“Brody, we don’t have to like every guest. We just have to give them good service. And that’s what we’re going to do for the Campbells right now. Four people, including two kids under ten, in this one. So expect more work.”

He had more to say, but since his mother didn’t get it, like at all, maybe his dad would.

He cleaned three bungalows with his mother—the Campbells’ was definitely the worst—then rode his bike into town. He went by the station house, then hesitated.

His dad would listen, he knew that. And most likely his dad would tell his mom. Then he’d get a lecture.

Maybe not his dad then—at least not yet—but it ought to be family, and somebody who understood about bad guys and liars.

Family, an adult, a lawyer. And one who’d put bad guys away.

He turned his bike around, rode to Zane’s office.

The building looked good, he thought. He hadn’t seen the stuff Clint Draper had put on it in person, but one of his friends had taken a picture, and he’d seen that.

He figured Clint Draper was one of the bad guys his dad and Silas and Zane dealt with. But now he was dead so they didn’t have to.

He left his bike out front, walked right in. Mrs. Carter looked up from her computer—he bet she wasn’t playing lame old Candy Crush.

“Well, hey, Brody.”

“Hey, Mrs. Carter.”

“You got legal trouble?”

He smiled because she’d expect it. “I don’t think so, but maybe I could talk to Zane about some stuff.”

“You’re in luck. He’s got a half hour before his next appointment. You go right on back.”

Gretchen, who he thought was really pretty—though he wouldn’t look at her butt the way that Bingley lowlife had looked at his mom’s—came in from the back with a thick file.

“Hi, Brody.”

“Hi. I’m going back to see Zane.”

“Great. How about you tell him I made those copies like he wanted?”

“Okay.”

He kept going, pausing at the door to Zane’s office, where Zane sat at his desk sort of frowning at his computer screen. Wouldn’t be a game up there either, Brody thought.

He rapped his knuckles on the doorjamb. “Hey, Zane?”

“Hey, Brody.”

No hesitation, Brody noted when Zane swiveled away from the screen. Some adults pretended to pay attention but they were still thinking about their other stuff.

His parents even did it sometimes unless you made them see it was important.

“I want to talk to you about something.”

“Sure, have a seat. Something you need?”

“No. I don’t know. Not exactly. Mom’s not listening. So … Janey’s mom broke her ankle.”

“I heard. Or Maureen heard so I heard.”

“I’m sorry and all, but I had to help Mom clean some of the bungalows so Janey could help her mom. I don’t mind so much, but when I’m running things, I figure on having more standbys for housekeeping. Anyway, we cleaned the one that guy who’s supposed to be a college English teacher who’s writing a book’s in.”

“Supposed to be?”

Yeah, Zane listened. “Yeah, supposed to. If you had The Grapes of Wrath sitting on the table, and I said how I liked Cannery Row better, what would you say?”

“I’d have to say, even though The Grapes of Wrath is considered his masterpiece, I agree on that. Though I’m really fond of Tortilla Flat.”

“I haven’t read that—but see? You’d, you know, say something about the books. You wouldn’t just go, like, blank. And if you were really an English teacher, you oughta have a bunch of shit to say.”

“I’m going to agree with you again, but it could be he didn’t want to talk. He may have been surprised a teenager could have opinions on Steinbeck. Not everybody’s friendly.”

“But he was trying to be, right? ‘How’s it going, big guy?’” Brody rolled his eyes. “I hate that. I’m not big so it’s, like … patronizing.”

“Okay.” The kid liked puzzles, Zane thought. And since it intrigued him that Brody thought he’d found one, Zane leaned back, swiveled side to side. “Clearly, he hit you wrong big-time. What else?”

“Okay, first, before the book thing, he looked at Mom’s butt.”

“I gotta play devil’s advocate here, pal. I’ve been known to look at a female butt in my time. I expect I’ll do so again.”

“Not like that. It was…” It made him uncomfortable still, had heat rising up the back of his neck. “It wasn’t nice. It was like … it made me think I was glad I was there, that Mom wasn’t alone with him.”

The initial humor on Zane’s face faded away. “All right. If you got a bad feeling from him on that, we’ll make sure your mom doesn’t go there alone.”

