Mike raced back west on Route 3 again, almost to the motel where he’d spent the past night with Lena. He could feel himself getting hooked on her, everything from the way she smelled to the way she took notes. She was a good case manager, a multi-tasker unparalleled, whereas he seemed to not be able to walk and chew gum at the same time.

But the guilt was creeping up his spine. He didn’t understand it. Molly had been gone a decade, yet his back was hurting, his neck stiff with a tension he couldn’t break. It was the case, it was having to solve the first murder in almost two decades, it was the way the case seemed to have multiple personalities, but then it was this sense he’d betrayed his departed wife, even though he’d taken off the wedding ring six years ago.

He veered north, toward the Canadian border, sticking a CD into the console, letting the sounds of Don Covay overpower his restless mind.

He liked the old guys, like Covay, with his upbeat rhythm and blues. People didn’t know the extent of Covay’s influence on more popular artists like Aretha Franklin, groups like The Rolling Stones. Mike liked that – a guy behind the scenes, making it happen.

---

The casino resembled a Holiday Inn from the outside – a nine-story hotel attached to a sprawling, ground-level section. The surrounding land was flat, empty; just the casino, shimmering in the heat like a mirage. Mike put his gun in the glove box, locked the car, and walked inside.

The interior was an assault to the senses: hallucinogenic carpeting, a ceiling of glass panels with ornamental twists of fire suspended like billows of dragon breath. Rows of slot machines clanged and burbled; roulette wheels spun like the ruse of a hypnotist; gift shops broadcast pinkish light with shelves abounding in shiny souvenirs. There were two brightly decorated bars, a busy restaurant, everything interconnected and walkable, like being inside a massive pinball machine.

The scattered customers were mostly older, white, faces vapid at the slots or fixed in concentration where they sat belly-up to a green felt table, watching the cards come out. A security guard stood nearby, dressed in a dark blazer. Mike approached, keeping his badge in his pocket. “Hi, looking for a friend who works here – Marnie Blackburn?”

The security guard was beefy, had pockmarked skin, and wore his dark hair back in a thick braid. He shook his head. “Sorry, haven’t seen her today, don’t think she’s on. Can I help you?”

Mike watched an older man at a blackjack table as the cards came out.

“I was just in town,” Mike said. “Thought maybe I’d say hi. Guess I’ll play some cards while I’m here…”

“Would you like me to get a message to her?”

Mike flapped a hand. “That’s alright.”

The heavyset guard asked Mike his name and then scrutinized him. “And how does Marnie know you?”

“Oh well, long story.”

After the call from Stephanie, the picture had become instantly clearer: If the tribal police were dragging their feet, it was because Marlene’s husband, Cody Blackburn, was one of them. And if Marlene was shacking up with Steve Pritchard, it sounded like the marriage was on the rocks.

The guard continued to clock Mike then unclipped the two-way radio from his belt, held it up. “We’re in communication with the tribal police if it’s any kind of emergency.”

A cocktail waitress was scooping empty glasses onto a tray and seemed to take notice.

Mike put out both hands in a stop gesture. He took a half step closer to the guard and dropped his voice. “That’s not necessary.”

The guard stared at Mike then put away the radio. “Well, like I said, Marnie’s not here.” His tone was flat. “Enjoy your time at the casino.” He moved off.

Mike hoped the guard hadn’t inferred there was something scandalous about his relationship to Marlene Blackburn. He wasn’t here to start rumors, just fly under the radar, and he followed after the guard to straighten it out when he heard a voice.

“Hey.”

The cocktail waitress had moved closer, balancing the tray of glasses over her shoulder, eyes darting to the guard, who sank into the colorful, jangling chaos. Then she looked Mike up and down.

“You’re a friend of Marnie’s?”

“Yeah. You know her?”

“You look like a cop.”

Mike said nothing.

“What do you want to talk to her about?”

It was best to come clean. “Steve Pritchard.”

The cocktail waitress, who was Caucasian, short, and either twenty-five or forty, it was impossible to tell, said, “Meet me over at the bar in five minutes. Take one of the open tables.”

---

She showed up where he was sitting, watching as a senior woman in a peach blouse blew on a handful of dice at a nearby craps table. The cocktail waitress had a tray of fresh drinks; highball glasses quivering with red liquid and floating cherries. “You’ve got about thirty seconds. I can come back, but it’s got to be quick.”

She set a drink in front of him and offered a fake smile. Mike took a sip for show then asked, quickly, “You’re friends?”

“I know her. Marnie’s one of the event coordinators.”

“And you know who Steve Pritchard is?”

“I know the name.”

“I’m trying to find out where he was on the night of July twelfth. He says he was staying with Marnie.”

“So you are a cop.”

“My understanding is she’s married to Cody Blackburn. Are they separated?”

She blinked at him, glanced around a bit, perhaps to see if anyone was watching, while saying, “Look, I got to go deliver these. I’ll come back in a minute.”

