I got the door opened and guided her into the seat. I pushed her over to the passenger side, then got in myself. I punched open the glove compartment and took out a small box of Kleenex, which I placed on her lap. She was at the eye-dabbing and nose-blowing stage, the eruption being over.

“Cliffie thinks he killed Lou Bennett.”

“Cliffie’s a moron.”

“Yes, but he’s the chief of police.”

“Does he have any evidence?”

“Somebody saw him in front of Bennett’s place about three o’clock this morning.”

Because Molly’s natural inclination was to look on the bleak side of things-Jean-Paul Sartre was a game-show host compared to her-I’d assumed that Cliffie had made his usual mistake of grabbing at the obvious. But a witness seeing Doran there was serious.

“I love him, McCain. I love him.” She started crying again. I waggled the Kleenex box under her chin. She plucked one like a dandelion and put it to her jaunty little nose. But praise the Lord, it was a false start. The tears didn’t get out of the gate. She just snuffled some and then went on talking. “I want to marry him. He’s the man I’ve been waiting for all my life.”

It would have been downright mean to point out that she was only twenty-two.

“Well, he needs a good lawyer, and with his money he won’t have any trouble getting one, Molly.”

I waved to a few courthouse employees as they passed by. One of the males gave me a smile and then the high sign. Yes, that’s right. I was going to hump Molly right here in the parking lot. She faced the wall. She hadn’t seen him.

Now she angled in her seat and said, “Do you have a cigarette?”

“Sure.”

I lighted two and gave her one.

“I wish you smoked filters. I always get tobacco in my teeth from these.”

“I’m sorry. From now on it’s filters for me. Filters, filters, filters.” Usually she would have smiled. Not this time.