Clay Martin tapped the desk in front of Arlene Soto and said, “God, Arlene, how much longer will he be?”

“Oh, okay, Clay—why don’t I just go in there and tell Sheriff Anders that Clay Martin and Gordie Cooper from Highway are sick of waiting for him to prepare for his national TV interview with Amanda Tucker on American Crime? That what you want?”

Martin snorted and said, “No, no, you know I don’t want that. But jeez! Feels like we’ve been out here an hour!”

“Nuh-uh. You been here twenty-four minutes.”

Martin walked back to the bench where Cooper sat reading Guns & Ammo; Cooper didn’t look up. He was about to sit when the door to Anders’s office opened, and there was Anders, in full Class-A uniform, flushed, his brush-cut hair damp with Brylcreem. Martin nudged Cooper, who got slowly to his feet.

“Hey, sheriff.”

“Boys.” Anders smoothed his shirtfront, checking his reflection in a shiny black commemorative wall plaque. He turned to them. “So, how do I look?”

Cooper said, “Sharp, Tommy. Real sharp.” From the way he said it, Martin knew Cooper was enjoying himself; his words always got tight when he was having fun.

“Thanks, Coop.” Anders nodded at his reflection in the plaque, brushing the epaulets flat on his shoulders, then gestured into his office and said, “What can I do yer for?”

They followed him in and Cooper motioned for Martin to shut the door. The stacks of paper in Anders’s office had been tidied, and his shooting trophy and the medal he’d received for bravery during a traffic stop had been shuffled to a more prominent place on his desk, next to a framed photo of Anders as a boy standing next to his father, Sheriff Richard “Big Rick” Anders.

Tommy Anders sat behind his desk; furrowing his brow, he leaned forward and auditioned his pen set first to his right, then to his left. Neither seemed to satisfy him. He looked up. “Sorry. What you got, Gordie?”

Cooper shook his head, a reluctant expression on his face. “I’m not one for stirring things up that don’t need to be stirred up, but I thought you should know this…”

“Okay.” Anders leaned back, eyes narrowing. He knew Cooper well enough to be wary of the man even when sharing a beer at a cookout in his own backyard. “What should I know?”

Cooper shook his head again, looking pained. “This morning when Clay and I were heading over to Denny’s in Golden Palms, we passed by the Palmetto Court—where the doctor is staying?”

“And…?”

“Well, we saw a Bentley in the lot.”

“Huh.”

“Well, so, there’s more. On the way back…” He glanced at Martin, as if for moral support. “On the way back, we took another look, and we saw Maggie Craine come out of the doctor’s cabin, then get in the Bentley.”

Anders was silent for a second, his expression blank.

“Was the girl with her?”

“Nope. But she looked like she spent the night with him.” Cooper shifted in his chair as if his clothes were sticking to his skin.

Anders shook his head, then shrugged. “Not my concern, Gordie.”

“Looked like she was still dressed up from the night before.”

“I get it.”

“Sure, chief.” Cooper stood. “Just figured you’d want to know.”

Anders looked at him bleakly. “That it?”

“Pretty much.”

“Okay, see you guys around.”

As they left, Cooper turned back and grinned. Anders was still moving the pen set around on his desk; only now, his right foot was tapping urgently.