing you need to be careful of,” he said. “When you get back up there.”

“What?”

“Mikey don’t pay his debts if there’s a cheaper way to solve the problem. You feel me?”

He got his wallet, took out three fifties, then, after a moment, three more, held them out. She looked at the bills.

“For the ride home,” he said.

He kept them out there. She took them, then unlocked the door, went out, and shut it behind her.

He opened the envelope, took the papers out, got the reading glasses from his bag.

Copied reports, twelve pages altogether. One was from the coroner’s office, had the generic outline of a body, front and back views, Xs marking entrance and exit wounds. Newspaper clippings and a plain sheet of white paper. On it, she’d written two names and addresses in a small, precise feminine hand.

He saw headlights, went to the window, and parted the curtains. The cab was there. She got in, looked back at the room, at him. Then the driver turned around and headed back the way he’d come.

He lay in the dark until one thirty, then went out to the car. The night was filled with the sound of crickets, the ragged hum of air conditioners, a muffled TV from one of the rooms.

He popped the trunk, got the bag Otis had given him, a screwdriver from the toolbox, the gun cleaning kit he’d bought at a sportsmen’s shop in North Carolina. Then he opened the passenger side door, sat on the blacktop, and worked by the glow of the courtesy light.

When he was done, he replaced the rocker panels, locked the doors, carried the bag inside. At the desk, he cleaned and oiled the Beretta, then reassembled it. He spilled a box of 9 mm shells out on the blotter, brass glinting in the light. He thumbed fifteen rounds into the clip, pushed it into the grip until it seated. He chambered a shell, decocked the gun, engaged the safety.

He did the same with the Walther, the gun only slightly heavier when it was loaded. When he was done, he took out the bag of reefer, got the pack of rolling papers from his overnight. The pain in his stomach was back, low and burning. He sat on the bed, lit the joint, sucked in smoke and held it, thought about the three hundred and fifty thousand.

Mikey’s money, but he’d be inside before long, one way or another. Morgan knew if he brought it all back, Mikey would find a way to cheat him on the cut. Or just give him up to the Trey Dogs to make peace, keep it all himself.

With the three fifty and what he had stashed in Newark, Morgan could start again in another city, another state, bring Cassandra and the boy with him. He could find a doctor there, begin the treatments. If Mikey or C-Love or the twins came looking, he could deal with that, too, protect what was his. What he’d earned.

He put the Beretta in his overnight, left it unzipped, easy to get at. The Walther went under a pillow. He lay back on the bed, drew on the joint, let the smoke relax him. The pain in his stomach began to ease. He closed his eyes and listened to the night.

After she clocked in, Sara went to the storeroom that held the SO’s single general-use computer. She signed on, typed quickly, sat back and waited, hearing voices in the corridor, a toilet flushing down the hall.

When the report came up, she scanned it, hit PRINT. Behind her, the printer chattered. She looked toward the half-closed door, hoping no one would come in, ask what she was doing.

The printer spit pages, went silent. She closed the file and signed off. She gathered the pages from the printer, went out into the hall, and closed the door behind her.

One call this morning, a lawn mower stolen from a shed in Libertyville, and since then the radio had been mercifully quiet. At ten thirty, she parked the cruiser on a dirt road that led down to the river, lowered the window, shut the engine off. The drone of cicadas filled the silence it left.

She had a dull headache from the sleep she’d missed the night before. She had lain awake after Billy left, listening to the rain, wondering why she had let him back into her house, her bed. Not knowing the answer.