Mercy River

Dedication

This one’s for Madeline.

Truth be told? It’s all for Madeline.

We love you, kid.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Forty-Five

Forty-Six

Forty-Seven

Forty-Eight

Forty-Nine

Fifty

Fifty-One

Fifty-Two

Acknowledgments

An Excerpt from ISLAND OF THIEVES

Prologue

One

About the Author

Also by Glen Erik Hamilton

Copyright

About the Publisher

One

Neutral ground. The best choice for hostage negotiations, selling stolen goods, and meeting ex-girlfriends.

Not that Luce Boylan and I were on bad terms. Our infrequent conversations had been cautious but sociable. Still, when Luce had called yesterday and asked to meet, I instinctively suggested venues away from her Pike Place bar and apartment, or my usual Capitol Hill haunts. Any other neighborhood in Seattle was open territory.

Any neighborhood with an all-night restaurant, that is. Luce usually finished closing her bar around two-thirty in the morning. That suited me. I was keeping odd hours lately.

Which was how I found myself at the 5-Point—we cheat tourists-n-drunks since 1929—at two on a Thursday morning, watching as the café filled with a staggered and staggering flow of customers kicked out of other joints. I sat at the counter and nursed a pint of Mac & Jack’s while I waited. And mused a little more about why Luce might want to meet. She’d avoided answering the question over the phone.

She wasn’t looking to get back together. I took that as a given, and the fact didn’t bother me as much as it might have a few months before. Luce and I had different goals in life. Different perspectives. She wanted to leverage her ownership of the Morgen and the years she’d devoted to it into a very early and very profitable retirement.

I understood Luce’s ambition. I might even have shared a piece of that future with her, at one time. Luce had practically grown up running the Morgen with her uncle Albie and his silent partner, the bar’s true owner. My grandfather Dono. Dono had treated the bar less as an investment than as a handy way to launder money from his real profession of stealing art and jewels and any other valuables that provided an adequate reward for the risk. He had been exceptionally good at it. So was I, when I was Dono’s teenage apprentice.

Luce had imagined something better, something legit. Dono had slowly come to appreciate that. So she’d inherited Dono’s bar, and I’d wound up with his house, and for a while Luce and I had wound up with each other. Only the bar remained, from all those developments.

Was she selling out? Seattle real estate had continued its insane climb toward Manhattan-level prices. Maybe Luce had finally received an offer too good to turn down.

Business, I concluded. That was why Luce wanted to meet. She needed my signature on some tax form that still had Dono’s name on it, and she thought sending the papers in the mail would be callous, after our history. I didn’t mind. It would be good to see her.

I idly observed the 5-Point’s patrons in the mirror. Under the moose head festooned with dangling bras, two couples sat shoulder to shoulder in a booth. One of the men was a cop. I could have picked him out of the crowd even without the mustache that stopped one regulation quarter-inch below the corners of his mouth. There was a foundational suspicion in the way any cop with a few years under his duty belt looked at everyone, even at his friends seated across the table. Like they might pass the salt with one hand and steal his wallet with the other.

It must be close to three o’clock by now. I reached for my phone and realized that I’d left it in my truck. Crap.

My empty pint glass became a paperweight for ten dollars. Luce wasn’t outside. I walked down the block to where my pickup waited at the curb. I’d plugged my phone into the cigarette lighter socket—the Dodge was that old—and stuck it into the center console while I ran errands and scarfed a bowl of pho noodles for dinner. Out of sight and out of mind.

One voice mail, from an area code and number I didn’t recognize. I hit the button to listen.

Van. It’s Leo.

Leo Pak. A friend from the 75th Regiment. I’d been his sergeant in our Ranger platoon, during one of his tours in Afghanistan. Leo had served as a sniper and fire team leader during his time in our unit. He was a quiet guy by nature and had effectively led his team of four by example. I’d been disappointed when he’d rotated out of the company. Leo and I had fallen out of touch after that, until a year ago when he had unexpectedly turned up in Seattle, only weeks after I’d mustered out of the Army.

On the recorded voice mail, Leo was breathing heavily, his voice strained. There was a sound of quick movement before he spoke again.

They’re coming. I can’t make it.

Whatever he said next was incoherent. An engine revved, high-pitched, a small motorcycle or something with similar horsepower.

A muffled voice in the background yelled something like, Get on the ground. Then a sharp clack interrupted as the phone struck something, and another man’s voice came on the line.

