“That may be true, but Canning Township is county, not city, which makes it the sheriff’s jurisdiction. I heard Chief Geller was sending a detective out, but just as a courtesy.”
“Hoskins.”
“Yeah, that was the name. He’s not here yet, and by the time he makes it, everyone will be gone. Maybe he got lost.”
More likely stopped somewhere for a few pops, Ralph thought.
Yune said, “Those clothes will end up in an evidence box at the sheriff’s department, and they’ll still be there when the twenty-second century dawns. No one gives a shit. The feeling is Maitland did it, Maitland’s dead, let’s move on.”
“I’m not ready to do that,” Ralph said, and smiled when Jeannie, sitting on the sofa, made fists and popped two thumbs up. “Are you?”
“Would I be talking to you if I was? Where should we meet tomorrow?”
“There’s a little coffee shop near the train station in Dubrow. O’Malley’s Irish Spoon, it’s called. Can you find it?”
“No doubt.”
“Ten o’clock?”
“Sounds good. If I have to roll on something, I’ll call and reschedule.”
“You have all the witness statements, right?”
“On my laptop.”
“Make sure you bring it. All my stuff is at the station, and I’m not supposed to be there. Got a lot to tell you.”
“Same here,” Yune said. “We may crack this yet, Ralph, but I don’t know if we’ll like what we find. This is a pretty deep forest.”
Actually, Ralph thought as he ended the call, it’s a cantaloupe. And the damn thing is full of maggots.
21
Jack Hoskins stopped at Gentlemen, Please on his way to the Elfman property. He ordered a vodka-tonic, which he felt he deserved after being called back from his vacation early. He gulped it, then ordered another, which he sipped. There were two strippers on stage, both still fully dressed （which in Gentlemen meant they were wearing bras and panties）， but humping at each other in a lazy way that gave Jack a moderate boner.
When he took out his wallet to pay, the bartender waved it away. “On the house.”
“Thanks.” Jack dropped a tip on the bar and left, feeling in a marginally better mood. As he got moving again, he took a roll of breath mints from the glovebox and crunched a couple. People said vodka was odorless, but that was bullshit.
The ranch road had been strung off with yellow police tape—county, not city. Hoskins got out, pulled up one of the stakes the tape was tied to, drove through, and replaced the stake. Fucking pain in the ass, he thought, and the ass-pain only deepened when he arrived at a cluster of ramshackle buildings—a barn and three sheds—to discover no one was there. He tried to call in, wanting to share his frustration with someone, even if it was only Sandy McGill, who he regarded as a prissy twat of the first order. All he got was static on the radio, and of course there was no cell service out here in South Jerkoff.
He grabbed his long-barreled flashlight and got out, mostly to stretch his legs; there was nothing to be done here. It was a fool’s errand, and he was the fool. A hard wind was blowing, hot breath that would be a brushfire’s best friend if one got started. There was a grove of cottonwoods clustered around an old water pump. Their leaves danced and rustled, their shadows racing across the ground in the moonlight.
There was more yellow tape stretched across the entrance to the barn where the clothes had been found. Bagged and on their way to Cap City by now, of course, but it was still creepy to think that Maitland had come here at some point after killing the kid.
In a way, Jack thought, I’m retracing his path. Past the boat landing where he changed out of his bloody clothes, then to Gentlemen, Please. He went to Dubrow from the titty-bar, but then he must have circled back to . . . here.
The open barn door was like a gaping mouth. Hoskins didn’t want to go near it, not out here in the middle of nowhere and not on his own. Maitland was dead and there were no such things as ghosts, but he still didn’t want to go near it. So he made himself do just that, step by slow step, until he could shine his light inside.
Someone was standing at the rear of the barn.
Jack uttered a soft cry, reached for his sidearm, and realized he wasn’t wearing it. The Glock was in the small Gardall safe he kept in his truck. He dropped the flashlight. He bent and scooped it up, feeling the vodka surging around in his head, not enough to make him drunk, just enough to make him feel woozy and unsteady on his feet.