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“He would.”

“Why are we here, Danny? I’ve got a babysitter and her meter’s running.”

Danny tells her about Jalbert’s visit to the school, ostensibly to inform Danny he needed to make an official statement. Also to show him the picture of the grieving Wicker family in the Oklahoman.

“But he had another reason. I wouldn’t have known if Jesse—the kid I work with—hadn’t mentioned that Jalbert parked out back when it’s only steps to the front door from the faculty parking lot, which is empty in the summer. That made me suspicious. I checked, and found a little envelope under the driver’s seat of my truck.” He slides the fried pie sleeve across to her. “It’s in here. Might be heroin, but I think it’s coke.”

For the first time since he’s met her, Davis’s professional veneer cracks. She lifts one of the sleeve’s end flaps and peeks inside.

“I handled the envelope just by the sides. I doubt if he left any fingerprints, he’s too smart for that, but on the off chance he slipped up, you might want to check.”

She recovers smartly. “Let me get this straight. You’re accusing Frank Jalbert, twenty-plus years a KBI inspector, half a dozen citations, including two for bravery, of planting drugs in your truck.”

“I’m sure he’s a hell of a cop, but he’s convinced I killed that woman.” Only that’s not right, not enough. “He’s obsessed, and if you haven’t seen it, I’d be very surprised.”

“You could have planted this on yourself, Danny.”

“I’m not done.” He tells her about the bogus highway stop and how Trooper Calten spent most of his time looking under the driver’s seat. “He skimped everything else, because he knew where it was supposed to be. And as far as planting it on myself… ask Jesse Jackson about Jalbert parking around back. He’ll tell you.”

The waitress is coming with Danny’s food. Davis sweeps the fried pie sleeve into her purse with the side of her hand. When the waitress is gone, Ella points at his plate and says, “That looks like something the dog sicked up.”

Danny laughs and digs in. “There! Now you sound like a human being.”

“I am a human being. I also work for the Kansas Bureau of Investigation, and that makes me a Doubting Thomas.”

“Jalbert gave my name out to that rag. Plains Truth.”

“You say. You’re as obsessed with him as he is with you.”

“I have to be, he’s trying to nail me for a crime I didn’t commit. And what can I do to fight back? Let out the air in his tires? Slap a KICK ME HARD Post-it on the back of that black coat he wears? Only talk to you, and that’s a risk. My lawyer said you might arrest me for possession.”

“I’m not going to do that.”

She watches him eat and twiddles at the small gold cross she wears around her neck. “Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that Frank gave out your name to the one outfit that would publish it, and that he planted cocaine in your truck. Assuming it’s not talcum powder or Mannitol. Just for the sake of argument let’s say that. Do either of those things prove you didn’t rape and murder Yvonne Wicker? Not in my book.”

Danny can’t argue that.

“I will get what’s in your little envelope tested, and I’ll talk to that guy at Plains Truth, Andersson. Text me your young assistant janitor’s number and I’ll also get in touch with him. Now I have to go.” She starts to get up.

“That little gold cross—is it just for show, or are you a believer?”

“I go to Mass,” she says warily.

“So you can believe in God but not that I had a dream about where Wicker’s body was. Have I got that right?”

She touches the little gold cross briefly. “Jesus performed thirty miracles, Danny. You had one dream. Or so you say. The check’s yours. I just had coffee.”

Danny says, “Lady, you don’t know how much I wish I’d never had that fucking—no, that motherfucking—dream.”

Ella Davis pauses. She’s almost smiling. “You’re an engaging guy, Danny. Reasonable. Friendly. At least that’s the face you show the world. What’s underneath I don’t know. But I’ll tell you a secret.” She bends over him, fingers splayed on the table, little gold cross swinging. “I’d like to believe you. Maybe I even could, except this is the only goddam psychic dream you’ve ever had. Why you, I ask myself?”

“Great question,” he says. “Guys who win the lottery probably ask themselves the same thing. Only this is the opposite. I don’t know why me. It’s easier for you to believe I killed her, isn’t it?”

“By far.”

“Do me one favor. Be careful of Jalbert. I think he might be dangerous. It isn’t just planting drugs or giving out my name. That counting thing is bizarre. I looked it up. It’s called—”

“Arithmomania,” she says, then looks like she wishes she could unsay it. She leaves without looking back, that big purse of hers swinging. The waitress comes by and says, “Save room for blueberry buckle, hon.”