Who is this? the voice demanded in between gasps for air. Had they been chasing Leo? This is the Mercy River police, who is this on the line?

Another moment passed before the call abruptly ended, mid-gasp.

I checked the time on the voice mail. Leo had called me almost six hours ago. Son of a bitch. I called the same number back, twice. No answer.

Leo had been busted before, for vagrancy and once for assault. When he’d turned up in Seattle last year, he’d been drifting. Sleeping in the wild, avoiding contact with people. Being indoors for even a few minutes had put him on edge. Desperate, he’d reached out to me, but before long I was the one who had needed help. And despite his own pain, Leo had pulled himself together long enough to get me out of a bad situation.

I searched online for Mercy River. The closest place with that name was in Oregon, in the rural middle of the state. There was no direct line to the town cops, but the Griffon County sheriff had a station there. I called it.

Sheriff’s department. Deputy Roussa. A woman, rough-voiced but sounding alert despite the late hour.

I’m looking for a man who may have been arrested in town earlier tonight. Leonard Pak.

Are you a relative of Mr. Pak?

I’m the person he called just before he was busted. I’m in Seattle. Is he under Mercy River’s custody, or the county’s?

He’s here, said Roussa. The town doesn’t have a jail of its own. What is your name, sir?

Donovan Shaw. What’s the charge against him? If he needs bail, I can help.

Suspicion of murder and armed robbery, she said.

I inhaled. Jesus.

Did Leonard Pak say anything to you over the phone about his situation?

He left a voice mail. What happened there?

We can’t release any details without—

Just tell me what anyone in town would already know.

Roussa was silent for a moment. One of our residents was shot and killed yesterday. Erle Sharples. You can save yourself the trouble on bail. I guarantee you that the circuit court judge will keep Pak in custody at the arraignment later today.

Which meant the evidence was solid enough to make them confident that Leo was the killer. And the victim being a local would make things ten times worse.

Has he asked for a lawyer? I said.

He hasn’t asked for anything. He’s not communicative.

So Leo wouldn’t talk. Or couldn’t.

Is he injured? I said.

He’s being looked after.

A moment passed. Deputy Roussa had volunteered as much as she was willing to say.

When I spoke, my voice was as cold and even as a frozen lake. If he’s conscious, tell him that I’m on my way. I’ll be there in the morning.

Mr. Shaw—

I hung up before I said more.

Christ, Leo. What the hell happened to you?

I couldn’t let myself believe that Leo had murdered someone. His life had turned around during the past year. I’d helped him get placed in an outpatient program, and regular therapy after. Last I knew, he had decided to settle in Utah to be close to his family.

But he could have relapsed. Gone back to living on the road. I wasn’t Leo’s keeper, or his shrink.

There was nothing I could do now except get to Mercy River. Fast. I studied the highway map on my phone. The town was a tiny white dot on the map, about six hours’ drive from Seattle. Flying would take at least as long, even if I could find a connection through Portland or Spokane to central Oregon in the middle of the night.

Driving it was. I could be at my apartment and packed within half an hour. And then—

Van.

It was Luce. Standing practically in front of me.

You okay? she said. You seemed a little lost there.

Her long blond hair was pulled back and held with a carved wooden comb. She wore a wine-colored coat, buttoned up against the autumn chill, which didn’t prevent it from showing off her figure. The sight of her knocked my mind off track for an instant before it found the groove again.

Hey, I said. I have to go.

Go? I’m sorry I’m late—

It’s not that. Leo’s in trouble. I told Luce the handful of facts I knew. I’m driving down there now.

She hesitated. Yes. Of course. Will you—do you know how long you’ll be gone?

Not yet.

What can I look after here? That was Luce. Immediately, incisively practical. What about Addy?

Addy should be okay. She has Cyn staying with her this week.

Addy Proctor was my former neighbor. I still checked in on her every couple of days. She was about as self-sufficient as an eighty-year-old person could be, but eighty was still eighty. Addy had semi-adopted a young teenager this past summer. Their own brand of foster care. Cyndra helped with the house and Addy’s massive dog, and Addy kept Cyn fed and out of trouble, mostly.

I’d stay if I could, I said to Luce. We can talk over the phone, once I get down south.

She looked at me. Luce’s eyes could be the shade of rain clouds at times, but tonight, under the pale light of the streetlamps, they were the blue sky above the storm.

It can wait, she said. Call me when you’re back.

Yeah.

She stood there as I started the engine. When I glanced out the window she raised one hand in a soft leather glove in farewell.

