“He could always get a job.”

“But then when would he practice?”

“At night.”

“Well, he’s pretty sure he’ll be getting a record contract one of these days. Then he’ll pay me back. And he looks so cool when he dresses like the Beach Boys.”

“That’s another problem, Jamie. The surfer thing. He’s from Iowa. We don’t have many oceans here.”

The phone rang. There’s a black one on her desk and a black one on mine. She smiled like a child about to do something to impress a parent. She lifted the receiver, put it to her ear and said, “Law office.” Then she cringed and made a face. “The McCain law office.” She gave me one of her embarrassed heartbreaking smiles by way of apology and waggled the phone at me. She hadn’t asked the caller’s name or the reason for calling, but at least I didn’t have to worry about her forgetting to write down the information. I was here to write it down myself.

“This is Sam McCain.”

“Where the hell are you, Sam?” Kenny Thibodeau said.

“What’re you talking about?”

“Bennett. Somebody killed him last night. I’m out here now. I left a message with Jamie and-” Pause. “She must’ve forgotten.”

“I’m on my way.”

Jamie had begun typing with two fingers. When she’d started, she’d only used one. I’m pretty sure that’s what they mean by progress.

Police Chief Clifford Sykes, Jr. once told a newspaper reporter that “fingerprints weren’t all that useful when you come right down to it.” He said that because he and a pair of his crack deputies had failed to dust for prints before letting the press and the neighbors walk all over a crime scene. Cliffie could not conduct a single investigation without destroying evidence. While that was bad for jurisprudence, it was great for Judge Whitney, whose family power had been ripped away by Clifford Sykes, Sr. She was always glad to see the Sykes clan humiliate and debase themselves.