Rink stirred. “Not necessarily, Hunter. Before he died, Linden Case named you as his attacker and his daughter’s murderer. Even if they don’t arrest you, they’ll have to talk to you about it. They’ll want to know every detail about how the two cops died in Tampa. Whether you’re behind bars or not, you won’t see the outside of a police station anytime soon.”

His words made sense, but I wanted to reassure myself of Imogen’s safety more than I was concerned about my liberty. Also, I was growing tired of running from something I was innocent of and the few hours it would take to clear my name would be time well spent. I’d rather be chasing this man without having to keep one eye over my shoulder in case a well-meaning cop put a bullet in my spine.

“If I’m still inside when Harvey gets back to you, it’ll be down to you guys to take the asshole out.”

Rink grunted assent, but Bryce looked fearful at the notion.

Arriving at Ellsworth, we took a spin past City Hall and the adjoining HCSD office building.

“We don’t know for sure if she’s even in there,” Bryce said.

“If not, I’ll find out where they took her. If I’m under arrest I’ll demand my phone call and let you know.”

Rink found a motel where they’d wait for my return. I unloaded my SIGs and my Ka-bar and all the fake documents I had on my person: no sense giving the cops another reason for holding me. I took off the heavy coat and hat as well. No sense walking into a police station and giving the impression that I’d come packing an arsenal under my clothes. Take everything very easily and reasonably, and the cops should reciprocate—though I’m not a great believer in words like should or could: in my experience things never seem to go that way.

It was a short walk to the sheriff’s office. I sidetracked to a 7-Eleven and picked up a super-large coffee. The caffeine infusion helped clear the fog of all the traveling I’d done lately, but it also made my stomach growl—or maybe that was the nerves kicking in. Despite what I’d said to Bryce about clearing my name, I could very well be booking myself a cell in a high-security prison.

When I walked in the door and presented myself at the reception desk, the front office was deserted. Not surprising: everyone was out at Culver or searching Trenton for the killer’s getaway boat. Typical, I thought, America’s most wanted man wants to hand himself in and staff shortages make things impossible.

I pressed a buzzer and waited.