Packing for Oregon would take so little time, I left the truck in the loading zone in front of my apartment building. A travel bag. Cash. Maybe a few specialized tools. I didn’t own much, not even enough to adequately fill my studio apartment near the rail station on Broadway.

Some of what I did own was hidden behind the small refrigerator. I pulled the fridge away from the wall to remove the baseboard at the floor, and reached inside to pull out three gallon-sized Ziploc bags, each with their own contents. A .38 snub-nosed revolver. A tiny Beretta Nano, which I’d taken off someone who would never have use for it again. And a much bigger, much older Browning. I’d picked that up for sentimental reasons. Dono had owned a Browning Hi-Power. It had been one of the first guns I’d ever shot.

All loaded. All untraceable. They could easily fit in the hiding space I’d made in the front wheel well of the Dodge. After a moment’s thought, I took the Browning and the little Beretta and set the revolver back behind the fridge.

There was no solid reason to think I’d need a weapon. Or my lockpicks and other gear, already waiting in the rucksack. But the way Deputy Roussa had refused to tell me more about Leo’s condition had my blood up. How badly was he hurt? And who had hurt him? I might not need to play gunslinger, but neither was I going to stroll into Mercy River and count on a brass band playing to welcome me.

Two

I had one more stop to make in Seattle. All the way across the city in Briarcliff, a neighborhood on the little peninsula between downtown and the ship canal. Houses with views of the Sound went for multiple millions, a price that included amenities like stone walls and rolling gates with keycard entry. Keeping the working classes like me from driving through and lowering property values.

At the witching hour, the security gate was unmanned. I picked the lock on the guardhouse and pressed the button to make the candy-cane-striped gate lift out of the Dodge’s way. It hadn’t required much more time than swiping a card.

I found the right house, a long modernist structure, with two-story glass windows and artful illumination coming from low spotlights at each corner. Knocked twice, and rang the bell. Lights inside popped to life, and after a moment the lamp above me on the front stoop followed along.

Who is it? a voice hollered from within.

It’s Van, Ephraim.

Ephraim Ganz opened the door. It was a large door, which made Ganz appear even smaller by comparison. He wore yellow silk pajamas, perfectly fitted, each cuff the precise length for his limbs. As if in contrast, his sparse gray hair stood up in electric tendrils from sleep. Brown eyes bright with anger under startlingly dark and hirsute brows.

Sorry to wake you, I said.

I don’t believe you are. What the hell, kid?

I let him have the kid. Ephraim Ganz had been Dono’s criminal lawyer since before I could remember. Even now, edging out of middle age and into his senior years, Ganz had energy enough to power his whole mansion if you stuck plugs in his ears.

You remember Leo Pak, I said. He’s been arrested for murder and robbery in Mercy River, Oregon.

Ganz grunted. Come in.

Honey? a woman called as I stepped inside the foyer. The very grand foyer, two stories and a staircase. Her voice had come from somewhere above. I glanced up past the railing to see a flushed and pretty face with ash-blond ringlets framing it. Her eyes widened at the sight of me and she tugged her blue satin robe a little tighter around her.

S’alright, baby, Ganz said. Just a client.

She didn’t seem reassured. Viewing the scene from her side—four o’clock in the morning, a big guy dressed like a handyman standing in my front hall, with scars like pale creek beds creasing one full side of his face—I wouldn’t feel too secure either.

Ma’am, I said. She frowned a little deeper and disappeared into the shadows of the upper floor.

Third wife’s pretty, I said to Ganz, too low to be overheard. You are still on number three, right?

Funny, he said. What’s this about your sniper buddy?

He did remember Leo. I told him the situation. He listened without expression, interrupting only to clarify exactly what the deputy had told me.

You’re on the bar in Oregon, right? I said. You had that big Portland case.

And in California, he said, his mind elsewhere. Arraignment’s later today, the county cop said? That’s not a good sign. They think they can close this fast.

Yeah. I need you down there.

He sighed. Come on.

I followed him down a hallway and past a dining room large enough to host the entire platoon Leo and I had served in. The kitchen beyond wasn’t quite as ostentatious, only half the size of a tennis court. All of the appliances along the walls were of gleaming burnished steel, a match for the sleek lines of the house. It made the kitchen feel a little like a lab. Or a morgue.

Leo, Ganz said as he took out a jar of instant coffee and two delicate china cups. He’s the one with the troubles, right? He tapped a fingertip against his temple.