The embarrassed heat washed away in relief. “You believe me.”

“I believe you got a bad feeling, and that’s enough.”

“Okay, okay, good. A couple other things. So I got this wondering when he acted like he never heard of Cannery Row like that? I said how my cousin—you—got me going on Virgil Flowers, how I was going to finish Sandford’s whole series this summer.”

“That fuckin’ Flowers. Great stuff.”

“Yeah, it is. And he says to that? He doesn’t watch much TV—even though the stupid TV’s on right then anyway.”

“Huh. Well, I pity his lack of taste in fiction, but—”

“He’s got no books, Zane!” Rolling with it, Brody tossed his hands up. “No books except for that one paperback. I looked when we were cleaning. Not one book. And don’t say e-reader, because he doesn’t have one. I looked. You can’t tell Mom or Dad—not any of this—but I looked in the drawers.”

“I’ll consider this attorney-client privilege, but you know better, Brody.”

Because he did, and maybe he’d deserve the lecture—later—he rushed on. “He wasn’t writing anything either. He was playing Candy Crush on his laptop. I think he’s lying about being an English teacher, and lying about writing a book. How come he’d lie about that?”

“We can’t say for certain he is, but people lie for all kinds of reasons. How long’s he here?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t check because Mom went back to the office. He’s got a real expensive bottle of Scotch in the cupboard. The kind Pop gave Dad last Christmas. I saw that when I was putting his grocery order away. And his hiking boots hardly have any wear on them. He didn’t recycle, and the bin’s right there! How come somebody driving a Prius doesn’t recycle?

“He’s lying, Zane,” Brody insisted. “People who’re hiding out lie. Criminals lie. Criminals hiding out especially lie, right? Maybe he’s the one killed Clint Draper and tossed him in the lake.”

“Whoa, let’s slow down. You’re making some solid, salient points here. Don’t overstate your case. What’s his name?”

“Bingley. I don’t know his first name, damn it. If Mom leaves the office, I can get into the office computer and find stuff out.”

Jesus, Zane thought, the kid was a pistol already firing.

“Hold off on that, now. There’s no point in you getting into trouble over this.” Considering, Zane picked up his baseball, turned it in his hand. “You came to me, and I’m going to respect that. I’m going to respect you’ve got reasons for feeling what you feel. So I’ll do a little poking around. If everything about him checks out, no harm, no foul. If it doesn’t, I’ll take it to your dad.”

“Promise?”

Zane swiped a finger over his heart. “It might take me a couple days, but I’ll look into it. You do me a favor back, and stay away from that cabin.”

“Okay.”

“Promise?”

The hesitation told Zane the “okay” had been cover, but the promise would stick. Brody swiped a finger over his heart in turn.

To make it official, Zane took out a legal pad. “All right, let’s get down what you know. Bingley, college professor—you know where?”

“Up north, but the Prius is a rental. He’s maybe like your age, I guess. Not as tall as you. Maybe around six feet and like … one-fifty maybe. He’s got blond hair, sort of long, one of those little beard-type things, blue eyes, and he wears glasses.”

The kid paid attention, Zane thought as he noted it down. He tossed out a few basic questions, dug out what he could.

“I can work with this.” Satisfied, Zane pushed up. “Let’s grab a cold one before my next client comes in.”

He walked to Brody, held out his hand knowing the shake would seal the deal on both sides.

Once he sent the boy off, Zane sat back down at his desk, made more careful notes from their conversation.

He knew Brody was a smart kid, and not just academically. And also a naturally friendly one. Something about Bingley had set him off. And while he hardly saw some guy renting a bungalow on Reflection Lake bashing in Clint Draper’s skull, he’d follow through on his promise.

So he needed a full name, where he supposedly taught, maybe the address on record.

A simple matter—if he could ask Emily, or talk to Lee. But he’d made the promise, had to keep it.

He put the mission aside for his next client, and couldn’t get back to it until the end of the workday.

But he had a plan.

He strolled out as Maureen and Gretchen shut down for the day.

“I should be in by eleven tomorrow,” he said as if both of them wouldn’t know. “I don’t expect I’ll be more than an hour in court.”