“What happened?” Josie asked.

“Jimmy,” the old man said. “After you left, he wanted to know why you told Claire to set up a meeting with Fenelon, why you would even want to talk to Fenelon. Claire said she didn’t know. Jimmy accused her of lying. He also accused Claire of still seeing Fenelon even though she had promised she wouldn’t. Claire said she had to keep seeing Fenelon because Fenelon was her business manager. It went back and forth like that for a while until Jimmy said if Dyson—you—wanted to see Fenelon so bad, you should have Roy set it up. That’s when Jill said that Roy didn’t even know who Fenelon was. Jimmy told her Roy and Fenelon sure seemed like pals the way they would huddle together whenever they, meaning Jimmy, Roy, and Dave, would go to the strip club to watch Claire dance. Before he could even finish, though, Jill was all over Roy. How could he, she wanted to know, how could he go to a stripper joint, which was bad enough, but then sit there and watch Claire dancing naked, which was worse, and Claire going, ‘What’s wrong with what I do?’ Meanwhile Liz, Dave’s wife, she starts shouting at Dave about spending time with whores when they were having problems holding their marriage together and Dave claiming that he never actually looked, which causes Jimmy to ask who the hell was Liz calling a whore and why wouldn’t Dave look. That’s when Jill said she—meaning Liz—was calling Claire a whore. Jimmy then called Jill a whore for sleeping with Roy while she was still in high school, a man old enough to be her father, who did she think she was kidding. Jill slapped Jimmy. Jimmy made like he was going to hit her back, only Roy hit him first, just wham, puts him on the floor. Then Jill screams at Roy for hurting her brother…”

My head was starting to ache almost as badly as my stomach, but the old man wasn’t finished.

“Liz said she wasn’t going to spend any more time in a cabin with someone like Claire. She leaves, slamming the door behind her, and Dave follows her out, trying to calm her down. Claire announces that she’s tired of being insulted by a bunch of sanctimonious hypocrites, which was the word she used—sanctimonious. Said whatever we thought about what she did for a living, it was a whole lot better than holding up liquor stores. So she grabs the kid and leaves—slams the door, too—which causes Jimmy to start chasing after her. That leaves Jill screaming at Roy for being no kind of man because one, he punched her brother and two, he went to see that whore Claire dancing naked. Finally she leaves and Roy follows her out, saying how sorry he is.”

“Okay,” I said. “Only why single out Roy? From what you said when I came in…”

“Before he left he pointed at me, pointed a finger right in my face, and said everyone in my family was crazy. I don’t take that from anybody.”

“Old man, everybody in your family is crazy.” I gestured at Josie. “You most of all.”

“You’re just out of sorts right now,” she said. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

“Do you have your cell?”

“Yes.”

“Let me talk to Roy.”

Josie dialed her phone and handed it to me. It was answered by Jill. I asked her how she was.

“Just fabulous,” she said.

“Really? I heard you and Roy were on the outs again.”

“Dyson, do you know what’s the best kind of sex? Make-up sex.”

“Way too much information, Jillian. Let me speak to your husband.”

A moment later Roy was on the phone.

“Did you do any recon work while you were in uniform?” I asked him.

“Some.”

“Tomorrow starting early, you and I are going to do an all-day surveillance of the building Jimmy found near Lake Vermilion.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Not tonight?”

“No.”

“Good,” he said, and hung up.

I handed the phone back to Josie. “Looks like everyone is getting lucky tonight but us.”

“Speak for yourself, big boy,” she said, and patted my knee. “Dad, I have to go down to Virginia tonight. Need a lift home before I leave?”

It turned out he did. Twenty minutes later I was alone in the cabin with Jimmy’s map still perched on the back of the sofa. I stared at it for a while, went to the refrigerator for a Leinenkugel, returned to my seat, and stared at it some more, while I wondered what to do next—it’s what I call multitasking. Half a beer later I removed the secret cell phone from my pocket, called directory assistance, and had them connect me with Buckman’s roadhouse. When the bartender answered the phone I said, “This is Mc— Dyson.”

“Who?”

“Nick Dyson,” I answered.

Dammit, you nearly used your real name, my inner voice reminded me. Focus.

“Yeah, what do you need?” the bartender asked.

“Got a minute to talk?”

“Yeah, a minute.”

“Hear anything about Fenelon? Has he been around?”

“Yeah, he’s been in. He was talking to—well, I guess that would be interesting.”

“What?”

“He was real chummy with John Brand?”