Will shook his head. “I’m missing something…”
“Don’t go soft on me, Borders. It’s becoming a bad habit. You don’t believe I caught the cello player’s killer, either.”
“No,” Will said. “I don’t. Your golden gut is lying to you.”
“Oh, fuck you.”
“Calm down, boys,” Cheryl Beth said. A dark shape caught her eye: some kind of bundle or bag. “What’s that?”
They were at Fourteenth and Sycamore, back near the diner. Will swung the spotlight toward some bushes at the edge of the Cutter Playground. He pulled across the street and put the car in park. Dodds got out, snapping on gloves.
The intersection was completely empty. A pair of headlights lingered several blocks south, and then turned.
He came back toting a black gym bag and something else.
It was a wig.
He tossed them in the back seat and climbed back in.
“More ammo against Buchanan,” Dodds said, holding out a wig of long, dark-brown hair. “The cure for baldness. Got any large evidence bags?”
Will shook his head.
Cheryl Beth heard a long zipper.
“What have we here,” Dodds said. “Two pairs of handcuffs, his and hers. Two ball gags. Gloves and footies to put over his shoes. He’s very methodical. A folding combat knife that I bet will match the wounds on the four vics. And a bottle of lye.” He carefully placed the items and the wig back in the bag and re-zipped it.
“There won’t be any prints,” Will said.
“You never know,” Dodds said. “I will say you owe Clarence Junior your good word to the D.A. He saved your lives.”
Will was quiet for a long time. The rain was now coming down hard enough that it sounded like small pellets hitting the roof.
Finally, he spoke quietly, all the exuberance of the tour drained from his voice. “We’re not going to get another chance. This was it and we blew it. He won’t be careless enough to come back again.”
“Unless,” Dodds said, “he really has a thing for you.”
Will stared into the wet windshield. Cheryl Beth took his hand and squeezed it. He returned the pressure, but she could tell his mind was elsewhere.