The Wolf in Winter by John Connolly

whispering about my ‘commitment’ to the town?”
    He should have stepped more carefully. She heard everything, turning the details over in her mind and examining them the way a jeweler might consider gemstones before deciding which to keep and which to discard.
    “I know there are some who are starting to doubt me,” she said.
    Hayley stared at Morland, as though willing him to confess that he himself had been guilty of such thoughts, but he did not. She leanedover the table and grasped his hand. Her skin was cold, and its look and feel reminded him of the cheap cuts of chicken at the Dixon house.
    “That’s why this is so important,” she said. “If I’m to go, I want to leave knowing the town is secure. I want to be sure that I’ve done all that I can for it.”
    She released her grip on him. She had left marks on the back of his hand, as if to remind him that she was still strong and should not be underestimated.
    “What do you suggest?” he said.
    “We talk to the Dixons. We tell them to find us another girl, fast. And no junkie either; we want someone clean and healthy. If they come through for us, we’ll see what more the town can do to help them out if they’re in trouble.”
    Morland had more to say about the Dixons, but he kept it to himself, for now.
    “And if they don’t?”
    Hayley stood and started clearing the table. She was tired of talking with him. The discussion was over.
    “Then they’re a threat to the security of the town. There’s still money in the discretionary fund, thanks to the decision not to disappear the hobo instead of just leaving him to be found.
    “And,” she added, “our friends will be grateful for the work.”

CHAPTER
    XI
    I was sitting at a table in Crema Coffee Company, on Commercial, when the man who called himself Shaky found me. It was just after nine in the morning, and while a steady stream of people kept the baristas busy, most of the tables remained empty. It was that time of day when folk wanted to order and go, which suited me just fine. I had a nice sun-dappled spot by the window, and copies of the New York Times and the Portland Press Herald . Crema had one of the best spaces in town, all bare boards and exposed brickwork. There were worse places to kill an hour. I had a meeting later in the morning with a prospective client: trouble with an ex-husband who hadn’t grasped the difference between keeping a protective eye on his former wife and stalking her. It was, depending upon whom you asked, a thin line. Neither did he appear to understand that if he really cared about his wife he should pay her the child support that he owed. On such misunderstandings were hourly rates earned.
    Shaky was wearing black sneakers, only slightly frayed jeans, and an overcoat so big that it was just one step away from being a tent. He looked self-conscious as he entered Crema, and I could see one or two of the staff watching him, but Shaky wasn’t about to be dissuaded from whatever purpose he had in mind. He made a beeline for my table.
    It wasn’t just Shaky who called himself by that name. Apparently,everyone on the street did. He had a palsied left hand that he kept close to his chest. I wondered how he slept with it. Maybe, like most things, you learned to get used to it if you had to endure it long enough.
    He hovered before me, the sunlight catching his face. He was clean-shaven, and smelled strongly of soap. I may have been mistaken, but it struck me that he’d tidied himself up and dressed in his best clothing to come here. I remembered him from the funeral. He was the only one present to shed a tear for Jude as he was lowered into his grave.
    “You mind if I sit down?” he asked.
    “Not at all,” I said. “Would you like a coffee?”
    He licked his lips, and nodded. “Sure.”
    “Any preference?”
    “Whatever’s the biggest, and the warmest. Maybe sweet too.”
    Since I was mainly a straight-filter kind of guy, I had to rely on the girl behind the