He’s improved since you met him.

Ganz spooned out coffee into the cups and crossed the kitchen to fill them with steaming water from a slim faucet at the cauldron-sized sink. And he’s been arrested before.

Yeah.

You know how this is gonna look. Even if everybody in town hated the guy who got himself shot, you take a suspect with a record, with a history of mental instability, that says something.

He’s got post-trauma symptoms. So do I, and so do half the guys I know, in one way or another. You didn’t know him before: He was rock-solid. Leo’s Army service record—

—will just reinforce what the prosecutor wants. The guy is trained to pull a trigger. More than that, he’s among the best in the world at it, a Special Forces sniper.

Special Operations. Forces are the Green Berets. We’re Rangers.

"Pardon moi." He finished stirring and handed me one of the porcelain cups. Loose grounds swirled grayly on the surface of the mixture. I looked at Ganz.

I got a taste for Sanka in law school, he said. Living in the coffee capital of the U.S., I drink this.

Get Leo sprung. I’ll buy you a tanker truck full of the crap, I said.

Add one and one, Van. Whatever the hard evidence against Leo is, it’s made them bold. And they have to like the story his personal history tells. I would.

You want to plea bargain? Already?

I want you to temper your expectations. Unless they screwed up the chain of evidence we’ve got an uphill battle ahead.

So let’s go, I said.

I’ll send Arronow. He’s good.

Ephraim.

He can be there tomorrow. I’ll file for an extension on the arraignment from here.

How much of a retainer did I give you?

Ganz rolled the coffee around in his mouth. And I never asked how that miracle happened. From all your overtime as a bouncer, I’m sure.

I’d come into money earlier in the summer. Some from selling the land on which my childhood home had once stood, and a lot more from less-legal ventures. Enough to buy a house next door to Ephraim’s, if I chose. A large percentage of that sudden fortune found its way into anonymous donations to causes and people who needed it more than I did. Another chunk became a rainy-day fund. Which for me included legal services.

Pack a bag, I said.

What, now?

Truck’s outside.

We’re driving? God save me. Your grandfather never gave me this much grief, I knew him thirty years. He ran a hand through his wild hair. Let me go inform Jeannie.

Tell her you’ll bring her a souvenir.

Mercy River. God. Tell me that name isn’t meant as sarcasm. He padded away down the hall. I checked my watch. If Ephraim moved fast, and the Dodge’s wheels stayed on, we could be halfway out of the state by sunrise.

Three

The town of Mercy River lay in a haphazard jumble in the crease between two colliding hill ranges, as if its buildings and houses had been scattered across the land like big handfuls of dice, most of them tumbling to rest on the floor of the valley, with a few dozen strays left on the slopes above. As the two-lane highway wound its way down the final long slope, Ganz and I had a view across a slender mile of fields and gravel roads and barns that marked the northern edge of the valley. Cattle stood on the arid hillsides, waiting placidly for the early autumn rains and the good grazing that would follow.

Yee-haw, Ganz said under his breath. Ride ’em, cowboy.

Small forests of pine and juniper topped the peaks in the distance like thatched roofs. On the valley floor, we passed the sheet metal monolith of a grain elevator. The highway led through the fields and gradually straightened as it entered the town proper.

Ganz craned his neck to stare at a sign. I don’t believe it. It’s actually called Main Street, he said.

He was dressed casually by his standards, in gray trousers and a blue sport coat over a white dress shirt with no tie. He’d filled two large suitcases with clothes before I’d finally hounded him out of his modernist mansion.

In between calls to roust his people out of bed, Ganz had read me some stats on Mercy River from his iPad. The town’s permanent population was slightly more than nine hundred. It was the Griffon County seat, a county with the sparsest population in the state. Its single school served all grades. Mining and timber had been the chief industries a century ago. Farms and ranches formed Mercy River’s backbone now, plus a handful of restaurants and stores serving the highway, and whatever cash could be gleaned from day-tripper tourists coming to see the painted hills and buttes west of town. The average annual income per person wouldn’t cover my rent in Seattle for a full year.

The name of the town came from the flash floods that had been a serious danger back in the nineteenth century, when prospectors panned the river. One night the water had risen high enough and fast enough to swallow half a settlement. According to the official record, all the tents and sheds had been crushed and swept downstream, but no lives had been lost. Or at least none of significance. It made for a better tale that way.

A sign pointing off the main drag read town hall / sheriff. That was where Leo would be.

There’s a hotel, I said, pulling up to the curb.

