Lights came on in the apartments, and blinds went down. He had to stay out of sight. The girl—Anna—had seen him outside her place. A couple of things worked in Yates’ favor. For one, Anna hadn’t gotten a good look at him. It had been late, and dark, and maybe she’d thrown back a few.

  And the cops—and everybody else in town—pushed the idea that the girl had been killed by that Midnight Rambler pervert. Yates had done a lot of things in his life, but he’d never snuck into a girl’s apartment just to stare at her while she slept. What was the point of that? Where was the thrill?

  If Yates could pinpoint this as Anna’s location and tell Hogan, maybe he could find his way back into the other man’s good graces. He liked the work the family occasionally provided, and he didn’t like—hated, in fact—anybody holding anything over his head. If Hogan wanted to, he could throw Yates right under the bus. Then back it up a few times and crush him just to make sure.

  Yates could do the same thing to Hogan and his people, though. Tell the cops who it was who had sent him to the apartment in the first place. Yates knew what the family did. Hell, the cops did too. The cops were probably in on it, taking a cut of all the product the family moved. Yates could tie the family to the death of the girl in Breckville, and whatever they were trying to do to the daughter of the shot-up cop. He could try to bring everybody down. What did they call that in history class? Mutual assured destruction?

  But why get into all that? Besides, when the shit started to fly, it always landed on the guy farther down the ladder. And right now he was that guy, standing at the bottom and looking up. Could he do something to get out from under it?

  Yates positioned himself across the street from the correct address. He leaned against a metal post anchoring a street sign and took out his phone. The night turned cool, and he blew on his hands. To anyone walking by, he was just another dude talking to somebody, not paying attention to what was going on right in front of him. Distracted always by electronic devices.

  A young woman had come home and gone into the building. He’d seen pictures of Anna’s friend online, and that might have been her, but he couldn’t tell in the disappearing light. And how many people looked in person the way they presented themselves online?

  So he waited longer. The air grew even chillier. Leaves gathered in bunches in the gutters and against the buildings. He loved that time of year. It made him think of being a kid, of going trick-or-treating with his sister. Running through the neighborhood, begging for as much candy as they could, the only time it ever really felt like they had a bunch of stuff. A bag full to bursting. More candy than anybody could eat, even though they tried to devour it all . . .

  Yates lost himself in the memory, so much so he was startled when the door of the building swung open and two women came pouring out. He recognized Anna right away. She came out first, her coattails flying up behind her. She walked quickly, a couple of steps ahead of her friend. She looked determined, leaning forward as she went, not looking back to see if the other woman was keeping up.

  And the second woman—the redhead—was the one who had entered the building about thirty minutes earlier, the one he had thought might have been the friend. Rachel Berger. Now he knew.

  “Jackpot.”

  They went down the street, heading toward the row of bars and restaurants on the main drag to the east. It was only a few blocks away—no need to drive. They could stumble home at all hours if they wanted to and not have to worry about drinking and driving.

  Yates slid his phone into his back pocket and pushed himself away from the street sign.

  He followed along, on the opposite side of the street, keeping his eye on the two young women.

  30

  Every light in the house burned. And every window was obscured by a curtain or a blind. Or both.

  Morris walked up the front walk, rang the bell. Next to the door, a lone bulb glowed, illuminating the house number and the dingy siding. In the shrubs next to the porch, a yellowing newspaper rested, its rubber band snapped by the elements long ago.

  Morris had made sure to call, to tell the Rogers family he wanted to stop by and at what time. Paulson had let him know what kind of man he was dealing with in Captain Rogers. Most cops hated surprise visitors. Morris figured Rogers—a man with a shattered knee—hated them more than most.

  Morris waited, giving the hobbling cop or his wife time to reach the door. He knew where Anna Rogers was now, and that she was—probably—safe. He hoped that when he talked to her parents, he’d find out she’d called home, made peace with them. He still had a murder to solve, one with no obvious answers, but if Anna and her parents had talked, they might be in a better mood, more forthcoming with information.

  When the door finally opened, Captain Rogers stood there facing Morris, his body leaning to one side where a cane offered support. Paulson had mentioned a walker, but Morris guessed Rogers discarded the walker when he wanted to project strength. Morris remembered his own father battling cancer in his spine. Seeing him using a walker yet still struggling had pierced Morris’ heart. His dad had looked so—it was the only word that fit—ashamed to be using it.

  “You alone?” Rogers asked. Light spilled past him onto the porch.

  “I am. And I’m sorry to bother you in the evening, Captain Rogers.”

  The man wore a zippered fleece with a Western Kentucky University logo on the chest, sweatpants, and slippers. The textured grip of a nine-millimeter stuck out of his pocket, close to his free hand.

  “I promise not to take too much time.”

  Rogers offered no response and extended no invitation. He stepped back from the door, leaving it open behind him, so Morris followed the man into the cramped and cluttered living room. The house smelled like a long-closed closet.

