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Seeley had elected to leave Bilas’s body in the motel room; there was little point in moving it, and not only because of the risk of attracting attention. Bilas’s blood had soaked through the sheets and into the mattress, so disguising the fact of his death would have been difficult. Nobody who had bled that much was likely to survive, but the corpse would also serve as a warning to Bilas’s accomplices, a harbinger of what awaited them as punishment for their transgression. Seeley was not worried about the pigeons scattering. It would have happened sooner or later, even without what was left of Bilas to focus their minds.

Most usefully, thanks to Bilas, Seeley now knew the identities of the culprits, and he possessed an instinct for the hunt. Bilas’s murder might even encourage them to consider handing over the children, although Seeley doubted it. They were not stupid people—foolhardy, yes, but not unintelligent—and must have realized that relinquishing the children wouldn’t save them. Seeley might have been of a forgiving nature, but Blas Urrea was not.

As for the other party, currently seated in a corner out of reach of daylight, staring vacantly at a silent television, Seeley wasn’t sure of her nature, wasn’t sure of it at all.

CHAPTERXXVII

The BrightBlown Dispensary and Life Store was on Forest Avenue, close to the Morrills Corner intersection. It was far enough from the center of town to avoid competition from the plethora of cannabis outlets around Congress Street and the Old Port, but not so distant as to make potential customers think twice about making the trip. The premises had previously housed a discount furniture outlet, but the functional nature of the building had been softened by the addition of a new brick facade and the installation of arched windows. Inside, it resembled an upmarket tanning salon, with mood lighting, inoffensive music, potted plants, and stripped pine furnishing. It even had its own line of clothing, which showed just how far we’d all come. I was old enough to remember when wearing a T-shirt promoting cannabis was an invitation for a cavity search. Then again, the last time anyone had offered to sell me pot, the dealer in question looked like he’d been dragged backward through a hedge and smelled strongly of skunk, both vegetal and animal. The young man behind the counter at BrightBlown wore a branded black T-shirt and clean black jeans, and smiled like a relieved cultist who’d drunk the Flavor Aid and hadn’t died. His hair was bunched in an intricate topknot that would force him to censor his photos in later life so his children didn’t laugh in his face, and he wore a sparse beard that appeared to be growing back after he’d accidentally set its predecessor alight.

Lord, I thought,I’m getting cranky in my middle age.

“Help you?” He eased a basket of gummies toward me and invited me to try one. “They’re gluten-free and vegan.”

“Sorry,” I said, “I’m on a diet.”

“It’s okay,” he replied, taking back the basket. “I don’t like them much anyway.”

I showed him my identification and asked if his boss was around. He told me she was in her office and went to find her, leaving me alone to make the place look untidy. He returned with a woman in her late thirties, also wearing a BrightBlown T-shirt, but with hair that wouldn’t be a source of regret to her in years to come.

“I’m Donna Lawrence,” she said. “I’m the manager.”

She lifted the hatch on the counter and invited me to follow her. BrightBlown was messier behind the scenes, but that wouldn’t have been hard. We passed a handful of employees, none older than thirty, variously engaged in tending, weighing, and bagging, who barely glanced at me as I passed. Mellow classical music came from a Bluetooth speaker by a window.

“Is that good for the plants?” I asked Lawrence.

“It’s good for my sanity,” she replied. “If I give the employees their head, they play stuff that sounds like we’re being burgled.”

She led me to a large, glass-sided office with a desk, a couch, and a pine meeting table with four matching chairs. On the desk was a photograph of Lawrence with a woman who could have been her darker-haired twin and two young children, a boy and a girl. The only decorations on the walls, pinboards and work rosters apart, came from children’s paintings. They gave the place the air of the principal’s office at a kindergarten.

“Family?” I asked, indicating the photograph.

“Wife and kids. There’s also a dog, but she doesn’t sit for pictures.”

Lawrence suggested we talk at the table. She offered me coffee, water, or soda. I opted for soda. She handed me a can from a mini fridge,retrieved a maté gourd with a silver bombilla from among the papers on her desk, and sat across from me.

“So,” she said, “I hear you turned down a gummy.”

“Was that some kind of test?”

“It helps put new customers at their ease and promotes sales. Do you indulge?”

“Not me. I’m high on life.”

“Then you mustn’t be paying sufficiently close attention to it.”

Ah, so we had ourselves a cynic. That made me happy. One could negotiate with a cynic, but not an idealist.

“Not paying close attention certainly helps,” I said. “But pot was never to my taste, maybe because I never smoked cigarettes either. I’m dull that way.”

Lawrence drank her maté.

“I’m old enough to still enjoy reading newspapers,” she said. “I’m familiar with your background, and you’re not dull at all. In my experience, only dull people claim to be interesting. The intriguing ones don’t need to advertise.” She regarded me appraisingly. “You know, this is the first time I’ve ever met a private investigator.”

“If it helps,” I said, “this is the first time I’ve ever met a big-time cannabis dealer who wasn’t facing charges.”

She laughed.

“I’ve never thought of myself that way, though I suppose you’re right. And I may be out of line, but I sense you don’t entirely approve of what we’re selling.”