She moved off before he could say anything else. Mike watched her go then pulled out his phone. He googled Mohawk marriage customs, in case there were any big differences he should know about. The Mohawk Nation had to approve of a marriage, and in order to do so, the betrothed had to be from separate clans, to promote genetic diversity. After the ceremony, the groom went to live with his wife’s family. Other than that, it all seemed pretty normal. Divorce was frowned upon.

The ageless waitress – Mike still hadn’t gotten her name – returned to the table. He held up his mostly full drink and pointed at it, playacting a displeased customer for the cameras. She played along, asking, “Something the matter, sir?”

“So, Officer Blackburn lives with Marnie? Or her family?”

“At this point, she’s got her own place. I think they’re legally separated.”

“And what do you know about the night of the twelfth? Almost one week ago?”

The waitress sighed, picked up Mike’s drink, and set it on her tray. Raised her voice a little, as if people were listening in, too. “So, I’ll get you something else, then?”

“Was Pritchard there, or not?”

“She talked about it. Told me a couple days ago the tribal police had come around, asking her if he’d been there.”

“Know what she told them?”

“No. But she told me that she was working until midnight, went home, and he was there – Pritchard – passed-out drunk. They just had this thing, and it’s over… That’s all I know.”

“She wants to get back with her husband?”

“I don’t know if she wants that either.”

“How did Pritchard meet her in the first place?”

“Here,” the waitress said. “About – I dunno – couple months ago? There was still some snow on the ground.” She scanned the area again. Mike noticed the security guard, standing with a bald man in a suit, gold name tag shining. Looked like a manager.

The waitress saw them, too, raised her voice again for show. “Alright, sir. I’ll be right back with that.” She walked toward the bar as the security guard and manager made their way to Mike.

He stayed seated, looking up as they gathered around.

“Sir,” said the manager-type. His name tag read P. Merriweather. “I’m the head of security here at the casino. Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Like I told your associate, here—” Mike nodded at the heavyset guard with the ponytail “—I was just in town, thought I’d see about an old friend.”

“Uh-huh.” Merriweather exchanged looks with the guard then said, “Sir, I’ve pulled video and watched your arrival to the casino. Your plates are state police. I respectfully request that you coordinate with Chief Perkins for matters concerning an investigation.”

Mike bowed his head, nodded. “I understand that.” He rose from the table and both Merriweather and the security guard took a step back. Mike pulled out his wallet, fished out a twenty, and dropped it on the table.

Merriweather stared at the money. “Sir, drinks are complimentary.”

“This is for my waitress. What’s her name?”

“You mean Penny?”

Mike glanced at her as she loaded fresh drinks onto her tray. She was looking back at them with a worried face.

“I thought I’d ask Penny about Marlene Blackburn,” Mike said, “but she was very discreet, wouldn’t say anything.” He looked directly at the guard. “And you’re right, this has been police business. I have no relationship to Mrs. Blackburn.”

---

Outside in his car, Mike found the number online for the casino’s human resources department, gave them a call. He wanted Penny’s last name so he could question her further. The sun was almost down, blasting through the driver’s side window, making Mike squint. “Hi, I’m looking for a reference?”

“Sure. What’s the name?”

“Okay, it’s Penny… oh boy, well see, I can barely make out the last name. That’s not a good sign, is it?” He laughed.

“What department is she in?”

“Food and Beverage.”

“And the first name was Penny? Okay, so that’s Penny Zuliani.”

“Zuliani… There we go; that makes sense. A hard one to decipher.” He scribbled it down on his notepad, which was sitting open on the passenger seat.

“So, Penny has been here eighteen months. I’m not seeing any no-shows; she’s pretty reliable, a good worker. She’s, um – she’s applied with your…?”

“Wait a minute,” Mike said. “Oh, no. That’s not Penny, that’s Jenny. My mistake.”

“Okay… would you like me to—?”

“No, no. I’m so sorry. We just opened a new restaurant in Alex Bay and we’re scrambling. Too many applications. I must’ve gotten something mixed up.”

“Oh… Okay. Good luck.”

“Thanks.” Mike rang off, dropped the phone on the seat, ran his hands through his hair, and looked out the window. He had to shield his eyes from the hard sidelight but saw that the security guard had come out the main entrance and was standing on the curb, talking into his radio, and looking at Mike.

Mike dropped the shifter in drive and pulled away, waving a hand at the guard as he passed.

---

It was dusk as he drove out of Hogansburg. He could choose a route that took him a bit further north to Fort Covington, then south to Lake Haven, but he decided to go through Bombay instead. The road was worse but it would be quicker.

Farm country. Flat, unlike the mountainous region of home. Long white barns, boxy country-style houses with black-shuttered windows, rusted tractors, long swathes of nothing.

Penny Zuliani. Now he had a name, a contact for the whole Marlene Blackburn thing. They could work Zuliani to pressure Blackburn into coming forward on her own, go on record that she couldn’t confirm Pritchard was at her place until midnight the night of.

