“So I went to the DMV, who told me to go back to the city hall, because permits were only processed through the city hall. At which point I told the clerk I would immortalize them in film as the least helpful human being on the planet if they didn’t tell me something. So it was suggested I find a woman named Ashtyn Lockett, the keeper of all the permits.”

The deputy tried and failed to cover her laugh.

“Assuming I would get nothing but more runaround from the lovely locals in this town, I came here. Because who would know more than the local police about government type matters? Only there was a sign on your door saying you were getting a sandwich at Frankie’s. From what I can tell, there is no place called Frankie’s.”

“It’s a real nice restaurant.” He hefted what was left of his sandwich to show her. “Pastrami and provolone.”

“I’m sure it is. It’s also not listed on the internet, in the yellow pages, or on any of the buildings in Moose Springs. And everyone I asked either hadn’t heard of it or pretended they hadn’t heard me. Again, I was referred to Ashtyn Lockett. I assume she’s used to scare people.”

“Upon occasion,” he admitted.

Watching him chewing on his sandwich like a cow chewing its cud, River had to contain her natural inclination to rip the thing out of his mouth and cram it up his nostrils, one slice of pastrami at a time.

Instead, River drew herself up, steeled her spine, and said, “Officer Jonah. I am filming a documentary in the town of Moose Springs. I will be doing this whether or not I have the proper permits filed with the proper authorities. Because unlike the last film crews that tried to complete this assignment, I cannot be run off. So where is my permit?”

And that should have been that.

Only…well…it wasn’t.

“I’d check with city hall, ma’am. They’re in charge of all the permit type things.”

River wasn’t too dignified to scream.

Which of course was the exact moment Easton—in all his bearded, rugged glory—had to duck his head through the door. Her scream had been mighty, and his eyes widened. Easton looked back and forth between them, a familiar take-out container in his hand.

He had his own sandwich. Son of a bitch.

“Is everything okay?” Easton asked cautiously, pausing inside the front door.

He was asking her, but Officer Mayoface decided to answer. “We’re all good, Easton. Miss Lane—”

“Ms. Lane is fine, Easton, thank you,” River cut off the policeman. She twisted back on him. “And I didn’t tell you my name.”