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thousand to give her? Joe Cleland—a detective I used to work with—he took the daughter’s confession and told me he didn’t believe her.”
    “But they convicted her anyway?”
    “Sure. Case solved. Solving cases always looks good when budget time rolls around.”
    “Didn’t she have an attorney?”
    “Court-appointed. George English, an old-timer, retired.”
    “And you’re convinced that her killing is linked to her having taken the rap for someone else.”
    “For the ten grand. She gave it to her mother.”
    Another nose wrinkle.
    “I don’t know, Bob,” she said. After a long pause and a slow, deliberate taste of her brandy, she said, “Have you ever thought of getting out of the business you’re in?”
    His laugh wasn’t completely sincere. “I seem to remember you asking me that before.”
    She placed a nicely manicured set of long fingers on his bare wrist. “I worry,” she said, “that’s all. If this Louise Watkins was killed to keep her from pointing out the real killer, whoever did it won’t be thrilled that her mother wants to reopen the case.”
    Not that the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. But he hadn’t dwelled on it. Louise Watkins’s travails went back twenty years. Whoever might have been involved was undoubtedly long gone and disinterested, maybe dead. The possibility that anyone would be keeping tabs on the mother for all these years was remote at best.
    “Actually, it’s her son, Lucas, who wants to reopen the case. He’s a minister.”
    “Whoever.”
    He hadn’t told her about the red pickup yet. Her comment about being worried convinced him that it was better left unsaid.
    “Staying with me tonight?” she asked after Brixton had paid the bill.
    “Can’t. I’m going to Atlanta in the morning and need an early start.”
    “What’s in Atlanta?”
    “It’s who’s in Atlanta,” he said. He told her about Wanda Johnson, aka Puddin’ Johnson, and why he wanted to see her.
    “Think she’ll remember this Watkins girl after so many years? How many hookers has she dealt with?”
    “She says she does remember her. It may not amount to much but I think it’s worth the trip.”
    They drove to where she’d parked her car next to the shop. They embraced and he considered changing his plans for the night. But he girded against the urge, saw her safely into her car, and watched her drive away.
    It was raining hard the next morning when he stumbled out of bed. The alarm clock said six and he didn’t debate it. He’d stayed up late watching an Atlanta Braves game on TV, and mulling over his life, something he found himself doing with increasing regularity. And, as usual during these moments of introspection, much of the time was spent reflecting on his failed marriage and the two daughters it had created.

    •  •  •

    He’d met Marylee Greene shortly after joining the Washington, D.C., police department. Their mutual attraction was instantaneous. It was also culture shock for the Brooklyn-born Robert Brixton. Marylee was nothing like the girls he knew back home, nor were any of the other young women he’d met in the nation’s capital. They tended to be bubbly and gushy, their southern accents only adding to that persona. There wasn’t any gushing in his Brooklyn home while he was growing up, with his dour father and taciturn mother.
    Marylee had been a cheerleader at the University of Maryland, and Brixton expected her to launch into a “Give me an M, give me an A” at any moment no matter the setting or occasion.
    They’d crossed paths for the first time when Brixton, a rookie patrolman, was summoned to a restaurant where a customer had gotten out of hand over his bill. Marylee was on duty as a hostess—she’d majored in European literature and hadn’t yet found a job in D.C. calling for that particular knowledge—and greeted Brixton as he and his partner came through the door. The fracas was quickly settled. The irate customer left, and Marylee