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“It’s mostly ads with a few local news stories thrown in… plus the crime stories, they love those. Anything from cow tipping to arson. It gets people to pick the damn thing up.”

“Danny, I really think this conversation has gone on long enough.”

He plows ahead. “There are no crusading reporters on the Plains Truth staff. They don’t do investigations. Andersson and a couple of others sit on their asses and let the news come to them. In this case, Wicker’s name and mine. Somebody picked up the phone and gave it to them.”

“If you’re going to ask me to find out who did that, you’re dreaming. Reporters protect their sources.”

Danny laughs. “Calling the guys who work for that rag reporters is like calling a remedial math kid Einstein. I think Peter Andersson will give you a name, if he got one. Just push him a little. The way you pushed me.”

Silence, but she hasn’t ended the call. He can still hear the party, very faint. Is Laurie her daughter? A niece?

“A name, not the name,” Danny says. “If Andersson even asked for one, Jalbert would have said he’s with the Manitou PD or the Highway Patrol and hung up. A reputable paper wouldn’t have published an anonymous tip without another source, but they did, and happy to do it. It was him, Inspector. I know it and I think you know it, too.”

“Goodbye, Danny. Don’t call me again. Unless you’d like to confess, that is.”

Shot in the dark time. “Has he been spouting random numbers? Not having to do with anything, just off the cuff?”

Nothing.

“Don’t want to talk about that? Okay. Wish the birthday girl—” he begins, but she’s gone.

He immediately calls Stevie in Boulder. His brother answers as he always does, sounding like a recorded voicemail message. “You have reached Steven Albert Coughlin.”

“Hi, Stevie, it’s—”

“I know, I know,” Stevie says, laughing. “Danny-Danny-bo-banny, banana-fanna-fo-fanny. How you doin, brother-man?”

That says everything Danny called to find out. Ella Davis didn’t tell Stevie that his big brother was under suspicion of murder. She was… careful? Maybe more. Maybe the word he’s looking for is diplomatic. Danny doesn’t want to like her, but he does a little bit, for that. Stevie has his special ability, and he’s developed—slowly—some social skills, but he’s emotionally fragile.

“I’m in good shape, Stevie. Did my friend Ella Davis call you?”

“Yes, the lady. She said she was a police inspector and you were helping them with a case. Are you helping them with a case, Danny-bo-banny?”

“Trying,” he says, then guides the conversation away. They talk about Nederland, where Stevie goes hiking on the weekends. They talk about a dance Stevie went to with his friend Janet and how they kissed three times after it was over, while they were walking home. Someone is playing music loud and Stevie shouts at them to turn it down, which he never could have done as a teenager; back then he would have simply struck himself in the side of the head until someone made him stop.

Danny says he has to go. His anger is mostly gone. Talking to Stevie does that. Stevie says okay, then says the usual: “Ask me one!”

Danny is ready. “Folgers Special Roast.”

Stevie laughs. It’s a beautiful, joyful sound. When he’s happy, he’s really happy. “Aisle 5, top shelf on the right as you go toward the meat counter, price twelve dollars and nine cents. It’s actually Classic Roast.” He lowers his voice confidentially. “Folgers Special Roast has been discontinued.”

“Good one, Stevie. I have to go.”

“Okay, Danny-bo-banny. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

He’s glad it was Davis who talked to Stevie. The thought of Jalbert doing it—of coming anywhere near his brother—makes Danny feel cold to the bone.

30

Ella Davis puts her phone in the pocket of her slacks and goes back to the party. Her sister is doling out cake and ice cream to half a dozen little girls wearing party hats. Davis’s daughter, birthday girl and star of tonight’s show, keeps casting greedy eyes at the pile of presents on the sideboard. Laurie is eight today. The gifts will be opened soon and soon forgotten—except maybe for Adora, a doll that cost Davis forty hard-earned bucks. The little girls, fueled by sugar and primed to party hearty, will play games in the living room and their shrieks will fill her sister’s house. By eight o’clock they’ll be ready to fall asleep while the umpteenth showing of Frozen plays on the TV.

“Who was that?” her sister asks. “Was it your case?”

“Yes.” One dish of ice cream has already been spilled. Mitzi, Regina’s beagle, gets on that right away.

“It wasn’t him, was it?” Regina asks, whispering. “Coughlin?” Then: “Use your fork, Olivia!”