Suite Mercy Inn, Ganz said, reading off the name painted on the pebbled glass of the doors. Is that a joke?

See if your staff can laugh us up a couple of rooms.

We got out, me stretching the knots from my shoulders after the long drive, and Ganz groaning with actual pain. My face prickled in the wind. I tugged a barn jacket from my travel ruck and zipped it over my Henley shirt.

I have a couple more calls to make before we visit your wayward friend, said Ganz.

I shook my head, unwilling to wait. I’ll meet you at the sheriff’s.

At the very heart of the town, the storefronts had flat façades and porches, adding to the Old West feel of the street. It was an unexpectedly colorful stretch. Fresh coats of rust-red and sky-blue paint brightened half of the shops, where the planks hadn’t been stained a rich brown. Maybe Mercy River had invested in a quick face-lift for tourist season. A few of the buildings had plaques from the state historical society commemorating their original construction. Post office in 1908, mercantile in 1911. A handwritten placard in a diner window plugged venison burgers. My mouth watered instantly. I added food to my mental list of essential tasks, after I’d seen Leo.

The Griffon County Sheriff’s station had been built much more recently than the wood-sided buildings along Main. It might have been an elementary school, long and low, with picture windows to the lobby and American and Oregon State flags fluttering from individual poles on the broad lawn. I opened the door for a family of backpackers as they exited and went inside.

Here for a license, sir? said the deputy standing at the front desk. He was tall and lanky and had blond hair that had retreated far up his scalp, even though he couldn’t have been more than twenty-five. The plastic nameplate above his shirt pocket read thatcher. Right over there. He nodded to a teller’s window off to the side, under a wooden sign with words burned into the grain: fishing—hunting—vehicle.

Is Deputy Roussa still on duty? I said.

Thatcher glanced at a wall clock. The county uniform was a short-sleeved khaki shirt with olive epaulets, and matching trousers with an olive stripe. He wore the full belt, gun and flashlight and radio, ready to walk out the door if called. Thatcher was a lefty. She’ll be back shortly. Can I help you?

I’m checking on a man who was arrested last night, I said. Leo Pak. I’m here with his lawyer.

He the Chinese guy?

Leo was half Korean, but it didn’t feel like the time to argue his ethnicity. Is he in custody here?

Have a seat. Thatcher’s politeness now carried a touch of the same chill as the wind outside. He swiped his access card on a door and disappeared within. While I waited, I examined the station. The central room had an open floor plan. One other deputy was typing at a laptop at his desk. Beyond him was a windowed door, probably leading to the administration offices. Thatcher had gone off to the left, where I assumed the interrogation rooms and holding cells were located.

The sheriff would have assigned a detective to a murder case. When Deputy Thatcher returned, I’d get that detective’s name and the details on Leo’s arraignment. Ganz could arrange for time with Leo and start building his defense. If there was a defense to build.

The deputy emerged and beckoned to me. This way.

I’d expected the cops to make me wait for Ganz. I kept my mouth shut and followed before Thatcher thought twice.

He led me through the interior door into a short hallway. I removed my jacket and held out my arms while Thatcher swiped a metal detector wand over my limbs. My keys and multi-tool and phone went into a ceramic bowl on a shelf. He glanced through a small high window on the opposite door before unlocking it. A short row of jail cells occupied the right-hand side of the remaining hall.

Last one down, Thatcher said. I walked past the empty cells—two bunks and a steel toilet and sink in each—to the fourth in the row. Thatcher closed the steel door behind me and kept watch through the high window.

Leo lay on the lower bunk, his arm thrown up to shield his eyes. Asleep, maybe.

Leo, I said. He didn’t move. It’s Van.

His foot twitched. Haltingly, his leg moved off the bunk, his foot in its hiking sock half falling to the floor. He wore jeans—torn and stained with dirt—and a gray T-shirt over his muscled torso. Nothing heavier, although the temperature in the cells must have been under sixty-five degrees. He rolled to one side.

Christ, I said. Leo’s left eye was swollen shut, a stripe of crusted blood running from his hairline halfway to his eye. That whole side of his forehead had puffed up like he’d been bitten by an adder.

Howz your day? Leo said through fat lips.

The fuck, Leo? Did the cops do this to you?

I couldn’t tell if the movement of his head was a nod or a shake. He sat up, as slow as mercury rising.

Don’t stand, I said. Have they had you into the hospital?

A shake this time. Told them no. Leo didn’t like hospitals, distrusted them.

