“This guy’s making a fuckin’ spectacle out of you,” Antonio Morrelli lectured Nick while looking quite comfortable behind Nick’s desk, twirling back and forth in the leather chair that was once his. It was the only piece of the elaborate furnishings Nick had kept when replacing his father as sheriff.

“You need to spend some time with those TV people,” his father continued, “reassure them you know what you’re doing. Last night Peter Jennings made you sound like some country hick who couldn’t find his own ass with a flashlight. Goddamn it, Nick, Peter fucking Jennings!”

Nick stared out the window, past the snow-covered streets and toward the dark horizon beyond the streetlights. A hint of an orange moon peeked from behind a veil of clouds.

“Did Mom come with you?” he asked from his window perch without looking at his father, ignoring his insults. It was the same old game they played. His father hurled insults and instructions, and Nick kept quiet and pretended to listen. Most of the time he followed the instructions. It was easier. It had come to be expected.

“She stayed with your aunt Minnie and the RV down in Houston,” his father answered, but his look told Nick he wouldn’t be sidetracked from the real subject. “You need to start hauling in suspects off the street. You know, the usual scumbags. Bring 'em in for questioning. Make it look like you’re on top of things.”

“I do have a couple of suspects,” Nick said suddenly, remembering that he did, indeed.

“Great, let’s haul them in. Judge Murphy could probably get a search warrant by morning. Who are your suspects?”

Nick wondered whether it had been that easy with Jeffreys: a late-night search warrant used only after the evidence had been carefully planted.

“Who are your suspects, son?” he repeated.

Perhaps he just wanted to shock his father. Common sense should have kept his mouth shut. Instead, he turned from the window and said, “One of them is Father Michael Keller.”

He watched his father stop rocking in the chair. The older man’s face registered surprise, then he shook his head and frustration creased the leather-like forehead.

“What the fuck are you trying to pull, Nick? A fucking priest—the media will crucify you. Is this your idea, or that pretty, little FBI agent the guys told me about?”

The guys. His guys. His department. Nick could imagine them laughing and making jokes about Maggie and him.

“Father Keller fits Agent O’Dell’s profile.”

“Nick, how many times do I have to tell you. You can’t go letting your Mr. Johnson make your decisions for you.”

“I’m not.” Nick’s face grew hot. He turned back toward the window, pretending to stare down at the streets, but his vision was blurred by his anger.

“O’Dell makes a good point. And I’m sure she makes a good omelet for breakfast after a night of fucking. Doesn’t mean you should listen to her.”

Nick rubbed a hand across his jaw and mouth to prevent the rage that formed its own words. He swallowed hard, waited, then turned to face his father again.

“This is my investigation, my decision, and I’m bringing in Father Keller for questioning.”

“Fine.” His father held up his hands in surrender. “Make a fucking asshole of yourself.” He got up and started for the door. “In the meantime, I’ll see if Gillick and Benjamin can round up some real suspects.”

He waited until his father was out the door and down the hall. Then Nick turned and slammed his fist into the wall. The rough texture ripped open his knuckles and pain shot up his arm. He tried to control his breathing, waiting for the rage to settle, for the frustration and humiliation to be overwhelmed by the pain. Then, without thinking, he wiped at the blood running down the wall using his white shirtsleeve. He already had to pay for a broken glass door; he couldn’t afford to have his office repainted, too.