Chapter 5: The Clay

We were back in Warren by ten that night, and Cleo parked crooked across two spaces.

The annex lights were on, and Marty stood in the doorway with a flashlight in one hand and a tire iron in the other.

"I didn't touch anything," he said. "Come look."

The quarter-scale clay model of the Nine sat on the lift where the crew had built it over three days.

Someone had dragged a blade down its whole side from nose to tail.

The long smooth shoulder Cleo had shaped by hand was split open.

Cleo stopped just inside the door.

She did not say a word.

She walked up to it and laid two fingers against the cut, very gently.

"The roll-up door was locked," Marty said. "The alarm didn't go. Somebody had a key."

"Who has keys?" I asked.

"Me, you, Cleo, Mr. Rainey, security, and facilities."

Headlights swung across the wall.

A white SUV pulled in beside Cleo's coupe, and Dwayne climbed out in his pullover and his running shoes.

He had a phone to his ear and a face made for concern.

"Security called me," he said. "I came as soon as I heard. Is anyone hurt?"

"Nobody's hurt," I said.

"Thank God."

He walked in, saw the clay, and put a hand to his chest.

"That's awful. Who would do this?"

"You tell me."

"It could be anybody. The cleaning crew had access today. I'll look into it in the morning."

"Cleaning crew," Cleo said flatly.

"They came in on the schedule I signed off on, cousin." He gave her a sympathetic frown. "It's a very old building. Things happen."

I looked at his shoes.

They were clean, dry, and had no mud on them, though the lot outside was mud from the afternoon rain.

I looked at the clay.

I didn't say what I thought.

I had nothing to prove it with.

Eighteen years under Lyman had taught me never to accuse a man you can't back up.

"Thanks for coming, Dwayne," I said.

He seemed surprised, and a little disappointed, and then he smiled.

"Anything for the project."

He left, and his taillights moved off down Mound Road.

Marty came to stand by me.

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