“You repaired it for him?”

Walter nodded. “I couldn’t quite match the color, it had changed so much with age over the years, but I did the best I could.” Walter paused. He looked a little guilty, Griffin thought, then he forged ahead. “I remember thinking it wasn’t too long after Mr. Alcott was hit and I wondered about the damage. Hitting a deer, it didn’t sound right, but Sparky was a real good friend, you know? Still, I knew I had to do something, so I called Sheriff Watson, but he was out of town, so I spoke with Deputy Lewis. He came over to see the car, told me he’d look into it. He didn’t want me spreading any rumors in the meantime, though.”

Griffin said, “Did Deputy Lewis get back to you, Walter?”

“Yes, the next day. He stopped at the shop, said he’d checked out Sparky and he couldn’t have been the one who hit Mr. Alcott. He wasn’t in town.

“Then, like I told you, Liggert came in asking about bodywork I’d done in the past months.” Walter’s eyes fell to his hands. “I wasn’t about to say anything, knowing Liggert. I didn’t want him blaming me, or accusing Sparky of anything, after what Deputy Lewis told me.

“Then he surprised me. He said he’d noticed a classic blue Mustang that had paint on the front bumper that didn’t quite match, asked me if I’d done the job. I couldn’t deny it, so I told him I did. Then I couldn’t believe it. Liggert didn’t try to hit me, no, he thanked me and left.”

Griffin said, “Did you tell anyone else about this?”

“No, not even my dad or my girlfriend. I did tell Sparky, but he said Liggert didn’t scare him anymore.”

Finally, everything was falling into place.

Walter swallowed. “I wonder if my girlfriend, Debbie, will even want to talk to me anymore after this, even if you do let me out of jail.”

Griffin was inclined to think Walter’s girlfriend wouldn’t want him within a mile of her. He said, “Hang tough, Walter, we’ll get back to you soon.”

PLACKETT, VIRGINIA

Sunday afternoon

Sheriff Watson’s big black Ford F-150 sat in the driveway of a small two-story white shingled house set back from the street. It was the last house at the end of an older established neighborhood, surrounded by oaks and maples, all gearing up for summer green, getting so thick they screened the houses from one another. A blue jay watched them, motionless on a low branch, as they walked toward the front door.

“Nice house,” Griffin said. “I don’t think I could get used to all this quiet, though.”

Savich didn’t think he could, either. He rang Watson’s doorbell, heard movement inside the house. The sheriff himself came to the door, wearing a ratty old T-shirt and ancient jeans, his feet white and bare. He held a Diet Coke in his hand. He looked drawn, like he hadn’t slept well lately.

“On Sunday? Really? What do you two bozos want?” Hostility radiated from him. He stood squarely facing them at the open front door.

Savich said pleasantly, “We’d like to see Deputy Lewis’s report on Mr. Arthur Alcott’s hit-and-run.”

The sheriff stiffened. “You asked me to look. I looked. As I already told you, it was a straightforward hit-and-run. No broken glass, no traces of paint, nothing there of any use at all.”

“Yes, that’s what you said. I assume you saw Deputy Lewis’s note about Walter Givens doing some bodywork on Sparky Carroll’s blue Mustang? Sparky said he’d hit a deer? Did you discuss this with Deputy Lewis?”

“Nothing to discuss. There’s nothing like that in his report.” He looked over his shoulder. “There’s no need for you to come in. The house is a mess anyway.”

Griffin said, “I don’t mind mess, do you, Savich?”

“Not a bit. But I think I’d prefer if it the sheriff took us to his office and showed us Deputy Lewis’s report on the Alcott accident. Is that all right with you, Sheriff Watson?”

“No. It’s Sunday, my day of rest. I’ve told you what there is and what there isn’t. You can come by my office tomorrow if you want to look at it. So you’re done here.”

“I have to insist, Sheriff,” Savich said, and he stepped forward, crowding him. “I strongly suggest you do not try to impede a federal murder investigation. It would not end well for you.”

The sheriff eyed Savich, knew the man was serious. He threw the Diet Coke can as far as he could and hit an oak tree, sending the blue jay winging away. He was breathing hard and fast. “I’m not impeding anything. I have nothing to add, is all. You’ll see tomorrow there was nothing in Kane’s files. Now, would you mind going away?”