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dealer?”
    “It’s the one thing I know for sure. My only question is whether or not Mavis was involved.”
    “I can answer that one. No.”
    “You’re positive?”
    “Positive.”
    “How?”
    “Look, Jack was using, not selling. That was the secret Mavis didn’t keep. Nothing about any drug enterprise.”
    “What did she tell you, exactly?”
    “That she hated what it did to him. She was planning some kind of intervention when we split. I don’t know if she went through with it, but if she did it didn’t stick.”
    “Hypothetically speaking, let’s say Jack was selling—”
    “He wasn’t.”
    “Say he was. If he sold locally, who would know about it?”
    “Everyone would know about it. Just like everyone knows where I spend my nights. The country out here goes on forever, but the towns don’t come any smaller.”
    “What do people know about Mavis?”
    Sims poled at a lime with his straw.
    “They know I wasn’t the first,” he said. “And they know I probably wasn’t the last, either. Mavis did her loving and leaving on the side.”
    “And Jack?”
    “Knew but didn’t care. Sex was something twisted for him. He couldn’t get off unless he paid for it.”
    “Prostitutes?”
    “Yeah. That’s where he went ‘fishing.’ In Nevada. The person who tells you Jack was a good guy is the one who has something to hide. He was the kind of son of a bitch that’s born, not made.”
    “So I’ve gathered. Is Mavis with anyone now?”
    “I honestly don’t know.”
    “Okay,” Raney said. “I’ll let you get back to it. Here’s my card. If you think of anything, call me.”
    Sims stood.
    “You know, I’m sorry about Jack. Despite what I said before.”
    “I’ll pass that on.”
    “Better not.”
    Raney sat sipping his whiskey, staring out the glass wall. The town was lit up in the distance, and there were lights scattered around the valley below. One pocket of light seemed particularly incandescent, as though a film crew were shooting a night scene. Raney raised his glass to the lab rats.

8
    D etective Raney,” the receptionist said. “We were wondering when you would get here.”
    She sounded happy to see him, even relieved, as though they’d known each other a long while, or as though he were the hotel’s most loyal customer.
    “I had stops to make on the way.”
    “Of course.”
    She didn’t ask for details, didn’t seem the least bit curious. The one advantage to a crime scene buried in the hills: the media hadn’t caught wind.
    “The room is all paid for. Top floor in the back, like you asked. I just need your John Hancock.”
    She handed Raney a pen.
    “Oh, and you have a visitor.”
    “A visitor?”
    “Sheriff Bay. I told him he could wait in your room. I hope that’s okay.”
    “How long has he been up there?”
    “About an hour.”
    “I hope there’s a TV.”
    “There is, but it’s busted. We put flowers on it. Makes the place homey.”
      
    Bay was lying prone on the bed, arms folded across his paunch, feet dangling. He hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights. Raney fumbled for a switch.
    “Nice of you to take your shoes off,” he said.
    “There wasn’t anyplace else for me to sit,” Bay said. “These rooms were built just big enough for a bed and a nightstand, for reasons that should be obvious. The current owner bought it as a fixer-upper but never fixed it up.”
    “Keeps the rates low.”
    “I suppose. You know I have a guesthouse out at my place. Free of charge. Or we could bill the county, if that’d make you feel better.”
    “Maybe next time.”
    “Suit yourself.”
    “To what do I owe the pleasure, Sheriff?”
    Bay pointed to an unopened bottle of Scotch and two shot glasses balanced on the windowsill behind the bed.
    “A housewarming,” he said.
    “Sheriff Bay, you just might be the kindest man I know.”
    Raney maneuvered his suitcase into a narrow space between the bed and wall, set his holster on the nightstand, kicked off his shoes.