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  Turner sighed and drove the Escort into the barn to take the Chevy’s place. When she came out, Tommy was still under the hood.

  She walked over and laid a gentle hand on his back. His shoulder blade felt sharp under her palm. The bone was covered with only a thin layer of skin; there wasn’t any fat or muscle to spare. “I have to go now, Tommy.”

  “Eh?” He withdrew from the hood and looked at her, old blue eyes sharp. “What’s the gol dern hurry?”

  “I’ve got to do an errand for Rusty.”

  Tommy stilled for a moment, then slammed the hood down. “Okeydoke. Just remember to put oil in her every couple hundred miles or so.”

  “Will do.” Turner got in the cab.

  “I put some extra cans of oil under the front seat.” Tommy slapped the hood and stepped away. “Take care now.”

  She nodded and backed out of the drive. When she looked back, he was still staring after her, the breeze gently lifting his grizzled hair. Turner made sure to memorize the image. It might be the last time she ever saw Tommy.

  Chapter Four

  I ’m pretty sure Fish has a first name,” Sheriff Clemmons said slowly, not sounding sure at all. “Maybe Tom or Ned.”

  John watched the sheriff expressionlessly. Ned? Nobody named their kids Ned anymore, did they? The only Ned he could think of offhand was Ned Yost. Well, and Ned Nickerson, Nancy Drew’s boyfriend. The name was wimpy even thirty-one years ago when he’d been sneaking reads from his sister’s yellow-spined collection.

  John tilted his paper coffee cup to catch the last nasty, stone-cold drop. It tasted like the toxic leavings in an old chemical oil drum, but it contained caffeine. Caffeine was the only thing keeping him upright at the moment. They’d been in Winosha four hours. Before that, it’d taken him and Torelli over five hours to get to Winosha, driving the agency’s navy Crown Victoria. It was a damn good thing he had seniority, too, otherwise it would’ve been five hours of listening to idiot jazz. He was a Garth Brooks man himself. ’Course, Torelli had been looking a little twitchy by they time they hit Eau Claire. By that point they’d run through three Brooks tapes and a Johnny Cash for variety. And Eau Claire had been at least an hour before Winosha.

  “I think Fish is his first name, sir,” the deputy said.

  John had already forgotten the younger officer’s name, and the kid was turned just enough away so that he couldn’t read his name tag. The deputy was big and corn-fed, with almost invisible blond hair shorn to within a quarter-inch of his scalp. The kind of cop that would be good at taking down a drunk and disorderly on a small-town Friday night but might need help filling out the paperwork on Monday.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” Clemmons retorted. “Fish isn’t a Christian name.”

  Good point. The reply seemed to temporarily baffle the sheriff’s subordinate, and since no one else in the room was likely to know Fish’s name—last or first—there was a silence.

  They were all crowded into the meeting room in Winosha’s small municipal building. The room was utilitarian, with a thin, dark gray carpet and cinder-block walls painted light green. Some female hand had tried to decorate the room by printing little pink cats in a row around the top of the walls, nearly at the ceiling. There were a couple of long tables, a pile of metal folding chairs, the TV, and a coffeemaker with an empty pot.

  The fifth man in the room sat at the same table as John but didn’t seem to pay much attention to the conversation. Calvin Hyman glanced at his watch in a manner he no doubt considered surreptitious. John didn’t look at his own watch, but he knew it had to be getting on for midnight. Hyman was not only the First Wisconsin Bank of Winosha president but also the town mayor, and he was apparently running for the state legislative seat, as well. The man was tall and silver-haired and looked just like a bank president and town mayor should. Distinguished. But he was wearing silly green snakeskin boots, and John couldn’t entirely trust a man with such bad boot taste. Hyman had lectured them over an hour ago about the finer points of security at his bank, not that the security had done a whole lot of good in this case. Only one of the tellers had managed to slip an exploding ink device into a bag of money. Wherever they were, the robbers were traveling with lots of inked-up cash.

  Hyman stood and shook out his trousers. “Well, about done tonight, are you?”

  “No.” John smiled at the man.

