The old guy shook his head. "No, the titanium bars are specialist items. The others I offer are slightly more mainstream."
"And what are those?"
"This is a small store," he said. "I have to choose what I carry very carefully. Which in some ways is a burden, but which is also a delight, because choice is very liberating. These decisions are mine, and mine alone. So obviously, for a crowbar, I would choose high-carbon chromium steel. Then the question is, should it be single-tempered or double-tempered? My honest preference would always be double-tempered, for strength. And I would want the claws to be very slim, for utility, and therefore case-hardened, for safety. That could be a lifesaver, in some situations. Imagine a man on a high roof beam, whose claw shattered. He'd fall off."
"I guess he would," I said. "So, the right steel, double-tempered, with the hard claws. What did you pick?"
"Well, actually I compromised with one of the items I carry. My preferred manufacturer won't make anything shorter than eighteen inches. But I needed a twelve-inch, obviously."
I must have looked blank.
"For studs and joists," the old guy said. "If you're working inside sixteen-inch centers, you can't use an eighteen-inch bar, can you?"
"I guess not," I said.
"So I take a twelve-inch with a half-inch section from one source, even though it's only single-tempered. I think it's satisfactory, though. In terms of strength. With only twelve inches of leverage, the force a person generates isn't going to overwhelm it."
"OK," I said.
"Apart from that particular item and the titanium specialties, I order exclusively from a very old Pittsburgh company called Fortis. They make two models for me. An eighteen-inch, and a three-footer. Both of them are three-quarter-inch section. High-carbon double-tempered chromium steel, case-hardened claws, very fine quality paint."
"And it was the three-footer that was stolen," I said.
He looked at me like I was clairvoyant.
"Detective Clark showed us the sample you lent him," I said.
"I see," he said.
"So, is the thirty-six-inch three-quarter-section Fortis a rare item?"
He made a face, like he was a little disappointed.
"I sell one a year," he said. "Two, if I'm very lucky. They're expensive. And appreciation for quality is declining shamefully. Pearls before swine, I say."
"Is that the same everywhere?"
"Everywhere?" he repeated.
"In other stores. Regionally. With the Fortis crowbars."
"I'm sorry," he said. "Perhaps I didn't make myself quite clear. They're made for me. To my own design. To my own exact specification. They're custom items."
I stared at him. "They're exclusive to this store?"
He nodded. "The privilege of independence."
"Literally exclusive?"
He nodded again. "Unique in all the world."
"When did you last sell one?"
"About nine months ago."
"Does the paint wear off?"
"I know what you're asking," he said. "And the answer is yes, of course. If you find one that looks new, it's the one that was stolen on New Year's Eve."
We borrowed an identical sample from him for comparative purposes, the same way Detective Clark had. It was dewed with machine oil and had tissue paper wrapped around the center shaft. We laid it like a trophy across the Chevy's backseat. Then we ate in the car. Burgers, from a drive-through a hundred yards north of the tool store.
"Tell me three new facts," I said.
"One, Mrs. Kramer and Carbone were killed by the same individual weapon. Two, we're going to drive ourselves nuts trying to find a connection between them."
"And three?"
"I don't know."
"Three, the bad guy knew Sperryville pretty well. Could you have found that store in the dark, in a hurry, unless you knew the town?"
We looked ahead through the windshield. The mouth of the alley was just about visible. But then, we knew it was there. And it was full daylight.
Summer closed her eyes.
"Focus on the weapon," she said. "Forget everything else. Visualize it. The custom crowbar. Unique in all the world. It was carried out of that alley, right there. Then it was in Green Valley at two A.M. on January first. And then it was inside Fort Bird at nine P.M. on the fourth. It went on a journey. We know where it started, and we know where it finished. We don't know for sure where it went in between, but we do know for certain it passed one particular point along the way. It passed Fort Bird's main gate. We don't know when, but we know for sure that it did."
She opened her eyes.
"We have to get back there," she said. "We have to look at the logs again. The earliest it could have passed the gate is six A.M. on January first, because Bird is four hours from Green Valley. The latest it could have passed the gate is, say, eight P.M. on January fourth. That's an eighty-six-hour window. We need to check the gate logs for everybody who entered during that time. Because we know for sure that the crowbar came in, and we know for sure that it didn't walk in by itself."
I said nothing.
"I'm sorry," she said. "There'll be a lot of names."
The truant feeling was completely gone. We got back on the road and headed east, looking for I-95. We found it and we turned south, toward Bird. Toward Willard on the phone. Toward the angry Delta station. We slid back under the shelf of gray cloud just before the North Carolina state line. The sky went dark. Summer put the headlights on. We passed the State Police building on the opposite shoulder. Passed the spot where Kramer's briefcase had been found. Passed the rest area a mile later. We merged with the east-west highway spur and came off at the cloverleaf next to Kramer's motel. We left it behind us and drove the thirty miles down to Fort Bird's gate. The guard shack MPs signed us in at 1930 hours exactly. I told them to copy their logs starting at 0600 hours January first and ending at 2000 hours January fourth. I told them to have a Xerox record of that eighty-six-hour slice of life delivered to my office immediately.
My office was very quiet. The morning mayhem was long gone. The sergeant with the baby son was back on duty. She looked tired. I realized she didn't sleep much. She worked all night and probably played with her kid all day. Tough life. She had coffee going. I figured she was just as interested in it as I was. Maybe more.
"Delta guys are restless," she said. "They know you arrested the Bulgarian guy."
"I didn't arrest him. I just asked him some questions."
"That's a distinction they don't seem willing to make. People have been in and out of here looking for you."
"Were they armed?"
"They don't need to be armed. Not those guys. You should have them confined to quarters. You could do that. You're acting MP CO here."
I shook my head. "Anything else?"
"You need to call Colonel Willard before midnight, or he's going to write you up as AWOL. He said that's a promise."
I nodded. It was Willard's obvious next move. An AWOL charge wouldn't reflect badly on a CO. Wouldn't make him look like he had lost his grip. An AWOL charge was always on the man who ran, fair and square.
"Anything else?" I said again.
"Sanchez wants a ten-sixteen," she said. "Down at Fort Jackson. And your brother called again."
"Any message?" I said.
"No message."