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I nodded and headed for the staircase. Went up and found the master bedroom. Stopped at the door and peered in. There was nothing to see except the ragged outline of the nail holes in the wall and the massive bloodstains. The blood was turning black. It looked like somebody had flung buckets of tar around. The carpet was crusty with it. On the parquet in the doorway I could see the footprints from the overshoes. I could make out the intricate pattern of the treads. I headed back downstairs and found Finlay leaning on a porch column out front.
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Paul Hubble got out of the car. Baker shut the door. Hubble waited. Baker skipped around him and pulled open the big plate-glass door of the station house. It sucked against the rubber seal. Hubble stepped inside.
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“Maybe fourteen miles, I guess,” he said.
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Finlay nodded gently. “Before that?”
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“For sure,” he said. “Get your ass up to Beckman. Right now. Stay there. I’ll organize Picard. You don’t leave until he shows up, OK?”
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“A guitar player who died sixty years ago? Why? Are you a guitar player?”
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