Who hit you?

The firs’ time? Big fucker at the Trading Post. I’m sitting there when he jus’ walks up and whales on me.

Out of nowhere?

Said I’d killed Erle. Tried to tell him no, but he was kickin’ me by then. The owner went to pull him off and got pasted. I had to hit the big guy with a plate. Then more of his buddies came at me, so I ran.

What about the cops? I said.

He swallowed and stood up, despite my warning, and shuffled to the sink. With some difficulty, he used the foot pump to splash water into his open hand, and then onto his raw face. I took off out the back. I’d been running the trails up in the hills the past week. Thought I could ditch them, circle around, and find out what was happening. But they had dirt bikes and ATVs. That’s when I called you.

I imagined the mob chasing Leo, like villagers after the monster in an old movie. Small wonder he ran. They might have lynched him.

Smart move, calling me, I said. I brought Ephraim Ganz. The attorney.

What’d I say to you on the phone? I don’t remember.

You didn’t have time to say much.

They caught up to me, he said. The simple effort of standing and talking was burning what little energy he had. Before I could say shit, the town cop nailed me. Fucker was quick with that baton— He came to rest by leaning against the bars. This close, I could see a virulent purple bruise ringing a slim island of scabbed blood, where the club had struck him.

What have the cops told you about the murder?

Told me? Nothin’. When I came to in the cell here, they asked me a lot of questions about Erle. I’d been working at his shop since I got here last week. Everybody knows that. Asked me why I shot him early that morning, what I did with the money I took. I didn’t say anything.

Good. How hard did they ask?

His face moved, and I realized he was smiling. I passed out. Kinda put a halt to the whole Q-and-A thing.

Leo, I said. We’re going to help you. But you got to level with me. Did you shoot Erle?

Leo’s one good eye met mine, glaring. Fuck, no, man.

Did you have an argument? Why do the cops think you did it?

I shouldn’ta called you, he said. Leo wasn’t a tall guy. His exhausted slump made him shorter still. It’s a mistake. This’ll get sorted out.

You need a doctor. Are you on any scrips right now? The damn cops probably hadn’t even thought to check.

Couple. But forget that.

Where are you living? I pressed. I can get your meds.

I got a room at the inn, but— He tilted his head. I been stayin’ somewhere else.

Of course. I should have guessed that. Leo had no problem attracting women when his chiseled face wasn’t beaten halfway to hamburger. Where’s her place?

You should head back to Seattle, Van.

I’ll find out who she is. You know I will.

South of town. Forty-one Piccolo Road. Just don’t—

I can be subtle, I began, but the door to the outside swung open. A beefy middle-aged white guy in an olive windbreaker emblazoned with the county badge came barreling down the row of cells. Thatcher and a broad-shouldered female deputy followed.

You. The cop, a detective or whatever he was, pointed at me. Get out.

I turned to Leo. Hang tight. I’ll be back with Ganz.

Out. He grabbed my upper arm. I went along with it, let him bull me out of the cell block and back into the lobby. Thatcher and the woman deputy—Roussa, I saw as we rushed past—stepped swiftly out of the way.

In the main room of the station, the deputy who’d been working at his laptop waited by the front desk. All four of them surrounded me in a loose circle, the florid-faced detective still squeezing my arm. Other than tensing my bicep to keep his grip from mangling it, I didn’t make a move. Not with two of the deputies already fingering their Tasers and pepper spray. Only Roussa seemed calm.

I can arrest you now, the detective said, or you can tell us who you are.

Or both or neither, I said, as long as we’re listing the options.

You’re not a lawyer.

Never said I was.

That’s a lie. Deputy Thatcher stepped forward.

Shut up, the detective said. He gave up trying to crush my arm and glared at me from six inches away. A high crest of cedar-colored hair topped his round head. He smelled sharply of menthol cigarettes. What did Pak say to you?

He can hardly talk. I looked around at the deputies. Which one of you assholes tried to kill him with your baton?

Get your hands on the desk, the detective said, spinning me around.

I complied, grinding my teeth. He removed my wallet and tossed it to Roussa. Halfway through the detective’s overly aggressive frisk, Ganz strode in the front door of the station, attaché case in hand.

Is there a problem, Sheriff? he said instantly. Ephraim Ganz. I’m this man’s attorney, and I’ve also been engaged to represent Leonard Pak, who I understand may be on the premises. Who is your lead investigator on the case?

The deputies and the detective stood stunned,