  Wheel of Fortune blared on the TV. The contestants clapped and the audience chanted. A woman in a yellow robe with a head of disheveled gray hair sat on the sofa. Her eyes remained fixed on the TV as Morris came in behind her husband, and Rogers kept going past her in the direction of the kitchen.

  “Is Anna out there?” the woman asked, her voice barely reaching them through the TV noise.

  “Just watch your program, okay?”

  The woman’s eyes trailed from the TV to the two of them. They fixed on Morris, and she looked puzzled. “Who is this man?”

  “He’s a cop. From Breckville. I told you he was coming to ask me questions. God knows about what, though.”

  Morris nodded. “Ma’am. I’m sorry to disturb you.”

  Her eyes trailed down his body to his shoes and then back up. When they’d seen everything of him they wanted to see, she said, “Cops always want to disturb people, don’t they?”

  “Well, I’m sorry about that—”

  “Just ignore her,” Rogers said. “Come on. There’s a show I want to watch later.”

  His wife turned back to the TV, and the two men entered the kitchen, then took chairs on opposite ends of the cluttered table. Rogers kept his cane nearby.

  “I’d offer you something, but that’s not really my thing. If you want some water . . .”

  “I’m okay.” An empty pint bottle of Jim Beam sat near the sink, and the room smelled like burned pork. “Like I said on the phone, it’s just a few questions.”

  Rogers shook his head. “Hey, you’re talking to another cop, okay? There’s no such thing as a few questions. So just ask whatever you came to ask.”

  “I wanted to tell you I’m happy we know Anna is safe. I’m sure that’s a relief to you and your family.”

  “She’s not that safe. She’s running around in Louisville, apparently. And she hasn’t talked to us. My other daughter is trying to find her.”

  “Avery.”

  “The one who used to be a cop. Emphasis on ‘used to.’ I wanted to go up there myself and look, but my wife needs my attention. I’d find Anna pretty quickly if I went. She’d be back here before you knew it.”

  “As you know, we’re working on the murder of Anna’s roommate, Kayla Garvey.”

  “You don’t think it’s the Midnight Rambler?”

  “Do you?” Morris asked.

  “No.”

  “I like to consider everyone a suspect until they aren’t.”

  Rogers looked pleased by the statement. He nodded. “Agreed.”

  “You’ve indicated you think it could be the work of someone you arrested.”

  “I put a lot of guys away over the years. A lot of them are out—or getting out. Wouldn’t you worry about that?”

  “I do.”

  The TV volume increased, but Rogers ignored it.

  “Do you have a specific person in mind who might have done this? Someone recently released or harboring a longtime grudge against you?”

  “How long a list do you want?” Rogers shifted his weight and stuck his leg out. “The guy who did this has never been caught. Have you ever been shot?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I wouldn’t recommend it.” His eyes focused someplace else, someplace beyond the room and the house they sat in. “It takes something away when it happens. That’s for sure. There’s some darkness. . . .” His eyes snapped back into focus. “But I guess that’s what we signed up for. What’s that old song say? ‘I never promised you a rose garden’?”

  “I spoke to Lieutenant Paulson of the KSP. Do you know him?”

  “I know who he is. Did he wear his jacket with the patches on the elbow?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “The guy drinks tea. Tea. My daughters drink tea.”

  “He did drink tea.”

  “Told you.”

  “Beverage choices aside, he mentioned a few cases. Actually, two in particular.”

  “Which ones?”

  “He mentioned your unsolved ambush. And he also mentioned the Douglas family killing. You remember that, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Three members of the Douglas family were killed in their home. All shot, execution-style. He said you were on the task force that was investigating them—”

  “And our task force was pulled off of them three months before the shooting. Surely, Mr. Chamomile mentioned that.”

  “He did. But that crime remains unsolved despite KSP and even the FBI devoting a lot of resources to it. The Douglas family has a lot of connections to crime in this state. Since you were closely involved with the case at one time, and it’s never been solved . . .”

  “We didn’t have anything on the Douglas family. We weren’t close to making an arrest. That’s why the task force was pulled back. We weren’t getting anywhere. They cover their tracks well. Very well. And it’s true maybe one of their whack-job relatives decided to go out on his own and take a shot at me.” He pointed to his leg again. “Fair enough. That thought crossed my mind a time or two. But why show up in Breckville? Now? And go after my daughter? When we never arrested them, and, as far as I know, KSP has backed off them ever since then? I don’t see it.”

  “It’s true, according to Paulson, that KSP has backed off them. But it’s also true that members of the family are likely still involved in some illegal activity.”

  “Of course they are. People like that don’t change. We know that. We’re cops.” He straightened his leg, grimacing. “Shit. Why would someone who has never been charged with a crime want to come after me? They’d have to get in line behind all the people we did arrest.”

  “It’s possible the activities of that task force led to whatever happened to the Douglas family. And they haven’t forgotten.”