  Hyman hesitated, then sat down again, visibly annoyed. John hid a grin and glanced at the screen displaying the bank surveillance tape. The little dark-haired teller was kicking the redheaded one again. They’d run the tape so many times he had the sequence of events memorized.

  “What’s she do?” he asked. He hadn’t met either of the tellers in person; they’d been questioned and sent home before he’d arrived. That was first on his mental to-do list for the morning: requestion the witnesses.

  The sheriff looked over, startled. “Who?”

  John gestured to the screen with his empty coffee cup. “Ms. Hastings there. You said she works only Saturdays at the bank. What’s she do the rest of the week?”

  “Turner’s the town librarian,” Hyman answered.

  John raised his eyebrows. “Really.”

  On the screen the woman rose slowly from the floor and took the black garbage bag from the robber wearing the SpongeBob SquarePants mask. She was a little thing, probably didn’t hit five-foot-two. The redhead towered over her. But Turner had been the one to take charge. Later in the tape, she’d defuse things and get the robbers out of there. John lifted the cup to his mouth again before he remembered it was empty. The thing was, she looked exactly like a small-town librarian. The type of librarian who would’ve shushed the Beaver and Wally in the fifties, all prim and proper, her dress buttoned to her throat. He couldn’t remember ever seeing a librarian look like that in real life. The woman behind the counter at his local library in Milwaukee had dreadlocks, multiple piercings, and a loud laugh.

  Turner the librarian, in contrast, wore a plain, dark dress, either navy or brown, hard to distinguish on the black-and-white tape. She was petite, and the dress hung on her as sexless as a potato sack. There was no way to tell if there were any curves under there at all. It was about as revealing as a Taliban-approved burqa and it was frustrating as hell. She probably wore it for the sole purpose of bugging men like him. Then, too, she’d pulled her hair into a bun. Not a twist or a sexy coil, but an old-fashioned plain bun at the nape of her neck. And she was wearing honest-to-God, big horn-rimmed glasses. Where’d she find them? At a Goodwill? Did they even make glasses like that anymore?

  For Pete’s sake. She might as well be waving a red flag at him.

  “She ever put a pencil in that bun?” he asked, scowling at the screen.

  He heard a snort behind him from Torelli. The deputy turned to him, puzzled. Larson. That was his name. Larson.

  “Yeah, now that you mention it, I’ve seen her do that at the library,” Larson answered. “Why?”

  John shrugged. “Hell if I know.”

  Torelli loudly sighed again and walked around him. “So you’re sure that the other individual is a male called Nald?”

  “That’s right.” The sheriff hitched up his utility belt. He was in his fifties with a gut that probably made running any distance impossible. Not that running was necessarily required for a small-town cop.

  “His full first name is Nald?” Torelli asked, his voice dripping with disbelief.

  “Maybe it’s a family name, Dante,” John drawled.

  The sheriff looked between the two of them but decided not to comment. “Reginald is his first name, but everyone calls him Nald. He and Fish are known associates.”

  “Known?” John picked out the word. “They’ve got a record?”

  “Not an official one. But they hang around together. We’ve had some break-ins during the winter on empty vacation homes. We thought that might’ve been them. Not much was taken. They’re petty.”

  “Bank robbery’s not usually considered p
etty,” Torelli said in his dry New York accent.

  It was almost midnight, he’d ridden in a poorly air-conditioned car for over five hours, the man was wearing a suit, for God’s sake, and yet he still looked cool and neat. It just wasn’t natural. Torelli was about thirty and had dark curly hair cropped short, swarthy skin, and a runner’s build. He stood a couple inches shorter than John’s own six-two. Maybe it was childish, but that fact pleased John no end. The younger man wore a dark charcoal suit with a narrow chalk stripe that was almost invisible. Underneath were a light gray shirt and a solid charcoal tie. His shoes were plain black and polished to a mirror finish. Either Torelli spent his entire government paycheck on clothes or the man had family money.

