"You still working for him?” Elswick asked.

  "No."

  He ignored my answer. “The best thing you can tell your client is to cop a plea. If he's lucky, the D.A. might settle for murder without premeditation."

  "Did you find the weapon?"

  "None of your business,” Johnson said.

  "You check any other suspects?"

  "Again, none of your business,” Elswick said.

  "I'm not trying to undercut your case."

  "This conversation is already an unpleasant memory,” Johnson said, turning towards Nate. “We'll send you a drink over, Loot. Join us when you're ready."

  I gave up, threw a five-dollar bill in front of Nate. “Thanks for your help."

  He took a deep breath and let it out through his nostrils. “Your boy's guilty, Charlie. But if you're looking for other suspects, check out Don McAllister's private life. Who knows? You might find something to help you."

  "His private life?"

  "Memphis is an old-fashioned place. Once you get out of the pink zone downtown, life can be hard for a middle-aged fairy."

  "Don McAllister was gay?"

  "Arrested back in the mid ‘nineties for lewd behavior. Evidently, McAllister and a truck driver were getting amorous outside a nightclub on Summer Avenue."

  "I owe you one."

  "You and the rest of the world.” He drained the rest of his beer and picked up the crumpled, beer-soggy five I'd thrown on his table. “The problem is, all you bastards want to repay me on an installment plan."

  * * * *

  Three days later, I was convinced that Nate had developed a perverse sense of humor and had intentionally pointed me in the wrong direction. I'd spent the better part of seventy-two hours drinking German beer in trendy downtown bars, waiting in line outside the office of an AIDS activist who seemed to know every openly gay man in Shelby County, cruising rest areas in the greater Memphis area, and giving away cigarettes at bus stations all over town. No one recognized Don McAllister's picture, knew his name, or seemed particularly bothered that he'd been killed.

  From the work I'd done before the murder, I knew that McAllister had been an assistant manager at a Sycamore View Kroger. After I gave up haunting the local gay scene, I decided to talk to his coworkers. I spoke to the cashiers, the stock boys, the dairy manager, and the butcher, but all that anyone knew about Don McAllister was that he was never late, that he was a stickler for straight shelves, and that he ate pimento cheese on whole wheat every day for lunch.

  "He was just an odd guy,” the head butcher, a gray-haired man with thin lips and thick, work-scarred hands said. “We took our lunch together for ten years, and I could count the amount of words he spoke on one hand. He just sat there, eating his sandwich, reading his photography magazines, until it was time to clock back in. Don was the last man on earth you'd suspect would end up murdered."

  "Photography magazines?"

  "He had a slew of them. Kept them in his locker so he could read them at lunch."

  "They still around?"

  "Probably."

  The lockers were just open storage crates with nametags. I hunkered in front of McAllister's box, pulled out a couple of dozen photography magazines, and flipped through the pages. Most of the articles were technical, way over my head and way beyond the interest of a casual photographer. A few receipts for films, lenses, photo docks, and memory cards fell out. At the bottom of the crate was another receipt, this one from the Shelby County Photography Club, for a year's membership dues. I stuck the receipt in my pocket. I wasn't sure it was the right place to start looking, but at least it was some place to start. Besides that, it was the first indication I'd found that Don McAllister had had a life before someone took it away from him.

  To my surprise, the Shelby County Photography Club seemed to be just that. Back when I'd spent a long and very unhappy year in Vice, “Photography Clubs” served as fronts for prostitutes, nude models, and groups of pedophiles who tried to pass their perversion off as art. But the Shelby County Photography Club seemed legit. Housed in the corner space of a strip mall on the edge of Cordova, the club was clean, orderly, its walls decorated with framed black-and-white photographs taken by its members. A sign over the reception desk announced the prices for camera rentals and advertised a workshop on documentary photography that was to be held at the end of the month. I wasn't sure if I was relieved that the world seemed to be a slightly better place or disappointed that what might have been a real lead was fizzling like a wet firecracker.

