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you drinking with?”
    “Why? You jealous?” I didn’t rise to the bait, so she answered. “Sancho, Marie, and the Critter.” The Critter was the name Vic had given to Antonio, their son.
    “I thought Saizarbitoria was in Rawlins.”
    “They left that lovely town Saturday morning; he said he might take a day or two off.” She shrugged. “They’re the only Basquos I know, and the Critter is getting kind of cute.”
    “I didn’t know little kids drink Patxaran.”
    “He should have; it would’ve kept me from drinking all of it.”
    The radio on the transmission hump of Vic’s twelve-year-old unit sputtered and coughed Ruby’s voice, and we both looked at it.
    Static. “I’ve got Sheriff Berg on the landline; do you want me to patch him through?”
    I unclipped the mic from the dash and hit the button as Tim’s voice sounded through the tinny speakers. Static. “What do you want, redneck?”
    I keyed the mic. “Hippie.”
    He continued unabated. Static. “You got the hot little deputy with you?”
    I held the mic out to Vic. “You still got that psychedelic VW bus with the tinted windows you park outside the schools?”
    The voice continued. Static. “Only for you, darlin’.”
    I returned the mic to my own mouth, which was generally a little cleaner. “Hey, Tim, have you got a group in the county called the Apostolic Church of the Lamb of God?”
    Static. “Amen, heaven help me.”
    “What’s the story?”
    Static. “Oh, they owed about quarter million in property taxes that they suddenly made current here about a month ago. They’re putting together a little compound, trying to start a dairy up in the northwest corner of the county and the state. Why?”
    “I’ve got a boy down here; might be one of their castoffs.”
    Static. “Blond-haired, blue-eyed, slight, and fidgety—about driving age?”
    “Yes, he says his name is Cord.”
    Static. “The mother was in here about three weeks ago asking for him.”
    “Well, I’ve got him.”
    Static. “Hold on to him till I can get hold of her—she’s up in that part of the county that’s kind of hard to get to.”
    Vic interrupted as she took our bag of sandwiches through the drive-through window. “Hey, Tim?”
    Static. “Yeah?”
    She set the bag on the center console and continued. “I heard you got the guy that did that motel arson last week.”
    Static. “What?”
    She started up the engine and pulled the unit down into drive. “I heard you got DNA on the perp and broke open the case.”
    Static. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “Oh, that’s right, genetic evidence isn’t permissible in South Dakota—everybody’s got the same DNA.”
    I reattached the mic as his laughter rang through the speakers. Vic turned to look at me. “There, mystery solved.”
    “I guess.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “I’m not sure. Anyway, what are we supposed to do with him in the meantime?” I watched the morning traffic, what there was of it, drifting by as a man with very long hair and an extravagant beard stood on the corner and raised his hand to us.
    Vic’s eyes followed mine as I tipped my hat at the man with the rucksack on his back. “Another friend of yours?”
    I slumped in my seat as we rolled past the individual who continued to hold his palm out to us. “Nope, but it’s coming up on fall and time for all the hitchers to disappear south.”
    •   •   •
    When we pulled into the parking lot, Dorothy’s familiar Subaru was parked in the spot closest to the door, and, when we got inside, there was a large cardboard box full of pastries from Baroja’s, the Basque shop, on the dispatcher’s desk. The repentant café owner was sipping coffee with the dispatcher herself.
    Dorothy turned and looked at me. “I started feeling bad about turning you away, so I went over to Lana’s and got some treats.” She pointed at the paper bags we carried from one of her competitors. “My being closed