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interrogation of the interrogator. He had to wonder about Swahn’s inside information; no newspaper account would have mentioned an abandoned bank account. And how would this man know that Josh had not packed any clothing? His brother’s knapsack had never been found.
    “Now,” said Swahn, “if I wanted to bury an investigation, I’d do what your father did. I’d leave it in the hands of the County Sheriff’s Office. That department is a joke, and I’m sure that made it easier to whisk you out of town—out of the sheriff’s jurisdiction.” He raised his cane to point it toward Oren’s chest, his heart. “When Judge Hobbs sent you away that summer, did he suspect you of killing your brother?” The tip of the cane settled to the floor, and Swahn rested both hands on the silver handle as he leaned forward. “Or do you think that venerable old man murdered his own child?”
    The next shot belonged to Oren. He sat down in an armchair and leaned back into the plush upholstery. Outwardly, he was unrattled, a man in repose and almost drowsing. “Hard to believe you were a cop.” He let that settle in as a blunt insult and then added, “You don’t talk like one.” His adversary’s accent made him a transplant from the world of upscale Bostonians, possibly uprooted in childhood, for the geographical marker was faint. This and the advanced college degrees would have been enough to alienate William Swahn from his brother officers; he was so obviously not cut from the same blue cloth. “You sound more like a college professor.”
    “I’m a guest lecturer at Berkeley. My area is criminology, but I’m sure the sheriff told you that.”
    What else had Cable Babitt failed to mention about this man?
    “How well did you know my brother?”
    “I never met him.”
    This could be true despite the evidence of the Letter Man photographs in the post office, three shots taken at close quarters. His little brother had been a thief of sorts, stealing people’s images and running off with them. Sometimes a subject would hear the click of the camera and turn to see an empty space where a boy had been standing.
    Oren rose to his feet and turned to the shelves, pretending interest in the titles on the book spines, while he considered the source of Swahn’s inside information. “Let’s talk about your client.”
    “I told the sheriff—several times—no one paid me to—”
    “I didn’t ask who paid you.” Oren faced Swahn, wanting to see the man’s eyes when he said, “Hannah Rice was the client.” Satisfied with the reaction, he pressed on. “Hannah couldn’t afford the day rate of a PI, but then—you’re not a licensed investigator.” He turned back to the shelves and trailed one finger from book to book, as if this matter meant very little to him. “And you don’t need money, do you? That’s why she picked you.” He glanced back over one shoulder. “Oh, I’m sorry. Maybe you thought she came here because you were so smart?”
    Swahn’s eyebrows rose in a subtle touché, and the man almost smiled with approval—almost. “I don’t pretend to know how Miss Rice’s mind works. She’s the only walking enigma I’ve ever met. And there’s something about her speech. She’s not from this part of the country, is she? Sometimes, when she’s tired, I think I hear the ghost of a southern accent.”
    That touch of the Southland in Hannah’s voice had begun to die off in the early years of Oren’s childhood, along with idioms and odd words. He shrugged and splayed his hands and said, “As far as I know, Hannah’s always lived in Coventry.”
    This evidently passed as truth, for the older man seemed disappointed.
    When billeted in the state of Tennessee for the duration of a manhunt, CID Agent Oren Hobbs had gotten a taste of the food and the regional dialect. He had realized then that Hannah Rice must have hailed from there, and this had led to another revelation: He knew every vital statistic in the life