  The man who stepped from a back room to greet me was in his late forties or early fifties, sun-tanned, gray-haired, with very blue eyes. He wore spotless khakis, an olive-green polo shirt, John Lennon granny glasses, a thick gold wedding band, and a nametag that identified him as Blake Roberts, manager.

  "Are you looking to become a member or just looking?"

  I took a card from my back pocket and laid it on the desk. “I'd like to talk to you about Don McAllister."

  His smile faltered. “Oh,” he whispered. “Poor Don."

  Fifteen minutes later, I finished a cup of very good coffee while Roberts finished praising Don McAllister's ability as a photographer, his virtue as a friend, and his overall decency as a human being. I was more than a little surprised. It wasn't just that Roberts was the first person to say something truly nice about McAllister. He was the only person I'd talked to who had anything to say about him at all.

  "So he was a serious photographer,” I said, cutting him off before he launched into another monologue. “It was more than just a hobby to him?"

  He puckered his lips a little and then shrugged. “He had a lot of talent, a lot more than I have and a lot more than most of the professionals who teach workshops here have. But he had no interest in trying to make a living at it. I know for a fact that he turned down at least three offers to show his photographs in galleries. Photography was personal to Don."

  I nodded as if I understood and thought about the police report; there hadn't been any mention of cameras or photography equipment in the evidence catalog from McAllister's house. “His cameras,” I said. “Did he own them or rent them here?"

  Roberts recoiled, the expression on his face the same as it would have been had I spilled my coffee on his plush white carpet. “Our equipment is strictly for amateurs. Don wouldn't have been caught dead using one of those rentals."

  "Do you have any of his work here?"

  His expression looked pained. “Yes,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

  "Could you show me?"

  "I'm not sure I should. I'm not sure you'll understand."

  "Why not?"

  Instead of answering, he opened his desk drawer, picked up a key, and then walked out of the room, his shoulders slumped as if I'd beaten him somehow. A few minutes later, he came back, handed me a leather portfolio, and then dropped back in his desk chair.

  I don't know a lot about photography, but I knew that Don McAllister had talent. His photographs throbbed with color and light. Then, as I kept flipping through the portfolio, I stopped thinking about Don McAllister's talent and focused on the subjects. Children. Every single photograph was of a child or a family with children. They were taken at municipal parks, at playgrounds and schoolyards, at Liberty Land and the Memphis Zoo, and at the River Walk Park. All of the photographs were candid, none even slightly risqué, and most seemed taken without the children or their parents being aware. I stared at the last picture in the album. It was taken at Riverside Park on a sunny afternoon. The park was packed. There were a half-dozen faces in the background but they were white noise, unimportant. Don McAllister's camera had been squarely focused on a towheaded boy of six or seven. Looking at the picture made me uneasy.

  "Were all of his pictures like this?"

  "Good, you mean?"

  "Of children."

  "Families and children, yes.” He took the portfolio away from me as if I were unfit to handle it. “Can't you feel the love he expressed in those photographs?"

  "He was a pedophile?"

  Roberts closed his eyes. “You've no right to say that. Don was a decent, decent man."

  "He was obsessed with children."

  "Yes, but it wasn't dirty."

  "You know that for a fact?"

  "I do,” he said, opening his eyes to meet mine in a challenge. “I most certainly do.” He stood from behind his desk. “Everything isn't dirty, you know? You've no right to come in here and say it is."

  "You're in denial about your friend."

  His face reddened and his eyes bulged until I thought he was either going to leap across the desk or suffer a stroke in his effort not to. “He took those photographs because he didn't have a family of his own. That's what his art did for Don. It gave him back something he'd lost."

  "He had a family. A son. He walked out on them, never went back."

  "He had no choice."

  "Everybody has a choice. Sometimes it's convenient to believe we don't."

  "You don't know anything, Mr. Raines.” He shut his eyes and took another deep breath. “Now, please, please, please get the hell out of my office."

  "Look..."

  "Get out!” he bellowed.

