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He was grinning from ear to ear. “I just worked out my Oedipal thing,” he said. “I figured out a way to castrate my pop. I’m going to slaughter that pompous prick. Squish . . . Squash . . . yeah, baby. Kill that roach!”

The others screamed with laughter. In their cases, it definitely was the drugs.

“What the hell are you talking about, Wretched?”

“Oh, don’t worry, don’t worry, sweetheart. I just mean metaphorically. You know what brother Oscar say: Each man kill de thang he love.”

I did have to chuckle at that line. “Brother Oscar” was Oscar Wilde. But Wilton’s dad was named Oscar, too. When I tried to question him again, he wouldn’t let me talk. “Get your ass in gear and dance, girl.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Clea said, pressing herself against Wilt. “Get those big titties out here and show us what you got.”

An hour or so later, I caught a glimpse of him in the bedroom he was sharing with Mia. They were on some old cushions on the floor, his head in her lap. She looked up at me and smiled, then pressed a finger to her lips. Shhhh. He was sleeping.

Now, how do you castrate, kill a man like Oscar Mobley . . . metaphorically? He was rather small in stature, nothing to look at, but proud of his accomplishments and his place in the community. If you wanted to ruin him, what did you rob him of? His reputation, his dignity, his money? All of which he had in abundance.

I was yearning for a cup of coffee, but I didn’t make any. I thought the aroma might wake Cliff, and I needed more time alone to think. Also, I knew how unhappy he’d be to find me still trying to unknot the facts surrounding Wilton’s death.

Hope Mobley had told me that Wilt and his father were arguing bitterly the last few weeks. She’d hear snatches of the fights they were having behind closed doors. Wilton was doing something that threatened Mobley’s law practice. Isn’t that what she thought she heard?

Position. Dignity. Money. Most things came down to money, didn’t they? That was what we abhorred as a generation. We hated living in a world where money came before human life, before principles, before loyalty, honor, law. Some people say the civil rights movement is being bought out with money. Some were saying—notably a Chicago PD detective named Norris—that money was at the root of the murder of Alvin Flowers, head of the rogue organization called the August 4 Committee.

Money. Was it really that crude, that simple?

I found that piece of cheap paper with the August 4 logo. I turned it over and began to sketch something from memory, a dim memory to be sure, almost like automatic writing: the shape of a thick, oddly shaped key.

I dressed while I dialed the number at Woody and Ivy’s.

“Cass, why are you calling so early? It’s barely six o’clock.”

“I’m sorry to wake you. You know when I asked you to do something for me a few days ago? You found out about the Riegels for me.”

“Yes.”

“I need you to follow through on the second part of that favor. Now.”

I heard a sigh of exasperation. “Jesus Lord, Cassandra. You’re not still harping on that house in Kent, are you? And the stolen keys? I did everything you asked me to do, child. I went to the funeral and spoke to Hope Mobley. Now the truth has come out about her son. If she can accept it, why can’t you?”

“I’m not going to bug her, Ivy. I just want to give her something.”

“What?”

“Something that belonged to Wilt. I’m sure she’d want to have it. I just need you to call and ask if she could see me for a second—without her husband knowing about it.”

“Her husband?”

“Yes. He wouldn’t appreciate me dropping in there again.”

“Goddammit, Cassandra, why can’t you leave the poor woman alone?”

“Will you do it? Please. I won’t ask for anything else.”

“At six in the morning, girl?”

“All right. Wait until seven.”

“Cass, have you packed up—”

“Thanks, Ivy. See you later.”

I’m a terrible girl. Lie. Lie. Lie.

CHAPTER NINE

TUESDAY

1

I woke Sim up, too. I hadn’t figured on seeing him again this soon. But I needed him.

He didn’t pick me up in the Lincoln this time. He was driving borrowed wheels. We