Mendez held his temper, remembering what Vince had told him about getting what he needed out of people—even the Frank Farmans of the world. From the corner of his eye he saw Hicks frown as he read the log entries.

“Frank, it says here you took dinner from five to six that day.”

“So?”

“Your wife told us you’re home for dinner at six thirty every night.”

Farman got to his feet, his face turning dark red. “You spoke to my wife? You went to my home and spoke to my wife without telling me?”

“Standard op, Frank,” Mendez said.

“Have you ever heard of common courtesy, you arrogant little shit?”

Dixon stood up. “Frank, that’s enough.”

Mendez took a step toward Farman, feeling the need to draw a line.

“I’ve taken enough abuse off you, Frank,” he said, keeping his tone calm and even. “I’m bending over backward to do this right. You want to make it hard? That’s your choice.

“I can take the gloves off and make this hard for you. I can call in every person you know, all your neighbors, the people you go to church with, and ask them all about you. Does he drink? Does he fuck around on his wife? Does he beat his kids?

“Is that what you want?” Mendez asked. “Or we can turn this over to another agency and really do it right. You can have some arrogant little shit you don’t know and who has no loyalty to this office digging through your life. Would you rather we do that?”

Farman looked like he might blow an aneurysm. So much for getting what he needed.

“Frank, sit down,” Dixon ordered. “Let’s get this over with.”

Farman sat and stared at the front of the desk.

“I worked late that night,” he said. “I had paperwork. My wife is mistaken.”

“You were here?” Hicks said. “Okay.”

But as he said it, he cut Mendez a look.

Farman caught it from the corner of his eye. He turned on Hicks. “What?”

Hicks looked uncomfortable. “You were off the clock at four thirty. You’re salaried. You don’t get overtime. Why put it in your logbook that you went to dinner?”

“Habit,” Farman said.

Hicks looked to Dixon. “Can I keep this for a couple of hours?” he asked, lifting the logbook.

“Un-fucking-believable,” Farman muttered, shaking his head. He stood up. “I’m done here. I’m going home.”

Mendez checked his watch. 6:26. He hoped for Sharon Farman’s sake dinner was ready.

Chapter 45

45

“You received a traffic fine in the mail.”

Anne looked at her father as she dropped her book bag and purse inside the front door. “What?”

“It says something about reckless driving and destruction of property. I taught you how to drive better than that.”