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“You think Bill Wilson considershimthe guilty party.”
“If he knows about the dirty trick with the bags and the mags, I think it’s likely. If he believes Tolliver actually did write a letter confessing to the frame in February, it’s almost sure. And Tolliver told that podcaster, Buckeye Brandon, about the letter. Brandon called it thepurportedletter on his pod, but still…”
“Still, ADA Allen could be in big trouble,” Holly finishes.
Izzy strips off her shirt and wipes sweat from her face with it. “I’m going to take a shower.”
“I’ll leave you to it.”
“And Holly?”
She doesn’t need to say it. Holly zips a finger across her lips and turns an invisible key.
“One other thing. You said you knew someone in the local recovery programs. Have you talked to him? Or her?”
“Not lately,” Holly says, which is technically not a lie, but once she’s out of the gym, she calls John Ackerly. He answers on the first ring.
“Yo, Holly.”
“Sorry to bother you while you’re working, John.”
“No worries. It’s slow today.”
“Did you get a chance to talk to that guy you mentioned?”
“Big Book Mike. Tell you what, I haven’t. I kind of forgot.”
“So did I,” Holly admits.
“I will, but I probably won’t get anything out of him. He never shuts up in meetings, but he takes the anonymity business very seriously.”
“Ah. Okay, understood.”
“The Rev sometimes hits the Straight Circle meeting on Wednesdays, then goes to The Flame afterward. You know that place? Little coffee shop on Buell Street?”
“Yes.” She’s had coffee there herself. It’s close to her office.
“I’ll go to the meeting, and if he’s there, I’ll ask him afterward. Ask a few others if he’s not. You’re interested in someone calling himself Bill, or Bill W., right?”
“Right.”
“Anything else?”
“Ask this Big Book Mike if he’s heard anyone expressing anger about the murder of Alan Duffrey.”
3
Tapperville is a pleasant, well-to-do little town, mixed rural and suburban, about twenty miles north of the city. It’s where Michael Rafferty—sometimes known as the Rev, sometimes as Big Book Mike—hangs his hat when he’s not attending AA and NA meetings all over Upsala County. It’s also the home of the Tapperville Rec Center, where there are three Little League fields and one Senior League field. All are lighted, and the Rec is only half a mile from the Rev’s house.
Trig has scouted the area carefully but could only hope beforehand that it wouldn’t rain on this Tuesday evening. Bad weather would scrub the baseball games, which would in turn scrub his plans. But the day has been cloudless and warm after yesterday’s showers. Trig won’t say this is God’s stamp of approval, but he won’t say it’s not.
Games are going on at all four fields, and both parking lots are almost full. Trig slips his unremarkable Toyota into one of the few remaining slots, dons a pair of sunglasses and a Cleveland Cavaliers hat, and gets out. He’s wearing a gray jacket that’s as forgettable as his gray car. In one of the pockets is a .38 Smith & Wesson revolver. He would prefer his .22, but has decided—reluctantly—that the Rev can’t be the fourth juror stand-in. The Rev takes the Eleventh Tradition (“We need always maintain personal anonymity”) very seriously, butis Trig willing to risk his mission on the belief that Big Book Mike hasn’t let slip to anyone that he is coming tonight? No.
Why did I ever say that thing about how the person I was mourning died in lockup?
His thought, but in his long-gone daddy’s voice.
“Because I was upset,” he mutters as he turns up the collar of his jacket and starts walking down the street to the little one-bedroom house where the Rev lives.