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“When did you get your other witness?”

“The next day. After Leeds was already charged.”

“Wednesday.”

“Whenever.”

“The fifteenth.”

“I’m winging this, but the dates and times are pretty much okay,” Bloom said. “911 clocked the call in at six-fifty on the morning of the fourteenth, a Tuesday. From this guy whatever his name was, these fucking Vietnamese names drive me crazy, he’d gone over there to pick up his pals and drive them to work, found all three of them dead. They were working two jobs, the victims. A factory during the day, the restaurant at night. I guess you know that. Anyway, the dispatcher sent Charlie car over, which radioed back with a confirmed triple homicide. The captain called me at home, and I met Rawles over there, it must’ve been eight, a little after. The minute we found the wallet, we drove out to the Leeds farm. I didn’t know farmers were so rich, did you?”

“Some of them.”

“Mmm,” Bloom said, and picked up the life vest he’d carried into the gym with him. Orange, with orange ties, stamped across the back with the words property of u.s. coast guard. “Anyway, Tran identified him that same afternoon, and we zeroed in on the second witness the next day. So you’re right, it was Wednesday the fifteenth. You know why I’m putting on this life jacket?”

“Because the gym is about to sink,” Matthew said.

“That’s very funny,” Bloom said, but he didn’t laugh. “I’m putting this on because it’s padded around the shoulders and neck, and that’s where you’re going to hit me a lot.”

“Tell me something, Morrie. When you went out to the farm, did you see any signs of forced entry?”

“We weren’t looking for a burglar, Matthew.”

“But did you see any marks around any of the doors or windows?”

“I told you. We weren’t looking for any.”

“I’m going to send somebody out there to do a check.”

“Sure. Just let Pat know if you find anything.”

“Better not call her Pat, Morrie.”

“But I’ll tell you, Matthew, you’ll be wasting your time. Look, I know just where you’re heading, you think somebody may have broken in there and stolen that jacket and hat, don’t you? And then returned them to the closet, right? But did somebody also steal Mrs. Leeds’s car keys? And then return them to her handbag in the upstairs closet? Or the duplicate set of keys Leeds was using, which were then returned to the top of the bedroom dresser? Because as I’m sure you already know…”

“Yes, Charlie Stubbs saw…”

“Yes, he saw Leeds drive up in the Maserati at around ten-thirty that night.”

If it was Leeds.”

“Then who was it if not Leeds?”

“It was a man in a yellow hat and a yellow jacket.”

“Which Leeds just happens to own.”

“The hat was a giveaway item, and the jacket came from Sears. There could be a hundred people in this town with that same damn jacket and hat.”

“And are there a hundred people in this town who also have keys to the Maserati this person in the yellow jacket and hat was driving?”

“Well, I admit…”

And keys to the boat?”

Matthew sighed.

“Yes,” Bloom said. “Matthew, I know I was wrong the last time around. But this time, there’s too damn much. Cop a plea, Matthew. Demming’s new and eager, she’ll make it easy for you. Do me that favor, will you? Save yourself a lot of embarrassment. Please?”

Matthew said nothing.

“Come on,” Bloom said. “I’ll teach you how to paralyze me.”

There were two messages on Matthew’s answering machine when he got home that night. The first was from Warren Chambers, telling him what he’d learned about the number on the license plate.

“Shit,” Matthew said.

The second was from Jessica Leeds, asking him to call back as soon as he could. Standing in his workout clothes, wanting nothing more than a shower, he opened his directory to the L’s, found the number at the farm, and dialed it. Jessica picked up on the third ring.

“Mrs. Leeds,” he said, “Matthew Hope.”

“Oh, hello, I’m so glad you got back to me,” she said. “Stephen phoned me this afternoon, right after you left him. He was so excited.”

The goddamn license plate, he thought.

“Well,” he said, “it turns out we were a bit premature.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s no such number in the state of Florida.”

“Oh no,” she said.

“I’m sorry.”

“This is so disappointing.”

“I know.”

“Could it possibly have been an out-of-state plate?”

“Trinh is sure it was a Florida plate.”

“This’ll kill Stephen, it’ll positively kill him.”

“Did he tell you what the number was?”

“Yes, he did.”

“Does it mean anything to you?”

“Mean anything?”

“You wouldn’t have seen a car with that plate driving past the farm… or cruising the neighborhood… anything like that? Looking over the place?”

“Oh. No, I’m sorry.”

“Because if someone did break in there…”

“Yes, I know exactly what you mean. But we’re so isolated here… I think I would’ve noticed something like that. A car driving by slowly…”

“Yes.”

“… or making a turn in the driveway…”

“Yes.”

“But no, there was nothing.”

“Incidentally,” Matthew said, “I’ll be sending someone there to check your windows and doors. His name’s Warren Chambers, I’ll ask him to call you first.”

“My windows and doors?”

“For signs of forced entry.”

“Oh, yes, what a good idea.”

“He’ll call you.”

“Please.”

She was silent for a moment.

Then she said, “I don’t know how to tell this to Stephen.”

Neither did Matthew.

“I’ll do it,” he said. “Please don’t worry about it.”

Warren’s photographic memory had served him well for the better part of his life. In high school — and later during his short stint in college — while students everywhere around him were scribbling crib notes on their shirt cuffs or the palms of their hands, he was memorizing pages and pages of material that he could later call up in an instant. In its entirety. A photograph of the page suddenly popping into his mind’s eye. Exactly as it had appeared when he’d read it. Phenomenal. The trick worked beautifully for faces as well. When he was on the St. Louis police force, he’d look at a mug shot once and only once, and there it was in his head, recorded forever. See that same cheap thief on the street two years later, he’d follow him for blocks, trying to figure out what no-good mischief he was up to now.

If Warren had seen that license plate on the night of the murders, you could damn well bet he wouldn’t have remembered it wrong. It would have registered on the camera of his eye, click, and it would have been etched on his mind forever, in living color, orange and white for the colors of the state’s plates.

Mr. Memory, that was Warren Chambers.

Except for tonight.

Tonight, he could not for the life of him remember Fiona Gill’s unlisted telephone number.

Am I sure that my unlisted phone number is 381-2645?

Was what the lady had said.

Wasn’t it?