“I’ve made Bill Amos a eunuch, and his department is a joke.”

“His newly appointed deputy isn’t what I’d call a jolly sort.”

“Hutton? I’m not scared of him.”

“Another example of your foolishness.”

“How dare—”

“If Hutton doesn’t give you pause, the Texas Rangers are even less jocular than he is. The governor is a colorful character, granted. But he’s been known to send in troops to help curtail a lucrative bootleg trade. When they all come gunning for the ringleader in this area of the state, I want to be far removed from you.”

He set his glass on a small table at his elbow, then stood. “I let myself in through the back door. I’ll go out the same way.”

Bernie came to his feet. “You smug prick. Do you expect me to believe that you’re just walking away, leaving money on the table, retiring?”

Landry stopped and turned back. “Did I say that?” He flashed the sly grin that Bernie had come to detest. “I’ve never met a woman who didn’t love shoes. And there are women everywhere, who have men in their lives who enjoy a drink.” The grin widened to reveal his gold tooth. “I won’t have any trouble drumming up business.” Then he whispered, “Watch your back, Bernie.”

* * *

Thatcher didn’t see Chester Landry’s car among those parked at the boardinghouse, but he didn’t let that stop him from taking the front steps two at a time. The house was dark except for a few dim lights providing barely enough illumination for him to see his way up the staircase. He knew Landry occupied room number four on the second floor.

He knocked. Silence. He knocked again and put his ear to the door. He heard nothing.

Across the hall a door opened and a head popped out. He recognized the boarder, but didn’t recall his name. He said, “He’s not there. He left this afternoon.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“Nope. Just cleared out his stuff—”

“Cleared out? You mean he moved out?”

“Lock, stock, and barrel. Took all his shoe samples. Seemed to be on short notice.”

Thatcher twisted the doorknob, but it was locked. He jerked on it harder. When it didn’t give, he backed up a few steps.

“I don’t believe Mrs. May would approve—”

Thatcher kicked in the door. The room was empty. The bed had already been stripped of sheets. Replacement bedding and a bath towel were folded and stacked, awaiting the next boarder.

Thatcher searched every drawer in the bureau, opened the closet, checked under the bed. He flipped back the mattress, but there was nothing beneath it except rusty bed springs.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

The landlady was standing in the open doorway, hands on her hips. She looked like a hag during daytime. The nighttime variant was worse.

Nevertheless, Thatcher moved in on her. “Did Landry say where he was going?”

“No, and I didn’t ask,” she said. “Ain’t my business, is it?”

“He’s moved out for good? He’s not coming back?”

“Not your business, neither.”

Thatcher tapped the badge on his lapel. “Sheriff Amos will disagree. Should I send him over to talk to you?”

She folded her housecoat closer around her and jutted out her pointy chin. “He said he was taking over a new sales territory and wouldn’t be back. Paid me for a few extra days because he’d failed to give me notice. Packed up his automobile and headed out. That’s all I know.”

“What time did he leave?”

“I can’t—”

“What time?”

“Four-thirty. Thereabouts. He interrupted me while I was busy setting up the sideboard.” She sniffed. “Which I didn’t appreciate one bit.”

Thatcher stepped back into the hallway and addressed all the boarders who now were watching curiously from their open doorways, as they had the night he’d been taken into custody. Some shrank back. “Anybody know where Chester Landry was going? Did he ever say where he was from?”

“All I ever heard was Dallas,” one said. That was followed with murmurs of agreement.

“He ever mention family?”

No one answered, but one asked, “Wha’d he do?”

Thatcher said, “If anyone hears anything from him, or about him, come get me. Sorry to have woken you up.” He jogged down the stairs and out the front door.

Five minutes later, he stood dripping rainwater in the waiting room of Dr. Perkins’s clinic, explaining to Bill what he’d learned. “Landry had prepared to run even before the ambush.”

“Leading you to believe he may have been instrumental in that?”

“He might have planned it, but he didn’t participate.”

In unison Thatcher and the sheriff turned toward Laurel, who’d spoken from the chair that Patsy Kemp had occupied days before. Laurel looked small and defenseless, with shoulders hunched, hugging her elbows.

She said, “He was at my back door when the shooting started.”

Bill walked over to her. “What was Chester Landry doing at your back door?”

She was about to answer, when Dr. Perkins came out of the interior room. His lab coat was bloodied. Laurel shot to her feet. He didn’t keep them in suspense. “My nurse and I successfully removed two bullets. The third went through his lower left abdomen. I’ve done what I can. He’s still with us.”

“Is he out of danger?” Laurel asked.

“No, Mrs. Plummer. He survived the surgery, but he’s not in the clear.” Seeing her distress, he said, “But he’s young and strong. His vitals are good. If he can stave off infection, he has a good chance of recovery. Men with far worse wounds have recovered.”

Laurel covered her mouth and took a deep breath. “Does he know about Davy?”

“He demanded that I tell him,” Bill said to her. “It was just before he lost consciousness, so it may not have sunk in.”

“It did,” Dr. Perkins said, looking bleak. “He came to and was most fretful over it before we sedated him.”

Laurel gave a soft sob. “Can I see him?”

Dr. Perkins looked her over. Her dress, shoes, and stockings were spattered with mud and streaked with Mike’s blood. “He’s still out cold, Mrs. Plummer. He won’t know you’re there. And, uh, infection is a major concern. Tomorrow would be better.”