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flaked onto his shirtfront. He paid it no mind. He had his gun jammed inside his belt in front, and it was obviously digging into him while he sat. Two or three times he shifted to try and ease it, and finally he took it out and put it on his desk. It was a Glock.
    “Everybody got Glocks now?” I said.
    “Yeah,” Farrell said. “Department’s trying to stay even with the drug dealers.”
    “Succeeding?”
    Farrell laughed. “Kids got Glocks,” he said. “Fucking drug dealers have close air support.”
    The fat cop continued to talk. He was animated, waving his right hand about as he talked. When the cigarette burned down, he spat it out, stuck another one in his mouth and lit it with one hand.
    “The background stuff on Olivia says she was born in Alton, South Carolina, in 1948,” I said.
    “Yeah.”
    “Father and mother deceased, no siblings.”
    “Yeah.”
    “BA, Duke, 1969; MA, Boston University, 1982.”
    Farrell nodded. While I talked he unwrapped a stick of gum and shoved it in his mouth. He didn’t offer me any.
    “Taught Freshman English classes part-time at Shawmut College, gave an Art Appreciation course at Boston Adult Ed in Low Country Realism.”
    “Whatever that is,” Farrell said.
    “Vermeer,” I said, “Rembrandt, those guys.”
    “Sure,” Farrell said. He chewed his gum gently.
    “Worked on the last couple of Stratton campaigns, volunteered on the United Fund, and a bunch of other charities.”
    “Okay,” Farrell said, “so you can read a report.”
    “And that’s it?”
    “You got the report,” Farrell said.
    “Anybody go down to Alton?”
    Farrell stared at me.
    “You heard about the state of the economy around here?” he said. “I gotta work extra detail to fucking buy ammunition. They’re not going to send anybody to Alton, South Carolina, for crissake.”
    “Just asking,” I said.
    “I made some phone calls,” Farrell said. “They’ve got a birth certificate on her. The Carolina Academy for Girls has her attendance records. Duke and BU both have her transcripts.”
    “Perfect,” I said.
    “You going to go down?” Farrell said.
    “Probably,” I said. “I’m getting nowhere up here.”
    “Join the group,” Farrell said. “Incidentally, we got an inquiry on you from Senator Stratton’s office.”
    “If nominated I will not run,” I said. “If elected I will not serve.”
    Farrell ignored me.
    “Came into the commissioner’s office, and they bucked it on down to me.”
    “Because he mentioned the Nelson case?”
    “Yeah. Commissioner’s office never heard of you.”
    “Their loss,” I said. “What did they want to know?”
    “General background, my impressions of your competence, that stuff.”
    “Who did you talk to?”
    “Guy named Morrissey, said he was the Senator’s aide.”
    “What did you tell them?”
    “Said you were cute as a bug’s ear,” Farrell said.
    “You guys,” I said, “are obsessed with sex.”
    “Why should we be different?”

chapter twelve
    I FLEW TO Atlanta the next morning, took a train from the gate to the terminal, got my suitcase off the carousel, picked up a rental car, and headed southeast on Route 20 toward Alton. Most of the trip was through Georgia, Alton being just across the line in the western part of South Carolina, not too far from Augusta. I got there about two-thirty in the afternoon with the sun shining heavy and solid through the trees that sagged over the main road.
    It was a busy downtown, maybe two blocks wide and six blocks long. The first building on the left was a three-story white clapboard hotel with a green sign that said Alton Arms in gold lettering. Across the street was a Rexall drugstore and lunch counter. Beside it was a men’s clothing store. The mannequins in the window were very country-club in blue crested blazers and plaid vests. There were a couple of downscale restaurants redolent of Frialator, a store that sold yarn, and a big Faulknerian courthouse made out of