  John had first met Torelli seven months ago when they’d worked a series of bank robberies around Milwaukee. He hadn’t been impressed with Torelli’s East Coast polish, and apparently the feeling was mutual. The younger man hadn’t bothered to hide the fact that he didn’t like his superior’s laid-back investigative style. They had traded thinly veiled barbed comments, but John had thought the problem would rest there. Until he discovered that Torelli had gone over his head to complain to Chris Donaldson, the Special Agent in Charge at Milwaukee. Not a good team-player move. Donaldson hadn’t been in Milwaukee all that long, and there’d been the real possibility that he’d believe Torelli’s bullshit complaints. Fortunately, Tim Holt, the ASAC, had gone to bat for John. But the whole thing had left a bad taste in his mouth, and he’d made damn sure that Torelli hadn’t worked with him again.

  Until now.

  “Tuna,” Larson suddenly exclaimed.

  Everyone turned to him.

  A flush on the young man’s narrow face bled into his buzz cut hairline. “That’s Fish’s first name. Tuna.”

  “Tuna Fish,” Torelli said, deadpan.

  “No wonder he took up a life of crime,” John said. He glanced at the bank tape. Yoda and SpongeBob were making their getaway, and Turner was walking to the drive-through teller position to shut it down.

  The door to the municipal room opened, and a woman in her sixties came in. Her hair was flaming orange, and she had an enormous mole on her left cheek. She’d been introduced earlier as working for the town somehow.

  “I thought you all might like something to eat,” she said cheerily. She set a cooler on one of the tables and took out sandwiches wrapped in green and red cellophane, a bag of Fritos, and some packaged cookies. “I’ve got a cooler in the car with iced tea if you want to get it, Doug.”

  The deputy nodded and left.

  “Thank you, ma’am. That’s very kind of you.” John stood and piled a paper plate with two sandwiches and a handful of cookies.

  Beside him, Torelli unwrapped a squished bologna sandwich on white bread. He wrinkled his nose. John carefully stepped on one of Torelli’s polished Italian shoes. The younger man stiffened but made no other sign that his toes were being crushed. His face smoothed. John removed his boot.

  Larson came back with a big red plastic barrel cooler.

  “There, now.” The woman began filling blue plastic cups with iced tea. “I hope you all have found some clues about the robbery?” She glanced up with a polite but inquisitive expression on her face.

  “Getting along fine, Louise,” the sheriff replied rather vaguely. “Thank you for the snack. We’ll clean up when we’re done so you don’t have to wait around for us.”

  Louise looked a little disappointed at her dismissal, but she smiled and left the room.

  John went back to sit in front of the TV. The bank robbers were long gone on the screen, but he didn’t have the energy to rewind the tape again. He watched the aftermath of the robbery for the first time as he unwrapped a sandwich—chicken salad—and bit into it. Too much salad dressing. It was mushy and bland, but they hadn’t stopped for supper earlier and he was hungry. He took a second bite.

  The redheaded teller was having hysterics on the tape, everyone crowded around her, which was probably her intention. Except for Turner Hastings. She was off to the side, watching, curiously apart.

  “Iced tea?” Torelli handed him a cup and rested a hip on the table, idly watching the TV, as well.

  “Thanks.” John drank thirstily. The tea was freshly brewed and had a lot of ice in it. Just right. He took another bite of sandwich.

  On the screen, EMTs started pouring through the bank door.

  “What do you think?” Torelli asked, then answered his own question. “Sounds like a couple of kids bored with the heat. They didn’t even get away with very much, according to Hyman.”

  John’s mouth was full, so he shrugged.

  In the surveillance tape, Turner walked to a desk and opened the center drawer. She took something out. Nobody paid attention to her. They were too busy with the other teller and the crime scene. John felt a little irritated. You’d think an EMT would at least ask her if she was all right.

  “They’ve already checked these guys’ families,” Torelli continued. “And no one has seen the perps, at least not since the robbery. I can go by in the morning and question the family again, but there doesn’t seem to be much point.”

  John watched Turner walk to a bank filing cabinet, take out a key, and stroll into the bank vault. She didn’t pause or hesitate. She looked like she had a perfect right to be there, and maybe she did. But then why . . . ?

  “Maybe run down their friends, check out the school, doesn’t sound like they attended much, but you never—” Torelli abruptly cut himself off. He stared at the tape, as well.

  Turner opened a safe deposit box and upended the contents into her purse. Then she neatly replaced the box and locked it. She walked back to the bank filing cabinet and replaced what must be a safe deposit key.

