“Your phone was ringing.” He smiles and passes me my cell phone. “It’s your dispatcher.”

Because I’m accustomed to receiving middle-of-the-night calls, I always turn up my ringtone before going to bed. This is the first time in the history of mankind that I didn’t hear it ring. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Bending, he kisses me atop the head.

Clearing the cobwebs from my throat, I take the call. “Mona?”

“Chief, I’m sorry to bother you so early. But I thought you’d want to know.… I took a call from Abigail Kline last night. There was some kind of medical emergency out at their farm, and Jeramy Kline was transported to the hospital.”

I swing my feet over the side of the bed. “What happened to him?”

“She said he got sick and had some kind of seizure.”

“Is he all right?”

“The hospital wouldn’t give out info, but one of the paramedics confirmed the seizure. I know you were just out at the Kline place, so I thought you might want a heads-up.”

“Thanks for letting me know. I’m going to drive over to the hospital now.”

*   *   *

Ask any cop if he believes in coincidence, and he’ll respond with a resounding hell no. That’s particularly true if said coincidence involves a current case. Normally, a citizen being rushed to the ER for some unexplained illness certainly wouldn’t warrant the attention of the police. But Jeramy Kline isn’t just an ordinary citizen. He may or may not be involved in a thirty-year-old mystery in which a man was killed. Is his jaunt to the hospital related in any way to the case?

While I’m not convinced either of the Klines were directly involved in the death of Leroy Nolt, they are not above suspicion. They’re aware of my interest, and I know from experience that many times police attention can evoke a great deal of stress. If Jeramy is guilty of wrongdoing and fears I’m closing in, he wouldn’t be the first to hurt himself to avoid arrest and prosecution. I’m speculating, of course, and his trip to the ER might be as benign as a simple case of food poisoning. But I’ve learned to follow my gut, and this morning my gut is telling me the timing of this stinks.

It’s after 8:00 A.M. by the time I reach Pomerene Hospital. I arrive at the nurse’s station outside the ER to find a young woman in pink scrubs pecking at a keyboard with long French-tipped fingernails. “Oh, hi, Chief.” She slants me a smile. “You’re becoming a regular around here.”

I smile back. Her name is Cindy, and she was on duty when I was brought in after the shooting two nights ago. “You guys are going to have to add me to your payroll.”