“You can check the website,” Trapper said, having no idea whatsoever if “bodyguard” was listed as one of his services. “Daily rate plus expenses. Kerra put me on retainer.”

Clearly not buying it, Glenn scowled. “As of when?”

“As of the night your deputy was delinquent in his duty and stayed in his car while she went into the hospital alone. As of then, and until further notice, she doesn’t get out of my sight.”

“This is a sheriff’s office, for crissake. City police department is in the other wing. What could happen to her in here?”

“Nothing.” Trapper flashed a grin. “So long as I’m standing next to her.”

Glenn gave up on Trapper and looked at Kerra. “It should ease your mind to know that we got the guy. One of them, anyway.”

“How sure are you of him?” Trapper asked.

Before Glenn could respond, the elevator returned and the doors slid open. Carson Rime was the only person on it. He stepped out, his arm weighted down by a briefcase made of stamped saddle leather.

“Morning, all.” Smiling at Trapper and Kerra, he shrugged off a tweed overcoat and, as he draped it over his arm, leaned forward to shake Glenn’s hand. “Sheriff Addison? Carson Rime. We spoke on the phone yesterday. A pleasure.”

Glenn didn’t look like he shared the sentiment. “I thought we’d cleared up the stolen vehicle matter.”

“Oh, we did. That’s not why I’m here.” Carson removed a business card from the breast pocket of his suit and handed it to Glenn. “I went to the basement first. The deputy down there said that my client, Leslie Doyle Duncan, had already been brought up here for an interrogation. The first interrogation that will ever be mentioned in court, should this comedy ever go to trial, because Mr. Duncan was denied legal counsel during his initial questioning.”

Glenn rocked back on his heels. “He wasn’t denied counsel. He had a court-appointed attorney who was unavoidably detained last night, but who should be here any minute now.”

“He had a court-appointed attorney,” Carson said. “He now has me, and I demand a consultation with my client. Please take me to him.”

Carson’s suit was shiny with wear. The points of his collar flared up and out like a pair of white wings. Between them was a chunk of turquoise the size of a walnut that secured his black leather bolo tie. This morning, his comb-over had an extra layer of goo holding it in place.

But Trapper wanted to hug him. With only a token amount of whining and a vow to double bill, he had agreed to drop everything and haul ass to Lodal to represent Duncan. A lawyer, reputable or corrupt, first in his law school class or dead last, would be given access to the suspect that Trapper would be denied.

Glenn hitched up his gun belt as though to reassert that he was still in charge and motioned down the hallway. “Last room on the left.”

“Kerra had just as well take a look at Duncan now,” Trapper said. “Why make her hang around and wait?”

“All right.”

Trapper could tell she was burning to ask questions, but when Carson made an after-you gesture, she started down the hall, the lawyer chatting at her side.

Glenn and Trapper fell into step behind them. “Clever,” Glenn said under his breath. “But I don’t get why you did it. Why are you so keen on defending the guy who shot your own father?”

“Why are you so keen on this being the guy? A newbie in town that few people know. Criminal record. Parole jumper. Stopped for speeding in a school zone, and a weapon matching the kind used in the shooting found under the seat of his pickup?” Trapper winced with skepticism. “Seems way too slick and easy, and smacks of a frame-up. I thought an attorney might come in handy.”

“Well, it won’t matter if you reassemble O. J.’s dream team for him.”

Trapper slowed his pace and looked at Glenn.

“Ballistics came back on the pistol, Trapper. No question. The match was so good, it gave our DA a hard-on.”

“Your DA is a woman.”

“Figure of speech.”

The meaning of which didn’t escape Trapper, but he didn’t say anything more as they continued down the hall till they reached the specified room. Glenn stepped forward and opened the door. “Mr. Duncan, your lawyer is here.”

“Yeah, well, you and him can go fuck each other.”

Glenn turned back to Trapper. “He has an attitude. Thinks he’s smarter than everybody else.”

“Maybe he is.”

“Different circumstances, y’all could be friends.”

Carson passed his overcoat to Trapper, sidestepped Glenn, and entered the room. “Are the shackles really necessary?”

Glenn only harrumphed and pulled the door closed. “Kerra?”

She stepped up to the door and looked through the wired glass window. Trapper looked in from over her shoulder. Duncan appeared to be in his early thirties, although his eyes had the mistrustful, lupine quality of one who’d already endured a lifetime of hard knocks. He didn’t look relieved or show any particular interest when Carson introduced himself. His indolent posture didn’t change, although his surly lips moved, so he’d said something.

“I’ve never seen him before,” Kerra said and was about to move away from the window.

“Give it a minute,” Glenn said. “Maybe he’ll do something that’ll jog a memory.”

Trapper held Carson’s coat in the crook of his elbow and placed his hands on Kerra’s shoulders. “He’s right. Give it a minute.”

“But—”

He gave her shoulders a slight squeeze. The private signal worked. She stayed where she was, sandwiched between him and the door. Trapper asked Glenn, “Did you locate his wife?”

“Girlfriend. If she’s visiting her mama in Ardmore, she’s gone to the cemetery.”

“He lied about his old lady?”

“Worries us, because there’s been no sign of her.”

They couldn’t hear what Carson was asking or what the suspect was saying in reply, but occasionally Duncan would emphasize a point by stabbing his forefinger into the tabletop. Other times Trapper could tell even in pantomime that he’d given a flip response.

After several minutes, Carson took sheets of paper from his briefcase, spread them out on the table where Leslie Duncan could see what they consisted of, and went over the content of each sheet with him point by point.

“What’s all that?” Glenn asked Trapper. “His rate chart?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. Mercenary son of a bitch.”

Carson asked Duncan something. He hesitated then nodded. Carson beamed, gathered up the papers and replaced them in his briefcase, latched it, and shook hands with Duncan as facilely as could be done with the manacles. Kerra stood aside, and Glenn opened the door for Carson.

As he was passing through, Leslie Duncan called from the table, “How do you like being dead so far?”

Trapper, anticipating that, had stepped around Kerra in order to gauge her reaction. Her lips separated in shock over hearing the familiar words, but when she realized that Trapper was watching her, she looked up at him and shook her head. “The voice is wrong.”

Glenn’s face was mottled with fury. “Now I get it. That’s what he was about,” he said, flinging out a hand toward Carson.

Carson retrieved his overcoat from Trapper. “Excuse me. I’ve got forms to file.” Juggling coat and briefcase, he hurried down the hallway, almost running into a deputy as he stepped purposefully off the elevator.

Trapper was in a standoff with Glenn. “If I had asked nice, would you have given me access to him?”

“No,” Glenn thundered.

“All Kerra needed to hear were those few words.”

“The voice is wrong,” she repeated, addressing the statement to Glenn. “Believe me, I get goose bumps when I think back to hearing those words and realizing what they implied. I’ll never forget the voice.”

“In your statement, you said that only one of the men spoke. Duncan here could be the one who stayed silent.”

“He could. But I’m positive that’s not the voice I overheard.”