He bumped over some railroad tracks, and his thoughts swung to his daughter Kristen, expected to arrive the next day. He thought of Lena too, and wondered if he would say anything to his daughter about the new woman in his life. Probably not. Maybe not yet. It was too early. Had it been just a fling? He’d been out of the game so long he didn’t know how it worked anymore. Lena had two kids of her own. What did that mean? That she had expectations? Or that she wanted to maintain her independence?

In the failing light, he noted the headlights trailing him. A couple hundred yards back, someone keeping pace.

Downtown Bombay was a crossroads, 95 and county road 1. There was an American flag sticking into a telephone pole, another poking out of a small yard, both of them listless in the end-of-day heat. Mike spun the wheel clockwise and veered onto the county road. A few seconds later, he checked the rear-view mirror and saw the vehicle behind do the same. A massive pickup truck, side mirrors sticking out like big ears.

He drove for a while, full dark fading everything out, the houses fewer and farther between, but the headlights behind him pulled closer. Mike plucked the radio from its handset, thought about talking to dispatch. He hung it back up without saying anything.

The lights were bearing down on him. Between South Bombay and Moira was another stretch of nothing. He felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck before it even happened – the headlights seemed to lurch forward, accompanied by the roar of an engine. Mike hit the brakes, jerked the wheel, and plowed into the dirt shoulder as the truck went roaring past.

He brought the Impala to a shuddering stop. Breathing a bit faster, he watched as the taillights of the truck flashed bright. It slowed, then stopped in the road. Too far away and too dark to get the make of it, let alone the plates. Still he grabbed his phone and took a quick picture.

Then the white reverse lights flashed on as the driver started backing up.

Mike leaned over to the glove box, pulled out his service weapon. He went through a quick procedure, checked the mag and chamber, slapped the mag back home, loaded a round with a snap of the action.

The truck did a quick backward U-turn in the road, tires grinding the soft shoulder; the headlights blasted in at Mike, and he put his hand up. The truck rolled forward, came up alongside him, driver’s side to driver’s side.

Smoked-out windows. Couldn’t see inside. Mike kept his gun in his lap, finger against the trigger guard.

The dark window rolled down, and a man with a hard brush-cut, brown skin, and somber eyes peered out.

Cody Blackburn, looking just like the picture Stephanie had sent along.

Mike let out a breath, eased his finger away from the trigger.

“Wasn’t sure who it was,” Blackburn said, “till I came up close enough to see your plates.”

“They called you from the casino,” Mike said.

“Yeah.”

“We should talk.”

---

They stood in the dark, Mike slapping at the mosquitos. Cody Blackburn had done another U-turn and pulled his behemoth truck behind Mike’s Impala, both of them off the road. There wasn’t anybody else coming by, anyway.

Blackburn leaned against the bed of his truck, his hands folded over the ridge, chewing on his lip as he contemplated the dark farmland. The night air smelled like manure.

“So, I got booted,” Blackburn said. “Well, they let me resign.”

Mike was patient to let the man tell his story. The humidity was bad, though, his clothes sticking to his skin, the bugs hungry.

“I was checkin’ up on her,” Blackburn said. “Had a microphone in there, in her place. Couple cameras I rigged up. I’d be on duty, but I’d be sittin’ there outside of the trailer at night. Or I’d be over to the casino, dodging calls, just focused on Marnie. One night this guy comes out of her trailer.”

“Pritchard?”

Blackburn mournfully shook his head. “Some other guy. Aldrich. Lives on the res. I chased him down, we had words.” He spat something off to the side then turned around so his back was against the truck, folded his arms. “You know, Perkins called me, talked about your case, that this guy, Pritchard, claimed he was with Marnie the night of.”

Mike waited.

“You can appreciate how this was a delicate situation. Because she can’t really say whether he was there or not.”

“But you can,” Mike ventured.

Blackburn made a small nod. “Yeah. I can. He was there.”

“When did you resign?”

“Just did this morning. This is how it all came out.”

Mike pieced it together: Cody Blackburn was spying on his wayward wife using police resources, doing it while on duty, just like the night Pritchard said he was in Marnie’s trailer. Blackburn could verify that Pritchard, in fact, was. But in order to do so, he’d had to admit to this extralegal activity. And then it had tumbled out he’d been doing it all along. Who knew how many man-hours Blackburn had racked up surveilling his wife instead of policing the community, chasing off her lovers and “having words.”

“I’m gonna need a statement from you,” Mike said.

“I gave my statement to Chief Perkins. He’s got all the paperwork, was gonna call you tomorrow.” Blackburn looked like a guy who’d reached the end of a very long and troubling road. “I want you to know that this is my fault,” he said. “Not the fault of the tribal police, not Marnie’s fault neither. Perkins talked to Marnie; she told him she was working that night until midnight. Then he hounded me until I confessed I’d seen Pritchard.”

“Understood.”

There was nothing more to say. Mike walked back to the Impala and opened the door. Before he sank into the driver’s seat, he said to Blackburn, “You gotta watch it, rolling up on someone like that. I could have shot you.”

Blackburn opened the door to his truck. “Don’t know if I woulda cared if you did.”