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"I know what it is. It's a hauler at the tunnel mouth. That's what Torres told us she needed."

She's right. A few seconds of a voice won't get a warrant by itself but matched to a plate on Hendricks's list of approved haulers, it might. I photographed Gil's plate in my own lot tonight.

"None of the other voices at that table belonged to the masked men," she says. "I listened to every bet."

"Maybe Whitlock kept his partners home and sent the men who do his hauling," I say. "There's one more thing for Torres. Dutch said it at my gate, where you couldn't hear him. He said Royce cut your hair with the kitchen shears, and that he kept what Royce cut."

She goes white around the mouth. Her hand comes up toward the ragged ends at her jaw and stops short.

"If he really kept it," she says, "Torres might find it."

I take out my phone and hold it out to her. "Torres told you day or night. Call her now."

She dials the number from the back of the card she's carried in her jeans pocket since Thursday. Torres answers fast. Delilah tells her plainly about Dutch's name as he gave it, his plate and truck, Gil Strackbein's plate, the driver's voice, and the hair. I hear only Delilah's side.

"She's running both plates tonight," Delilah says when she hangs up. "She says nobody goes near Gil. And she wants the page from Ozzie's book with those two bets on it, and the camera card. She's sending somebody for both tomorrow."

One page of this season's book is all Torres is asking for tonight. The old books are boxed in my office closet, and the old green marker ledger with my initials beside the preacher's name is locked in my gun safe. Once Torres has one page in Ozzie's handwriting, she'll want the rest.

Ozzie heard every word of that. His jaw works. "Federal," he says. "In my book."

"Nobody tears out a page," I tell him. "Torres's people can photograph the whole book the way it sits. Lock the book and the card in your safe at home tonight, and don't let them out of your sight till they come."

He tucks the book under his arm, picks up his cash box, and leaves without a nod to anybody.

"Hector," I say into the radio. "Ozzie's coming down. Let him out and lock the gate behind him. If Gil Strackbein's truck comes back up that road, call me before it reaches you, and don't open it. Stay in your truck with the doors locked and call in on the hour till Beckett spells you at first light."

"Doors are locked, boss."

I text Jesse Gil's plate.

If this stock truck turns up at Whitlock's, I want to know.

Delilah doesn't leave my reach tonight.

"Go up to the house," I tell Beckett. "Keep the porch light off and your rifle across your knees. I'll take her home myself."

He looks from me to her and back, but he doesn't ask. He takes his rifle out the side door, and soon I hear his truck pull off the cedar track toward the house.

Hector comes back on. "Ozzie's out. Gate's locked."

I chain the big front doors shut from the inside.

I climb the loft ladder. The camera is still mounted where I put it this afternoon, minus its card. I unplug it, unscrew it from the beam, and wrap the cord around it.

Back down on the dirt, I set it on Ozzie's table where she can see it.

"Nobody watches," I tell her. That's on her paper.

She looks at the camera. When she looks back at me, her shoulders have come down.

"I heard them yelling for you to get in there," she says. "Then it went quiet, and somebody yelled that you were getting old."

"Wiley kept hitting a man after the bell. I went through the ropes and pulled him off."

"Did you hit him?"

"No. I put him on the canvas, and I never threw a punch."