  “What’s she doing?” Torelli muttered.

  John didn’t reply. He was too enthralled.

  Turner strode briskly to the desk and put the other safe deposit key back into the center drawer. She closed the drawer. Then she tilted her face and for the first time looked right into the surveillance camera. Right into his eyes. Her mouth curved into a little lopsided smile, like that of a self-satisfied cat.

  “Shit,” Calvin Hyman exclaimed suddenly behind them.

  And John realized three things. One, Turner, the little witch, had robbed the bank. Two, this case wasn’t going to be nearly as simple as Torelli thought. And three, he had a raging hard-on.

  Chapter Five

  C alvin Hyman took out his house key and wearily started to insert it in his front door. The door was pulled open before he could complete the action.

  Shannon, his wife, peered out at him, dry, teased hair framing her face like a demented halo. “Well, my goodness, that took forever,” she chirped. “I was beginning to think you’d spend the night at the municipal building. Were you talking to Sheriff Clemmons all this time? Was Dougy Larson there? Did you have to give a statement?”

  Calvin nodded curtly to all of the above as he stepped in and hung his keys on the pigtail by the door. There wasn’t much point trying to get a word in edgewise this early on in the conversation. Besides, he needed to think about—

  “And they sent FBI agents!” his wife exclaimed. “Who’d’ve imagined FBI agents?” Apparently not Shannon. Her voice was high and excited, and her pale blue eyes were wide and bright.

  “Bank robbery’s a federal crime,” he explained to her slowly. “They had to call in the FBI.”

  “It’s just like a TV show. Wasn’t CSI about the FBI? Or was it 24? Kiefer was a FBI agent, wasn’t he? Did one of them look like Kiefer?”

  For Chrissake. Did she have to flaunt her own stupidity? “No.” He headed for the kitchen for a drink of water. “Nobody looked like Kiefer Sutherland. These are real FBI agents, Shannon, not actors.”

  “I bet they have two guns on them at all times.” Shannon trotted behind him. “Did you see if they wore one on the ankle?”

  “No.”

  “I saved some hamburger hot dish,” she
said, her mind fluttering to another topic. “It won’t take a minute to microwave a plate.”

  It was nearly one in the morning, and the last thing he wanted to do was eat warmed-over casserole. But if he didn’t eat it, Shannon’s feelings would be hurt, and if her feelings were hurt, she’d pout. Shannon pouting was a terrible thing to behold. He sighed, gave in to the inevitable, and followed her into the kitchen, wincing. The house was new—he’d had it built only two years ago—but already the kitchen looked stuffed with pigs. Somehow Shannon had gone on a swine binge when it came to decorating. Ceramic jars in the shape of fat pink pigs’ heads lined the counter. The curtains on the window over the sink featured frolicking pigs, and the wallpaper had rows of tiny dancing pigs on it. He’d never thought much about pigs before. If someone had asked his opinion of pigs two years ago, he would have shrugged and said that they seemed a nice enough barnyard animal.

  Now. Now he loathed pigs.

  “Here we are.” Shannon set a plate in front of him at the butcher-block kitchen table.

  Little pink pigs marched in a row along the plate’s rim. A green mound took up the middle, and bright orange cheese melted atop the mound like hardened lava. The food was still steaming. Shannon had a heavy hand with the microwave.

  “Have the FBI figured out where Fish and Nald got the idea to rob the bank?” Shannon was back with two pig coffee mugs.

  Calvin frowned and looked up. “Idea? What do you mean? They were probably bored.” That’s all he needed: for the town to be looking for a criminal mastermind behind the bank robbery.

  “Oh, come on.” Shannon sat down opposite him and propped her elbows on the table, pink pig mug cradled between her hands. The curly tail was the handle, and she sipped out of the animal’s back. “Everyone knows they couldn’t have planned a bank robbery themselves.”

  “Why not? Doesn’t take much brains to point a shotgun and grab some money.” What did take brains was to seize the diversion of the bank robbery to steal the contents of his safe deposit box. If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he wouldn’t have believed Turner Hastings had done it. What the hell had she been looking for?