(Las Vegas, 12/27/68)
Mary Beth wore his Christmas-gift sweater to bed. It was way too big. She tucked her chin under the turtleneck and goofed on him. She pulled the cuffs over her hands.
“There’s no guarantee that you’ll find my son, but you’re determined to spend all that time and money anyway.”
The bedroom drapes were open. The Nixon signs were down. The hotels were hawking yuletide cheer now. The green bulbs reminded him of that emerald. It was like a dream revived.
“There’s no guarantee that I’ll find him, but my instincts keep telling me L.A. I’m building an informant network there, so there’s always the chance that something will pan out.”
“Have you done something like this before?”
Wayne rolled away from her. He smelled her shampoo on the pillow. He took a breath of it.
She said, “You found Wendell Durfee, didn’t you?”
Wayne looked at her. “Yes, I did.”
“And you killed him?”
“Yes.”
She pulled the pillow over and got their eyes close. She did that a lot. She said they both had these green flecks.
“Sweetie, I already figured that out.”