As Holmes entered the small, cluttered office, Nate indicated a chair. “Have a seat.” He perched on the edge of the desk as the man complied, keeping his posture relaxed. “Sorry to interrupt your work.”

“No problem.” Holmes wove his fingers together, avoiding eye contact.

“Could you tell me where you were last Wednesday night around eleven thirty?”

The man’s gaze flew to his. Skittered away.

But not before Nate caught the flash of fear in his eyes.

“I was, uh, at home.”

“Is that right?” Nate crossed his arms, keeping his tone conversational. “Then who was driving your car?”

The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “What are you talking about?”

He was delaying. Trying to figure out how much the cops knew so he could fabricate a plausible story.

Wasn’t going to work.

“Someone was driving your car at eleven thirty that night. It was seen coming out of Mavis Templeton’s driveway.”

A muscle ticced in the man’s cheek. “I don’t know a Mavis Templeton.”

“You won’t have the opportunity to meet her, either. She’s dead.”

Holmes looked at him. “What does that have to do with me?”

No reaction to the woman’s death—suggesting that piece of information wasn’t news to him.

“Why don’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He straightened his interlaced fingers and began to rub them back and forth. “Do I need a lawyer?”

“Do you?”

“Listen, I know my rights. I don’t have to talk to you.” The man glared at him—but behind the defiance was fear. So strong Nate could smell it.

“Okay. I’ll talk to you.” He rested one hand on the desk, the other on his holster. A little subtle intimidation never hurt. “Your car was seen coming out of Mavis Templeton’s driveway at eleven thirty Wednesday night by a credible witness. The next morning, Mavis was discovered dead halfway up the stairs to the second floor. We found evidence of a break-in, including a print of a sport shoe by the back door. Now that you’re a person of interest, we shouldn’t have any difficulty getting the judge to issue a warrant to let us search your apartment for a matching shoe.”

Why tell Holmes that the cast they’d made of the single print they’d found hadn’t been all that clear or useful? If it had been, he’d have executed the search warrant before confronting the man.

Some of the color leached from Holmes’s face. “What would that prove? Lots of people wear the same brand of shoes.”

“But every wear pattern is different.”

Sweat beaded on the man’s forehead. “Are you gonna arrest me?”

“Not today—but your cooperation would be viewed favorably by a judge.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Mavis is dead.”

“I didn’t kill her!”

“What about Fred Wilson?”

The man sucked in a breath. Recoiled. “I didn’t have anything to do with Fred dying. He fell and hit his head on a tractor.”

It took every ounce of Nate’s self-control to maintain a neutral façade.