24

By the time Nettie arrived with a five-gallon can of gas, it was getting dark.

They’d driven back to the cities in their two cars—stopping to pick up something to eat, then on to the condo to eat their dinner on the terrace while Mars briefed Nettie on what had happened over the past twenty-four hours.

Nettie was a good listener. She didn’t interrupt unless she found something being said to be unclear or unbelievable. And because Mars knew he was being listened to by a discerning critic, it made him a more objective judge about his own information.

Nettie didn’t interrupt while Mars told her about Baker in Khe Ranh, Sig’s take on the connection between Andrea and Campbell, and the connection between Andrea, Campbell, and a golden oldie.

All she said was, “Why is it always the circumstantial evidence that feels right in your gut? The stuff that’s way out on the edge. I mean, you could tell me that five people in Redstone believed Andrea and Campbell were romantically involved, and I’d have more doubts than I do based on what we’ve found out about the soup can, the Khe Ranh massacre, and the golden oldie.”

Neither of them said anything for a while, then Nettie said, “What do we do next?”

“I was thinking on the way back,” Mars said. “I’m going to ask Boyle Keegan if he can find out anything about Campbell and the Green Man. Or if he can’t, if he knows somebody who can. Somebody we can trust.”

Nettie nodded, seeming preoccupied. “Good idea.”

Mars watched her closely, which wasn’t easy to do in the dark. Boyle Keegan had had a thing about Nettie when they’d last worked together. Nettie hadn’t seemed interested and Boyle wasn’t the kind of guy who pushed, so it hadn’t gone anywhere. Still, Mars was curious. In a paternal way.

“You’ve already called him?” Nettie said.

“I called him while I was waiting for you to show up with the gas. Got his answering machine. So I just said we had a sensitive case involving Campbell and a Marine sniper, and we needed some inside-the-beltway advice on sources.”

“You left Campbell’s name on the message?” Nettie said, her voice sounding disapproving.

“Nettie. This is Boyle Keegan’s answering machine we’re talking about. Boyle encrypts everything. I’d asked him about security when we worked with him before. He said as long as I used the number he gave me there was no problem.”

“Still,” Nettie said. “This case feels a little scary to me.”

Mars thought she was talking about funding for their office. State budget cuts had decimated government agencies. Mars and Nettie, as the newest team in the BCA’s Cold Case Unit—with no notches of accomplishment as yet on their professional belts—were vulnerable.

They both knew that. Mars didn’t care. Nettie did.

“Nettie, we haven’t been on this job for a year, and you’ve already established a state-wide reputation. Hell, you’ve got a region-wide reputation. There’ll always be a job for you. And you know how I feel. If it’s over, it’s over.”

Nettie looked over at him, wondering how he could be so cavalier. Of everybody she knew, she could think of no one with fewer career choices than Mars. Not because he didn’t have the ability to do other things, but because there were so few things he wanted to do. And so many things for which he had no patience.

“I know that I’m making a contribution, Mars. And I know other people know that. But until we prove that what we’re doing really accomplishes something, it won’t count. We need to prove ourselves on a big case.”

“This could be that,” Mars said.

“Besides,” Nettie said, “I wasn’t talking about this case being scary because it could affect our funding. I meant scary-scary. What you said about Campbell in Vietnam, and about this Green Man character abducting Andrea Bergstad. These are scary people.”

“Scary people keep us in business, kiddo.”

Nettie didn’t answer him. They sat in the dark, swatting bugs and looking out at the city. A low front had settled over the city in the past few days, bottling up the heat, deadening the air. During the day, the air looked slightly yellow. At night it had texture.

Mars said, “I forgot to turn out the living-room lights. We’re getting bugs.”

“It’s okay,” Nettie said, “I need to go anyway. This air is getting unbreathable.”

Mars said, “You’ve got fifteen seconds. ‘I don’t trust air I can’t see.’”

Nettie felt a sudden, uncontrollable urge to cry. It was the first time since they’d worked on a cold case that Mars had played the movie-line game.

He’s back, she thought, grateful that the unbreathable darkness was a cover for her emotion.

“The clock is ticking,” Mars said.

“I know it was Gene Hackman. But I’m drawing a complete blank on the movie.”

“Crimson Tide,” Mars said, standing. “Chris and I watched The Conversation and Get Shorty before he went to Cleveland. If there is any doubt that Hackman is one of the great actors of our time, you just need to watch those two movies. The difference in the way he plays the two characters is nothing short of brilliant.”

“The new Jeff Bridges,” Nettie said. For as long as she’d worked with Mars, he could, with very little provocation, go crazy with indignation at what he considered to be the greatest cinematic injustice of the last century: that Bridges hadn’t gotten an Academy Award for his performance in The Fabulous Baker Boys.

She recognized her mistake in mentioning Jeff Bridges immediately. Mars was winding up to go crazy. She took preemptive action and interrupted him.

“Mars? Something kind of weird. I’ve been going through the tip sheets we got from TGL, pulling out the random sample tips—the ones that we thought were worthless—to scan them for our files. I looked again at the one we got from the nineteen-year-old girl in Vermillion, South Dakota. DeeDee Kipp. And it just hit me. When we first started the convenience-store project? When we were deciding on criteria to use to select cases?”

“Yeah,” Mars said, starting to feel tired again.

“We started with convenience-store victims who’d been shot in the five-state region.”

“Which, in our wisdom,” Mars said, “we quickly decided was a far too inclusive criterion.” He pulled back the door to the living room. “C’mon in. Before we get West Nile Virus.”

They stood blinking in the living-room light.

“This time, when I saw the name of the town DeeDee Kipp was from—Vermillion, South Dakota—I realized that one of our 1987 shooting victims was from Vermillion, South Dakota.”

Mars blinked hard. “So?”

“So, I thought it was unusual. Someone who calls in to TGL is from the same small town in South Dakota as one of the shooting victims that we picked using our original selection criteria.”

Mars walked away from Nettie, over to one of the metal shelves. He fingered through a pile of stuff on one of the shelves, pulling out a road atlas. Flipping to the back of the atlas, he drew his finger down the page. When it stopped, he turned to Nettie, reading out loud.

“Vermillion, South Dakota. Population nine thousand seven hundred and sixty-five. It’s not a stop on the road, Nettie.”

“If it were ninety thousand plus, I might be impressed. I still think it’s unusual—two people connected to the investigation from the same small town.”

“Admit it, Nettie. You wanted an excuse to interrupt me. You didn’t want to listen to me on the subject of Jeff Bridges not getting an Oscar. True?”

“It was on my mind,” Nettie said.