“We’re not here for a car, Mrs. Shaw,” Sam corrected her. “This is a murder investigation, in which your vehicle played a crucial role.”

Lucy made an effort to back down. “I’m sorry,” she said disingenuously.

“How often has Lemuel frequented that particular place?” Sam asked.

Lucy was still struggling with her poise. “It’s not like I keep count.”

Sam remained silent, her question lingering.

“Now and then,” Lucy conceded. “I am no longer an outlet for those impulses, and as far as I know, all he does is drink and watch. Until you two showed up, I thought it was harmless enough, if a little humiliating.”

“Going back to the night in question,” Sam resumed. “Run it down for us, step by step.”

Lucy sighed before beginning. “He called. He was embarrassed. Said he was sorry a dozen times. It wasn’t complicated. He said when he stepped outside, the car was gone. That’s all there was to it.”

“About what time was this?”

“One o’clock in the morning. That was the other problem. He woke me up, which he knows I don’t like.”

“Did he say anything about having seen or spoken to anyone? Or did he voice any suspicions?”

She shook her head. “No. He was too worried about my reaction. Rightfully so. I was really angry with him. Still am, especially now.”

“How ’bout when you arrived there? What time was that?”

“Maybe an hour later. I had to get up and get ready to go.”

“And when you got there, did you see anyone?”

“I wasn’t looking,” she replied primly.

“But you knew where to go.”

There was a split second’s hesitation before she countered, “The Jeep has GPS, and Lemuel gave me the address.”

Over Joe’s career, the quaint and local hospitals of old had grown with the elegance and subtlety of a lava flow. From having names like Mary Hitchcock and Alice Peck Day—small institutions catering to rural clusters of communities—they had become huge, amorphous medical complexes consisting of clinics, hospitals, and health centers, the biggest of which was Dartmouth-Hitchcock Health, exuding, to Joe’s ear, all the warmth of HAL the computer.

This was no reflection of the medical care offered, fortunately. D-HH, so called, reminiscent of KFC for trendiness, had in its favor the experts and equipment once available only in places like Boston. Trevor Buttner, therefore, for all his foolishness, was being treated beyond expectations at a D-HH satellite in Keene, and better than he would be shortly at the hands of the legal system.

As if in preparation for this very transition, he was casted and immobilized by a traction device on his gurney and handcuffed to its side rail.

“This is so illegal,” he complained to Joe and Fred as they entered his room, Joe gesturing to the cop leaning against the wall that now was his chance to take a break.

“You remember being read your rights and signing them?” Joe asked, looking down at him as Fred moved to the bed’s other side and quickly positioned a small audio-video recorder on the side table.