  “We know what happened to the Douglas family. They screwed the wrong person. Or owed them money. Or stepped into the wrong territory. It happens every day. You’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  “What we know is that there were two shooters. Two different weapons. Of course, they’ve proven to be untraceable. Never used in any other crimes that we know of. But two shooters. A pretty clean job. Someone who knew what they were doing.”

  “Are you implying something? Just say it.”

  “Maybe Lieutenant Ballard would have some insights.”

  “He might. If you can get him away from his goats.”

  “I guess that’s worth trying. But you don’t have anything you want to say about it? No insights?”

  “Good riddance to bad garbage. It wasn’t my case. And it wasn’t Charlie’s either. Why don’t I give you a list of the guys I did arrest? I remember most of them.”

  “I have access to those records. I was really just here because I thought there might be something that doesn’t show up in the records.”

  “Take it from me: Quit chasing shadows. The most obvious thing is usually the right thing.”

  “You think this Douglas killing was a turf war. Or a money thing. It was pretty vicious, you have to admit. Wiping out a family. Personal, in a way.”

  “Everything is personal, isn’t it?”

  An odd comment. Morris let it go.

  Captain Rogers said, “Look, I’m a father. I have three girls. And two grandkids. I’ve spent my whole life worrying about them. I don’t want to think about a family getting killed. Okay? Kids should be off-limits. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “So we agree on something.”

  “I’ll keep you posted on our investigation.” Morris stood up. “We’ve called Anna repeatedly. I do hope at some point she gets in touch with us. She can be helpful to our investigation since she was living with Ms. Garvey. Maybe she saw something.”

  “Do you have children?”

  “Two daughters. They’re eight and eleven.”

  “Well, good fucking luck to you when they get older. Only one of mine treats me well.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “It’s fine. I’m kind of a son of a bitch. I know that.”

  “Some cops are.”

  “And some fathers.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “One more thing, Detective.” Rogers sat at the table, not meeting his eye. His leg was still extended, the cane within easy reach. “I hate to ask you this. I do.”

  “I think we can be frank with each other.”

  “Yeah. Look, I need that damn walker. It’s in the other room there, by the TV. Can you go get it and bring it here so I don’t have to bother Jane? She doesn’t always . . . Well, as the day goes on, she gets more tired. She works hard. You see?”

  “No problem.”

  Morris went into the other room. Wheel of Fortune was over, and Jane sat on the couch channel surfing. She went through the channels so fast, Morris didn’t know how she could decide on what to watch.

  The walker sat folded next to the TV. He retrieved it and started back.

  Jane Rogers appeared to be ignoring him, but then she said, “He gets upset when people ask him about the past.”

  “I don’t know him well, but I don’t think he’s upset.”

  “He is. He hates being asked questions.”

  “Cops prefer to do the asking.”

  “I don’t like these questions either. The past should stay in the past.” She kept her eyes on the TV. Zip zip zip went the remote. “Are you going to find Anna and bring her home?”

  “No, ma’am. That’s not my task. Your daughter Avery is doing that.”

  “She’s my stepdaughter. Anna is my only child.”

  “Right.”

  “I’m worried about Anna. No one can reach her. Not us. Not her sisters. Not even my cousin Libby.”

  “Is she close to them?”

  “She’s always been fond of Libby.”

  “What does Libby want to talk to her about?”

  Jane’s glassy eyes remained fixed on the TV.

  Rogers yelled from the kitchen, “Detective? I need that walker.”

  “What are they going to talk about?” Morris asked.

  “I don’t think I can find the show I want,” Jane said.

  “What are you looking for? Maybe I can help.”

  “Hey, Morris? The walker, please? I have to go to the pisser. Then I’ll help Jane. And ignore her talk about Libby. Her cousin is a crank. A shit stirrer. She’s one of those artistic types. You know the kind. Alternative medicine. Yoga.”

  Morris brought the walker to the kitchen. He unfolded it and placed it in front of Captain Rogers. “Okay.” He held out his hand to assist. “You ready?”

  Rogers waved off Morris’ help. It was a struggle, but he pushed himself up, breathing heavily once he had both hands on the walker and his body out of the chair. “Okay, you can go.”

  “Do you need anything else?” Morris asked.

  “Yeah, stop bugging my wife. If you have questions, just ask me. She’s not herself. Okay?”

  “Sure thing, Captain. Thanks for your time.”

  Morris went to the door. Jane Rogers had changed the channel to a professional wrestling match. As he pulled the door shut, her eyes left the screen for a moment and watched him go.

  31

  Charlie stopped in front of the building so Avery could go up to the door.

  “There’s nowhere to park anyway,” he said. “Not in this neighborhood on a Friday evening.”

  “Okay, I’ll try. She may slam the door in my face. If she’s even there.”

  “You may be surprised. I do think your sister admires you and probably would love to have a relationship with you.”