“Maybe he started going bald,” I said. “Maybe he was vain about it.”
“Before he got his face shot off?”
“Will you help us?” Charlie asked me.
“Depends what you tell me,” I said. “You tell me the truth, I’ll let you go back inside. Want to tell me the truth?”
“Hey, Baker,” I called. He changed course and walked over to the cells. Stood in front of the bars. Where Roscoe had stood.
“Finlay,” she said. “He was up there this morning, poking around, looking for something to help us with the first one. Some help, right? All he finds is another one.”