  Then he started to cry. He didn't weep or wail or bawl but tears ran in a zigzagging line from beneath his glasses. I watched him for a second. Then I left, because there didn't seem to be anything else to do.

  * * * *

  At the Union Avenue precinct, I found my way to the evidence room, bribed a desk clerk with two twenties for another look at the catalog of possessions removed from Don McAllister's home, and then went to the fourth-floor Robbery—Homicide bullpen. Elswick and Johnson shared a cubicle, their desks pressed against each other. They were lounging, Elswick drinking a Dr Pepper, Johnson eating microwave popcorn. When they saw me, they exchanged smiles as if I were a private joke between them.

  "If it isn't the pot-bellied Sam Spade,” Elswick said.

  "Did you know that Don McAllister was a serious amateur photographer?"

  They exchanged looks and then Johnson shrugged. “So what?"

  "None of his cameras and equipment are in the evidence locker or in your report. Were they at the scene?"

  "Listen to him,” Elswick said. “He talks like a cop."

  Johnson stroked his moustache. “If they were at the scene, they would have been in our report, wouldn't they?"

  "Robbery might be the motive for McAllister's murder."

  "You think so, huh?” Elswick finished his Dr Pepper, belched, crumpled the can, and pitched it in the trash. “You're wasting your time, Raines."

  Johnson tapped a Manila folder on his desk. “Autopsy report. Pancreatic cancer, late stages."

  It was my turn to ask so what.

  "Mark McAllister had another motive for murder besides having his heart broken by his deadbeat dad,” Johnson said.

  "The kid wanted his inheritance quicker than his father wanted to die."

  "How was Mark McAllister supposed to know that his father had cancer or that there was any inheritance at all? He hadn't heard from him since he was two years old."

  Elswick winked at Johnson. Johnson grinned at me.

  "Talk to your client, Raines."

  "Meaning?"

  Elswick gave me a hard look. “Meaning get the hell out of here and quit wasting our time."

  Instead of listening to their advice, I went to Riverside Park, where the last picture in Don McAllister's portfolio had been taken. Something about that photograph troubled me and chafed at my nerves, although I didn't know why. The subject was no different from the others. Maybe it was the intensity of his focus on the little boy, a reaching desperation that seemed as vivid as the trees, the sunshine, and the shadow, or maybe it was the bland faces in the background, anonymous, unconcerned onlookers to what felt like a horrible crime.

  It was nearly a perfect spring afternoon. The skies were rich blue, the clouds lazy and puffy, the breeze from the river just cool enough to take the bite out of the afternoon sun. Harried mothers sat along the edge of the playground, talking quietly to each other as throngs of children ran towards the swings, the jungle gym, and slides. A few suited and bright-faced professionals from the offices downtown drank Starbucks coffee or ate their lunches in the shade of oak trees. Lovers, young and otherwise, held hands. I showed McAllister's photograph around, asked if anyone recognized him. A few of the regulars did, but none knew his name, just that he'd come to the park to take pictures. There was no sense that anyone had been alarmed by his presence or aware that his camera lens had been focused on their children.

  It was a useless trip but a gorgeous day, so I lingered in the park, enjoying the sounds of laughter, the fresh green grass, the clean smell of the air coming off the water. These days I spent most of my life in dive bars, low-rent strip clubs, grimy jails, and trash-strewn ghettos. It was nice to know that there was a different, brighter world to which I belonged. I found an empty park bench, stretched my legs, told myself for the hundredth time that I needed to get outdoors more often, start taking walks or jogging. I was still telling myself that I was going to start tomorrow when my cell phone vibrated in my pocket. My first reaction was to slap at a bug. I'd owned the phone for six months but still forgot that I had it.

  "What the hell's wrong with you, Charlie?” Bernie Koskov, the attorney I'd contacted for Mark McAllister, yelled. “You forgot how to return a phone call?"

  "I forgot to check my messages."

  "No wonder you're a nickel away from declaring bankruptcy."

