Martin is grave and wired at the same time. He's been trying to find Mac and finally does, of all places, sitting on an iron bench in the park between the parish courthouse and the downtown hospital. Mac will eat this one up.
"Hey--Sarah's been killed. I mean, that's what they think. They found blood on the astroturf at the church. APB's on her body. They're checking all the bayous and dredging the river." Mac is chewing something, eating. "I know."
He's curious that Mac's not more wound up over this. Mac folds the wrapper from whatever he's eating and tucks it into his pocket. "What . . . were you talking to one of the cops?"
"Maybe." Mac's eyes are calm, oddly diverted--not that maniacally straightforward gaze Martin knows so well.
"Figured you'd be out searching with them, then."
No response. Then, as if coming to realize this is Martin here, Mac becomes his old self, off on a tangent. There's a new used Plymouth Roadrunner on one of the Louisville lots he's got his eyes on. The high, rectangular spoiler that looks like something on an airplane. He asks Martin if he wants to ride along and look at it.
"Not now. You making deliveries?"
"Nah. I quit." Mac is smiling. Weird. Martin prods him for what's going on. "Well," Mac offers, "You seen Kelly?"
Mac points toward the steps in front of the sheriff's office. "That's where she just interviewed me for the television. It's gonna be on at six."