Billy Tsai sat in a chair in the hall, angling an entire muffin into his mouth. It didn’t quite fit, so crumbs rained over his dress shirt and tie as he chewed through partially open lips. When he saw Vaughn, his mouth snapped closed, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. Ever the professional, he stood to shake Vaughn’s hand, and Vaughn tried to ignore the crumbs raining from his clothes onto the floor, Tsai’s loafers, and Vaughn’s boots.

Thankfully, Wallace Meyer and his wife weren’t in sight. Meyer knew the score, that a detainee wasn’t allowed visitors—even police chief fathers. Still, it didn’t mean Meyer wouldn’t try to push the limits. All he needed was a local news crew to film Vaughn turning him away from visiting his own son and suddenly Vaughn would look like asshole number one to his voting constituency.

After greeting Tsai, Vaughn nodded to Binderman. “Lunch break. See you in an hour or so. Heavy on the or so. The diner across the street makes an excellent pot pie, but they’re slow about it.”

“Thank you, sir. That would hit the spot today.”

“Come on in, Tsai,” Vaughn said, opening the hospital suite door. He propped it open with his backside and tapped the papers he held. “Let’s get this over with. I’m serving Junior his arrest warrant today.”

Wallace Meyer Jr.’s lanky body stretched to the end of his hospital bed, though the lack of meat on his bones left plenty of room for Tsai to sit on the bed at his side. His eyelids were half closed and obscured behind the mass of shaggy brown hair that fell over his face. Tubes and wires were suspended between his body, the bed, and an IV pole on which three bags hung. His arms and legs were restrained to the bed rails with soft cuffs.

His earlobes had huge floppy holes in them from the rings Junior had stretched them out with. All his jewelry was now sitting in a bag at Vaughn’s station house, including the blunt metal dowel he wore through his nose like a bull and another through his left eyebrow. Reminded him of Gwen, who damn near gave their mom a heart attack during her pierced tongue and pink hair phase several years ago. He’d seen enough of that kind of costume on the job to realize that sort of body art was all about kids advertising their insecurities, wanting people to see the freak and ignore the vulnerability underneath.

Didn’t explain what Junior had to be insecure about. His whole life, everything he wanted had been handed to him on a silver platter. Then again, Gwen had led a pretty vanilla life, but that didn’t stop her from having problems as deep as an oil well—and just as black.

Vaughn walked around to the opposite side of the bed from Tsai, poking the bottom of Junior’s foot through the blanket with his pen as he moved. “How’s it going, Junior?”

Junior turned his head away from Vaughn and closed his eyes.

He whacked Junior’s stomach with the stack of papers. “Hello? Anybody home?”

A second whack and Junior’s eyes cracked open. “What?”

Vaughn leaned in. “That’s more like it. Having fun yet, Junior?”

“Screw you.”

“I’ll take that as a yes. You think of anything else you want to share with me about the shooting on Monday? Like where you got the guns?”

“Don’t answer that,” Tsai said.

Vaughn didn’t miss a beat. “See, we looked up the firearms registered to you. Two hunting rifles. No AR-15s.”

Junior’s eyes popped open. His lips curled into a sneer. “You can’t register an AR-15. They’re illegal, dumbass.”

“I told you to keep your mouth shut,” Tsai hissed.

“Who brought the guns to the party?” Vaughn tried again. “All I want is a name to give to the prosecutor. Maybe help your case out, show how cooperative you are. So who was it? Henigin? Baltierra? De Luca?”

Junior raised his right hand as far as it would go given the cuff and flipped Vaughn the bird.

“Fair enough,” Vaughn said. “New question. Why were you in the Parillas Valley?”

“That’s not a new question. You asked me that a million times already.”

“I’m still waiting for an answer.”

Junior shook his head. His stretched-out earlobes wiggled like worms.

Vaughn flipped through the case file until he found the picture of the graffitied boulder and dropped it on Junior’s chest. “We warned you bitch. Who was the message for?”

Junior turned his chin up, eyes to the ceiling. “You don’t even know I was the one who sprayed that.”

Vaughn shot Tsai an exasperated look. “Your client isn’t getting it.” He reached into the case file and grabbed the stack of photographs from Rachel’s camera, shaking it in the air over Junior’s stomach. “We have pictures of you shaking the aerosol paint can, then pictures of you painting every letter of every word on the boulder. There are so many pictures of you in action, I could flip through the stack and animate it for you, like a movie.”

