As if I hadn't heard that before. "Then we have a problem."
"And that is?" She was getting impatient—not used to much discussion of her agenda, I figured.
"I only find dead people."
"T HEY knew that," I told Tolliver in an undertone, as we walked back to our rooms. "They knew that. I don't find live people. I can't."
I was getting upset, and that was dumb.
"Sure, they know," he said calmly. "Maybe they just don't want to admit she's dead. People are funny like that. It's like—if they pretend there's hope, there is hope."
"It's a waste of my time—hope," I said.
"I know it is," Tolliver said. "They can't help it, though."
R OUND three.
Paul Edwards, Sybil Teague's attorney, had drawn the short straw. So here he was in my room. The others, I assumed, had scattered to step back into their daily routine.
Tolliver and I had gotten settled into the two chairs at the standard cheap-motel table. I had finally begun reading the paper. Tolliver was working on a science fiction sword-and-sorcery paperback he'd found discarded in the last motel. We glanced at each other when we heard the knock at the door.
"My money's on Edwards," I said.
"Branscom," Tolliver said.
I grinned at him from behind the lawyer's back as I shut the door.
"If you would agree, after all our discussion," the lawyer said apologetically, "I've been asked to take you to the site." I glanced at the clock. It was now nine o'clock. They'd taken about forty-five minutes to arrive at a consensus.
"And this is the site of... ?" I let my words hang in the air.
"The probable murder of Teenie—Monteen—Hopkins.