“Just because he’s a pervert doesn’t mean he can’t be a taxpaying citizen free to verbally abuse us,” Hamilton commented.

“He’s lucky Lauren Lawton didn’t pull a gun and shoot him last night,” Mendez said. “He should be more grateful.”

“I’ll tell him that,” Trammell said. “We can watch the top of his head blow off.”

“When you go back in, touch his bag,” Tanner said.

Trammell gave her a look. “Excuse me? Who’s the perv?”

“The messenger bag,” she specified. “He’ll start twitching. Roland doesn’t like anyone touching his stuff.”

Trammell arched a brow at her. “Tony, who’s your little friend?”

Tanner introduced herself. “Detective Danni Tanner, SBPD.”

“You’re a girl,” Trammell said stupidly.

“The last I checked. I thought about growing a dick, but then none of my pants would fit right.”

“Huh.” Trammell didn’t know what to make of her. He stuck with safer ground. “You know Ballencoa?”

“Enough to hate him.”

“Good enough for me,” Trammell said, walking away. He spat in the coffee cup, then topped it off and went back into the interview room.

“The sheriff is on his way,” he said. “I brought you a cup of coffee, anyway.”

He set the coffee cup on the table and reached for the messenger bag on the chair. “Let me hang this up for you.”

Ballencoa snatched the bag away. “I’ll keep it.”

“My girlfriend keeps telling me men in Europe are carrying purses now,” Trammell commented.

“It’s a messenger bag,” Ballencoa corrected him, setting the bag on the seat of the chair across from Trammell, out of easy reach. He continued his pacing.

“Yeah?” Trammell said. “Maybe I should get one to carry my paperwork. Can I have a look?”

He reached across the table, backhanding the coffee cup, sending hot coffee spewing across the tabletop and onto the bag.

“You fucking idiot!” Ballencoa shouted, diving back toward the table, just getting his hands on the bag before Trammell could snatch it off the chair.

“Sorry,” Trammell said, grabbing up napkins with one hand, reaching for the bag with the other. “Let me help you with that. I hope it didn’t get wet inside.”

Ballencoa pulled the bag against himself like he was pulling a child out of harm’s way. “Don’t touch it!”

A knock sounded on the door and Cal Dixon let himself into the room.

“Mr. Ballencoa. I’m sorry to keep you waiting. I was on a call with the head of the detective division in the Santa Barbara PD. I wanted to get some background on your allegations against Mrs. Lawton.”

Ballencoa, frantically swiping the coffee off his bag, arched a brow at the sheriff. “My allegations? The woman stalked me. She attacked me last night. Now this.”

He reached into the bag and pulled out a small square envelope, and thrust it at Dixon.