A frown of irritation settled on Tsai’s face. “Junior has said from the beginning that he has no knowledge of why he was taken to the valley. He was coerced into acting as he did, fearing for his life.”

Yeah, right.

“Coerced by whom? If Junior here is so innocent, then why can’t he share with me who did all this coercing he’s swearing by?” He tucked the pictures away and slapped the papers on the counter behind him, then turned to Junior’s bed. “Who are you afraid of?”

“I ain’t afraid of nobody.”

Vaughn mashed his lips together, watching Junior’s eyes. Looking for the telltale signs he was lying, but Junior’s face was a mask of defensiveness and immaturity. Nothing for Vaughn to work with. “Your pal Jimmy thinks someone wants to kill him. He was all twitchy today when we transferred him to the jailhouse. Any idea who’s got him so rattled? Someone who’s bold enough to pop de Luca in front of a bunch of cops. Know anyone like that?”

“How the hell would I know what Jimmy’s scared about? I barely know the guy.”

“Is that so? ’Cause I’m wondering if whoever he was spooked about could also be after you. What do you think of that theory?”

“I think you can suck my dick,” Junior said.

Vaughn shifted his gaze to Tsai. “This case isn’t looking so hot for your acquittal record, Tsai. If your client can’t keep his vocabulary and hand gestures respectable, I don’t see how he’s going to win over a jury.”

“Worry about your own job, Cooper, and I’ll worry about mine.”

“Sure, sure. The problem is, my gut’s telling me that Junior is withholding critical information on two dangerous fugitives. When that information comes out, which it will, do you honestly think I won’t add it to the list of charges against him? You’d best be advising him to answer my questions.”

“We’re done here,” Tsai said, rising. “Serve the warrant.”

Vaughn bit back his simmering frustration. “See now? It sounds like you’re starting to worry about my job, and what did you just tell me?”

“My client needs his rest,” Tsai grumbled.

“Don’t get your undies in a bunch.” Vaughn could see why his dad liked the phrase. Rolled off the tongue real nice. “We’ve got a cozy room for him at the jail as soon as the docs clear him for transfer. He’s got a lifetime of leisure ahead of him.”

“Get on with it,” Tsai said.

Vaughn fished the arrest warrant out from the stack of papers and handed it to Tsai. Then he placed his hand over his heart. “I’ve been waiting years to say this to you, Junior. You should know, from the bottom of my heart, I mean every word.” It was a shame Junior’s wrists were already cuffed to the bed, because Vaughn had always wanted to do the honors. “Wallace Meyer Junior, by the power vested in me by Quay County and the state of New Mexico, you are hereby under arrest . . .”

Chapter Eight

As the afternoon sun glinted orange off the windows of the squat, nondescript sheriff’s office perched on the edge of Catcher Creek’s four-square-block downtown, Rachel pulled her rusty red pickup into the parking lot. She walked to the building with grim resolve, the flash drive of graffiti photographs in her pocket, a folder stuffed with hate mail and the petition against Heritage Farm tucked under her arm, and a foil-covered plate of scones in her hand.

Such were the ways of a small town, she thought wryly. God forbid someone arrive at a gathering empty-handed, even if that gathering was a police interview. At least Vaughn’s patrol car wasn’t parked out front. Thank God for small favors.

She’d called ahead and spoken to Irene Beckley, the sheriff’s department dispatcher-slash-office manager, inquiring about when Irene thought the sheriff would return to the office because she had a file to deliver. Irene estimated his return at five or six, so Rachel made sure to arrive at four.

Irene sat behind the welcome desk. A pillar of the Catcher Creek community, she’d worked at the sheriff’s department as long as anybody could remember, doling out divine guidance to near about every person who called or walked through the door. More than once, when Rachel had retrieved Jenna from the station house after she’d been caught for underage drinking and partying, Irene was sitting with her, working to sober her up with black coffee and a stern lecture on the perils of sin.

Undersheriff Stratis was the only other person in view. She’d never been comfortable around Wesley Stratis. He was around town a lot, and from all accounts, he was excellent at his job, but she couldn’t shake the impression that when he looked at her, it was with harsh judgment in his eyes. He’d never been overtly hostile to her, and for the most part, she chalked the sensation up to an effect of the lingering guilt she harbored from her affair with Vaughn.