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On Monday, Jalbert is called to Wichita to make a report on the Yvonne Wicker case.

Top brass will be present, also the county attorney from Wilder County.

Dart County doesn’t even have a county attorney, Jalbert tells Davis.

“Do you want me to go with you?” Ella asks.

“No.

What I want is for you to press Coughlin on where he was during those blanks in the first three weeks of June.

And you need to knock on doors in that trailer park.

Talk to Becky Richardson—”

“I did—”

He makes a chopping gesture with one hand, a gesture that’s very unlike him.

“Talk to her again.

And talk to her daughter.

Ask if Coughlin ever made her uncomfortable.

You know, touching.”

“Jesus, Frank!”

“Jesus what? You think what he did to Miss Yvonne just came out of nowhere? There will have been signs.

Now are you with me on this or not?”

“Yes, sure.”

“Good.

Nineteen.”

“What?”

“It’s the only good prime number,” Jalbert says, then makes the chopping gesture again.

“Never mind.

Knock on doors.

Find something.

We can’t let him leave Wilder County, let alone the state.

I’ll take care of Wichita.”

“Can you convince them to arrest Coughlin?”

“I’m going to try,” Jalbert says, “but don’t hold your breath.”

He leaves.

Davis goes to Oak Grove and starts knocking on doors, although not on Danny Coughlin’s; after their conversation at the Coffee Hut, she’s not ready to talk with him again.

Becky Richardson is home but on her way out, telling Davis she has to do a favor for a friend.

She has nothing new to add anyway, only that she and Coughlin had a relationship but now are quits.

The daughter, Darla Jean, stares at Davis from in front of the TV with big eyes.

Ella makes no attempt to interview her.

At eleven o’clock, after a series of fruitless interviews that have told her nothing new except Danny has agreed to leave the park, she calls Plains Truth.

She half-expects voicemail, but the phone is answered by a young man. “Yell-o.”

“I’d like to speak to Peter Andersson, please.”

“That’s me.”

“Mr.

Andersson, I’m Inspector Ella Davis of the Kansas Bureau of Investigation.

I’d like to talk to you about Daniel Coughlin.”

There’s a long pause.

Davis is about to ask if Andersson is still there when he speaks again, sounding younger than ever.

“I was given a good tip and I published it, okay? If there was something wrong with giving out his name, I didn’t know.”

Ignorance of the law is no excuse, Davis thinks, but in this case there’s no law anyway—just accepted practice.

“But if there’s something wrong with the follow-up, I guess I could print a retraction.

If it’s not true, that is.”

What follow-up? she thinks, and makes a mental note to pick up the latest issue of Plains Truth.

“What I want to know, Mr.

Andersson, is who gave you your information?”

“A cop.” Andersson pauses for a moment, then blurts, “At least he said he was a cop, and I believed him because he really had the inside track on the investigation.

He said printing the guy’s name would put pressure on him to, you know, come clean.”

“This mystery cop didn’t give you a name?”

“No—”

“But you ran the story anyway.”

“Well, isn’t it true?” Andersson is trying to sound pugnacious.

“Isn’t this Coughlin the guy you’re looking at for the murder of the girl?”

“Mr.

Andersson, I think I’d better come see you in person,” Davis says.

“Oh God,” he says, sounding younger than ever.

“What time would be convenient?”

“I guess I could be at the office.

There now.

Have you got the address? We’re in Cathcart.”

“I have it.”

“Truth is pretty much a one-man operation.

Just tell me one thing, ma’am.

Did I break the law when I printed his name?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Davis says.

“It wasn’t illegal, just shitty.

I’ll be by this afternoon.”