“A homicide cop?”

Joe stayed where he was. “That’s correct. Can you figure out whose murder I want to talk about?”

The flicker of an eye, quickly blinked away. “Kalfus’s?”

“That’s good.” Joe straightened once more. “And right now, guess who’s looking like a good fit for his murder?”

Buttner’s face reddened as he spoke, but his words were tightly restrained. “I had nothin’ to do with that.”

“So you knew he was dead?”

“I didn’t say that. It’s not what I meant.”

Joe nodded thoughtfully. “Then you’ll have to convince me. You’re gonna have to tell me who you reached out to after you saw the phone was missing, everything you did to find Don, everybody you contacted, the works. That’s your job, Trevor. Here and now. Just like a courtroom lawyer. You have to convince the jury—that’s me—that you didn’t kill Don Kalfus. My charging you with murder depends on it. You got that?”

“I told you. I didn’t do it.”

“Convince me.”

New England weather is hard on parking lots. Concrete and asphalt are good if you have deep pockets, including enough to pay the taxes, which increase as a result of the improvement. Parking on grass and dirt ends up how you’d expect it to, especially come mud season. That leaves sure-pack, a slurry of dust and crushed rock that gets harder with time and use, might not look that good, and does need to be maintained, but—most importantly—is commonly not labeled as a finished surface by town listers. This is relevant not only in pragmatic rural New England, but if you run a business where your clientele isn’t fussy about appearances.

Like a bar labeled “Nude Girls!”

To that point, as Lester observed, taking in the forlorn-looking structure before them as he got out of the car, “Strip clubs in daylight. You’d think God or somebody would have an invisibility cloak he could drop on ’em till dark.”

Sammie cocked her head at him. “Seriously? Where do you come up with things like that?”

He pointed to the building, low, painted in peeling black, hung with a couple of extinguished, pale neon signs, barely readable in the sunlight. “Come on. Ya gotta admit. That’s sad.”

Sam’s feminist instincts were stirred. “What’s sad is not its lack of architectural flair. You know that.”

“Absolutely,” he said affably. “You think anyone’s in? It’s still kind of early.”

Sam’s disgust heightened. “You bet. Either counting money or scraping stains off the floors.”

“Okaaaay.” He drew out the word, following her to the door. “By the way,” he added, “did you notice what Lemuel Shaw didn’t?”

“What?” she asked, her hand on the knob.

“There’s no 911 number on the building. How many patrons of this establishment do you think have its legal address memorized?”

She got his meaning. “And what do you bet Lucy Shaw doesn’t have this place preloaded on her GPS? Mr. and Mrs. Shaw are being less than candid. There’s a surprise.”

With that, she twisted the knob and pulled the door open.