“I was told he’d been in a fight,” Farman said. “Was that just a lie to get me down here so you could accuse me of something, Cal? What the hell?”

“Dennis wasn’t in a fight, Frank. He attacked two kids in Oakwoods Park. He stabbed a boy. The child could die. Dennis is under arrest.”

Farman’s face dropped. “What? He did what?”

“He stabbed a boy. The boy is in surgery. He might not make it, Frank.”

Now Farman sat down as if his legs wouldn’t hold him up any longer. He looked dazed.

“I don’t understand,” he said, almost to himself. “I don’t understand what’s wrong with him. You know Sharon was drinking when she was pregnant with him. He’s never been right.”

“I brought his teacher in because I know she has some rapport with the boy,” Dixon said.

“Oh, great!” Farman said. “That snotty little bitch. Who knows what she’s put in his head. She’s got a problem with men—”

“Can it, Frank,” Dixon snapped. “Stay on point here. We’re talking about your eleven-year-old son committing a felony. I’m trying to decide where to house him. He’s too young to go to juvenile detention, let alone jail.”

“This is . . . I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Where’s your wife, Frank?” Dixon asked. “We’ve been trying to reach her. Now your son tells us she’s dead.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Why would he make that up?”

“Why would you believe him?” Farman countered angrily. “Jesus, Cal! We’ve known each other a dozen years. We’ve been through it together. And you turn on me like a fucking snake! I don’t get it. A week ago we were friends. I was your goddamn right hand!”

“I haven’t turned on you, Frank,” Dixon snapped back. “I’m doing my damn job! How hard do you think this is for me? My right-hand man is acting like a suspect. My right-hand man can’t account for himself when a girl was abducted. My right-hand man can’t tell me why his kid was in possession of the finger of a murder victim! Don’t give me all this wounded-friend bullshit!”

Vince went across the hall and knocked on the door before sticking his head into the room. “Sheriff, you have a phone call. It’s urgent.”

Dixon gave his right-hand man a final scathing look and exited the room. He was red in the face and breathing too hard.

“What’s the call? Is it Mendez?”

“The call is, You need to step out, boss,” Vince said. “This isn’t going anywhere good.”

Dixon jammed his hands at his waist and breathed in and out, visibly reining himself in.

“Let me talk to him,” Vince said. “I got no stake in him. I don’t know him from anyone. It’ll be easier for me to get what you need.”

Dixon nodded.