“I wondered where you’d got to,” Moore called down to him. “Your car’s in the carport, and the dog’s in the house. I knew you couldn’t have gone far.”

“I was down offering condolences,” Keegan said, a convenient truth. “Just being a good neighbor.”

Moore smiled slyly and shook his head, arms still crossed. “You know that girl’s young enough to be your daughter,” he said.

“Yeah,” Keegan said, “I’ve done the math. But I was talking about the widow, so you can wipe that asinine grin off your face.”

The lieutenant uncrossed his arms and held out his big, dry hand, so Keegan shook it.

“Hell,” the lieutenant said. “A girl like that? I wouldn’t blame a man for being a good neighbor.”

Keegan wasn’t in any mood for the lieutenant’s brand of manly banter. He folded his arms. “What brings you to my doorstep?” he said.

Moore held out the bottle, and Keegan took it from him. “Payment, as promised, for your assistance,” he said. “It’s not top shelf, but it’s ninety-proof.”

Keegan turned it to look at the label. Old Fitzgerald. It must have been riding in Moore’s car a few hours; it felt bathwater-warm. “Bourbon,” Keegan said. “How like a gentleman.”

Moore nodded in the direction of the cottage. “Let’s go on in and crack her open.”

“You’re not on duty?”

The lieutenant tugged back the sleeve of his jacket and showed Keegan a gold wristwatch. It looked expensive. “Off the clock, and driving my own wheels,” Moore said. “I can do whatever the hell I want.”

There was no avoiding it.

Moore followed Keegan up the porch steps and doffed his hat at the door. Keegan pushed the door open—he’d left it unlocked—and Nora darted out to jump up on his legs. When she saw Lieutenant Moore on the porch, she barked twice and backed up into the house.

Keegan stood to one side. “After you,” he told the lieutenant. “There’s a decent chance she won’t bite.”

The lieutenant glanced at Keegan warily and then stepped inside, ducking his head. He set his hat on the entry table. Nora growled at him from the center of the rug. She barked once and then scuttled back into the kitchen, out of sight.

“Not much of a guard dog,” Keegan admitted, “but she’s a damn good judge of character.”

Moore dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief and looked around at the dim, cramped room. It was hard to read what he was thinking.

“Make yourself at home,” Keegan told him. He set the warm bottle on the coffee table. “I’ll get us some glasses.”