Lester matched his partner’s tone. “What about finding a dead body in your car did you not understand?”

“What’re you accusing me of?”

“Right now?” Sam countered. “Just lying. I want to know why.” She tapped the sheet with her fingertip. “This is a readout from your car’s computer system. Amazingly nosy, as it turns out. Keeps track of everything. How many times you hit the brakes, what speeds you drove at, opening and closing doors, where you went, and when. Are you getting the picture?”

Lemuel Shaw didn’t respond, rooted in place.

“Your car didn’t come back here the night it was stolen,” Sam stated. “It was still in Keene.”

“How many cars do you own?” Lester asked.

“Three.” The man’s voice was barely audible.

Sammie resumed. “And which one did your wife use to drive to Swanzey to pick you up?”

“The Jeep.”

“We cross-checked the Mercedes’s GPS with that date and approximate time,” she explained, “based on what you told the officers who came to take your statement.” She paused and added, “’Cause we did read the report. We know exactly where you were parked for a couple of hours that night, and we have a good guess what you were up to. You wanna put it in your own words? Or would you like us to just place you under arrest?”

It was a specious threat. What he’d done so far wasn’t legal, but hardly deserving of twenty years at hard labor.

Still, it worked, as planned. Shaw hung his head. “I went to a strip club.”

“Go on,” Les urged him.

“Not much to add. I watched the girls do their thing, had too much to drink, and when I went back outside, the car was missing.”

“And your wife?”

“You were right. I called her. She was pissed, but this wasn’t the first time. I cooked up the story I told you and the other cops, and she went along so people wouldn’t find out.”

Lester placed Don Kalfus’s photo on the table, facing Shaw. “You know this man?”

He leaned forward and studied the image carefully before asking, “Should I? Was he there?”

“We’re asking you.”

Shaw looked baffled. “I don’t remember him if he was.” His expression suddenly transformed with shock. “Oh my God,” he said. “Is that the man you’re talking about? Who was killed?”

Sam ignored him. “What did you do with your car keys when you got to the club?”

“Put ’em in my pocket, like always.”

“It’s still cold out,” Lester said. “Pants pocket or coat?”

Shaw became crestfallen. “Coat. And I hung it by the door. Anybody could’ve reached in and taken them.”

“In your made-up story, you told police you left them in the ignition, since you live way out here in the boonies. You sure you didn’t do the same at the club?”

“No,” he replied softly, head hung once more.

Disappointingly, Joe did not find what young Angie had described. As the master bedroom door swung back, they didn’t get to see two adults fast asleep in bed, as hoped, but rather a mostly naked tattooed woman, her back propped up against the headboard, a cigarette in her mouth, staring directly at him.