  Koskov was a good friend and as good a defense lawyer as could be found in Memphis, but the man nagged even more than my ex-wife had. “What's up?"

  "What's up, he asks,” Koskov said. “I just wanted to thank you for throwing me a dog of a case for which I'm not going to get paid a penny. You keep it up and I'll be as poor as you."

  "Tell me."

  "Our client got a heartfelt letter from his father about three weeks ago. No return address on the envelope. But you know what was inside?” He didn't wait for an answer. “A letter from Don McAllister explaining that he had cancer and only a few months to live. The letter went on to explain that our client was going to inherit a decent sum of money. There was also a certified check for three thousand dollars, good-faith money or a peace offering, I guess. That means our client had a financial motive for killing his father. It means I can't play the abandoned-son card to get him a lesser sentence, and it means that I'm going to lose a murder case, something that I never, ever do."

  "Jesus."

  "Him, I could have gotten off."

  Then he hung up. I sat in the park another second, my face burning, feeling as stupid as I ever had in my life.

  * * * *

  "I should have told you,” Mark McAllister said. “But I figured you'd think I was guilty if I did."

  I balled my hands into fists to stop myself from slapping him. “You were right."

  "I ain't no saint, but I wouldn't kill my own natural father."

  "The only reason you came to find him was the money."

  He scratched at a scab on his knuckle. “I owed some people back home, and they weren't happy about it. These were some real tough old boys."

  "How much?"

  "Twenty grand.” He smiled and then I really wanted to hit him. “I sort of lifted some of their product and put it to my own uses."

  "Why did you punch your father? He refuse to give you the money?"

  He looked down at his hands and his face reddened. “He told me he was gay,” he said, his voice genuine for the first time since I'd met him. “He said that's why he left my mother. The thought of it ... I don't know. I lost my temper."

  "You went back and killed him.” I held up a hand to stop him before he could spin another web of B.S. “Forget it. I'm through with you, but why me? Of all the private investigators in Memphis, why did you pick me?"

  He smiled again. “Your ad in the phone book looked cheap. I thought I could afford you."

  * * * *

  I promised myself that I was just going to stop by the Refugee for a quick beer before heading home, but I walked through the door at six o'clock and was still there when the late local news came on at ten. A quick drink had turned into a dozen slow ones, and I squinted at the fly-specked and beer-splattered television, trying to focus my eyes. The first five minutes of the news was the usual drone of disaster—roadside bombings in Iraq, earthquakes in Indonesia, a plane crash in Italy. Then the anchorman cut to breaking local news. Two men had been gunned down outside of a Brooks Road strip club. The cops were withholding the victims’ names, but both were said to be associates of the Montesi crime family. The reporter went on to point out that these men were the latest victims in a series of murders and speculated about a brewing gang war, the first in Memphis in thirty-five years. Then the story ended. After a couple of appropriately serious headshakes, the anchorman brightened and teased a story about an Arkansas pig farmer who hit a half-million-dollar jackpot at the Horseshoe Casino down in Tunica.

  I pulled myself from the barstool, lurched towards the door, decided I was too drunk to drive, and then stumbled back to the bar. I dug around in my pocket for my cell phone, finally found it, and squinted at the number of the cab company that was pinned over the cash register. One of the cocktail waitresses, a haggard-faced brunette who was twenty-five going on fifty and who'd once offered to sleep with me if I'd pay her past-due electric bill, put her hand on my shoulder and her mouth next to my ear. I shivered a little, wondering if she had more utilities that needed paying and if I were drunk enough to take her up on the offer this time.

  "That little red light blinking on your phone means you have a message,” she whispered in my ear.

  "Oh,” I said, feeling like an idiot. “Right."

  Then she patted my shoulder and moved away, her hips twitching beneath her cutoff denim shorts. I squinted down at my cell phone, finally managed to push the button to listen to the message. It was from Koskov. He didn't sound any happier, and he wanted me to call. I thought about letting it wait until morning, but then I figured I might as well find out the bad news while I was drunk enough not to care.