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To his surprise, Jalbert actually answers the question. “My partner’s daughter is sick. Too much cake and ice cream, she thinks. I need you to come to Great Bend this afternoon.”

“Am I under arrest?”

Jalbert shows his pegs. “Not just yet. I need you to give an official statement. For the record. All about the dream you had. Once your dream becomes public knowledge, I’ll bet you can get on TV. All the publicity you ever dreamed of. Too bad Jerry Springer is dead, you’d fit right in with the whores and deadbeats.”

“Accusing me of being a publicity hound when you’re the one who leaked my name? That’s pretty fucked up even for you.”

“It wasn’t me,” Jalbert says, still smiling. “I’d never do such a thing. Must have been one of your neighbors.”

Danny could tell Jalbert one of his neighbors (or maybe it was Pat Grady) threw a brick at his trailer last night, could even show him the note—it’s in his pocket—but that would be fruitless.

Instead Danny asks Jalbert why he waited so long to ask him to make a report. “Because you were hoping for something better, right? Not a statement but a confession. Only your bosses wouldn’t find my confession very satisfactory. Think about it, Inspector Jalbert. I don’t know where she was stabbed, or how many times, or what with.”

“You were in a kill frenzy,” Jalbert says. He believes in Danny’s guilt as fervently as Danny’s late mother believed in Christ the Redeemer. “It’s common with homicidal maniacs. That’s an old term, probably not politically correct, but I like it. It describes you perfectly.”

“I didn’t kill her. Just found her.”

Jalbert shows what’s left of his teeth. “Tell me about Santa Claus, Danny. I love that story.”

“I don’t punch out until four. Which means I can’t be in Great Bend until six-thirty if I keep to the speed limit. Which I intend to do.”

“I’ll wait for you. Ella Davis, too. Or you could punch out a little early, it being your last day and all.”

Danny is so tired of this man.

“I thought you might also like to see this.” Jalbert unrolls the newspaper. It’s the Oklahoman. Jalbert turns to an inside page and hands it to Danny. The story is headlined MURDERED GIRL COMES HOME. There’s a photograph. It’s what Jalbert wanted him to see. Danny thinks it’s the real reason Jalbert came.

The picture shows all anyone needs to know about human grief in a single image. Yvonne Wicker’s father is holding his wife, whose face is buried in his shirt. His head is cocked skyward. His mouth is pulled down in a grimace. The cords stand out on his neck. His eyes are squeezed shut. Standing behind them, next to a long black Cadillac with HEARST MORTUARY on the side, is a young man in what appears to be a high school letter jacket. He’s wearing a baseball cap. The brim obscures his lowered face. Danny guesses it’s Yvonne’s kid brother.

Danny thinks he’s looking at something the movies and TV dramas rarely express, or even comprehend: the human toll. The hammer of grief and the stupidity of loss. The wreckage.

His eyes fill with tears. He looks down at the picture and the headline, MURDERED GIRL COMES HOME, then up into Jalbert’s face. He’s astounded to see the man is smiling.

“Oh, look! The murderer cries! It’s like one of those Italian operas!”

Danny almost hits him. In his mind he does hit him, smashing Jalbert’s nose to one side and sending blood down on either side of his mouth in a red Fu Manchu mustache. The only thing that holds him back is the knowledge that Jalbert wants that. He wipes a hand across his eyes instead.

“At least tell me her folks don’t know about the dog. At least tell me that much.”

“No idea,” Jalbert says, almost cheerfully. “I was not the informing party, that was a detective from Oklahoma City. My job is working the case, Danny. Which means working you.”

Danny is still holding the newspaper. It’s crumpled. He smooths it out and holds it up for Jalbert to see. “Do you want to see another mom and dad in a picture like this? Because whoever killed her may not be done. He could get two or three more while you’re fixated on me.”

Jalbert recoils as if Danny has waved a hand in his face. “I’m not fixated, I’m dedicated. I know you did it, Danny. There was no dream. You didn’t need a dream to go where she was buried, because you buried her. But let’s agree to disagree. Be in Great Bend by six-thirty or I’ll put your name and plate number out to KHP. Bring your lawyer if you want. And you can keep the newspaper. You might like to gloat over what you did to her family. Four vics for the price of one.”

He turns, the tail of his black coat flying, and walks back toward the lobby.

“Inspector Jalbert!”

He turns, eyebrows raised, smooth skull on either side of that weird widow’s peak as pale as cream.

“Do you grind your teeth?”

Jalbert’s brow furrows. “What?”

“Your teeth. They’re all worn down. Maybe you should get one of those rubber dams. They sell them in Walgreens.”

“My teeth are hardly the subject under discus—”