They could hear Molly saying, “He looks familiar, but I just can’t be sure.”
The hair prickled on Bud Schwartz’s arms. The old witch was going to drop the dime. Unbelievable.
Agent Hawkins was saying, “Do you know him personally?”
There was a pause that seemed to last five minutes. Molly nudged her eyeglasses up the bridge of her nose. She held the photograph near a lamp, and examined it from several angles.
“No,” she said finally. “He looks vaguely familiar, but I really can’t place the face.”
“Do me a favor. Think about it.”
“Certainly,” she said. “May I keep the picture?”
“Sure. And think about the Wildlife Rescue Corps, too.”
Molly liked the way this fellow conducted an interview. He knew precisely how much to say without giving away the good stuff—and he certainly knew how to listen. He was a pro.
“Talk to your friends,” said Billy Hawkins. “See if they have any ideas.”
“You’re putting me in a difficult position. These are fine people.”
“I’m sure they are.” The FBI man stood up, straight as a flagpole. He said, “It would be helpful if I could borrow that Smith-Corona—the one that was used for your press announcements. And the ribbon cartridge as well.”
Molly said, “Oh dear.”
“I can get a warrant, Mrs. McNamara.”
“That’s not it,” she said. “You see, the typewriter’s been stolen.”
Billy Hawkins didn’t say anything.
“Out of my car.”
“That’s too bad,” the agent said.
“The trunk of my car,” Molly added. “While I was grocery-shopping.”
She walked the FBI man to the front door. “Can I ask you something, Agent Hawkins? Are you fellows investigating the death of the killer whale, as well?”
“Should we?”
“I think so. It looks like a pattern, doesn’t it? Terrible things are happening at that park.” Molly looked at him over the tops of her glasses. He felt as if he were back in elementary school. She said, “I know the mango voles are important, but if I may make a suggestion?”
“Sure,” said Hawkins.
“Your valuable time and talents would be better spent on a thorough investigation of the Falcon Trace resort. It’s a cesspool down there, and Mr. Francis X. Kingsbury is the root of the cess. I trust the FBI is still interested in bribery and public corruption.”
“We consider it a priority.”
“Then you’ll keep this in mind.” Molly’s eyes lost some of their sparkle. “They’ve up and bulldozed the whole place,” she said. The trees, everything. It’s a crime what they did. I drove by it this morning.”
For the first time Billy Hawkins heard a trembling in her voice. He handed her a card. “Anything solid, we’ll look into it. And thank you very much for the tea.”
She held the door open. “You’re a very polite young man,” she said. “You renew my faith in authority.”
“We’ll be talking soon,” said Agent Hawkins.
As soon as he was gone, Molly McNamara heard a whoop from the bedroom. She found Danny Pogue dancing a one-legged jig, ecstatic that he was not in federal custody. Bud Schwartz sat on the edge of the bed, nervously pounding his fist in a pillow.
Danny Pogue took Molly by the arms and said: “You did good. You stayed cool!”
Bud Schwartz said, “Cool’s not the word for it.” Molly handed him the mug shot. “Next time comb your hair,” she said. “Now then—let’s have a look at those files you boys borrowed from Mr. Kingsbury.”
Joe Winder took Nina’s hand and led her down the trail. “You’re gonna love this guy,” he said.
“What happened to the movie?”
“Later,” Winder said. There’s a ten o’clock show.” He hated going to the movies. Hated driving all the way up to Homestead.
Nina said, “Don’t you have a flashlight?”
“We’ve got a good hour till dusk. Come on.”
“It’s my night off,” she said. “I wanted to go someplace.”
Winder pulled her along through the trees. “Just you wait,” he said.
They found Skink shirtless, skinning a raccoon at the campsite. He grunted when Joe Winder said hello. Nina wondered if the plastic collar around his neck was from a prison or some other institution. She stepped closer to get a look at the dead raccoon.