“I’m not judging.” I kept my voice patient; I couldn’t alienate the one local LEO who’d shown me some goodwill. “Can any company or citizen ask the sheriff to respond when an alarm goes off on their property?”

Everard shrugged. “If Sea-2-Sea had it set up to ring in the sheriff’s office, sure. Why not?”

“I leaned over the fence, which is electrified. I guess that brought Gisborne running. Sea-2-Sea is awfully protective of a few cereal plants.”

“City girl.” The needle swung into the blue again. “Those plants could be a special hybrid potentially worth millions of dollars. Sea-2-Sea doesn’t want anyone touching them—not a crime.”

Everard waved his mug at the bartender. “Simone, bring me another, would you, pretty please?”

“Deke, you’re not crippled, last I saw. You come on up here yourself. You can see I got a line waiting, and I’m on my own.”

The crowd was building, but it was modest compared to the one at the Lion’s Pride. Only a tiny TV in the far corner, so die-hard Jayhawk fans would be at the bigger sports screens.

I shook my head when Everard offered me a refill. A double whisky after a long day was making me sleepy. Any more and I wouldn’t be able to drive or, more important, stay tuned to what Everard was saying.

When he got back, I told him about Baggetto’s arriving at the missile silo. “He said he was in Lawrence to lecture to the ROTC unit up on the hill, but when I called, they didn’t have a record of his being there. On the other hand, he kept the sheriff from arresting me, or maybe shooting me while I tried to flee the scene.”

Everard banged his stein on the counter, slopping some beer over the side. “See, that’s what I mean. Gisborne, he’s been sheriff here a million years, started as a deputy back in the eighties. He doesn’t usually fly off the handle like that.”

“I wondered about drugs,” I said. “There’s a building on the missile site with black windows and a new lock.”

“Whatever Gisborne may or may not be doing, he will not be covering for a drug ring,” Everard snapped. “Nor Dr. Kiel—he’s Dr. Public Health around here. No way would he support a meth lab.”

“I know they’re not growing medical marijuana on that land,” I said, trying to lower the temperature. “It’s probably the one crop I could identify. But two different things could be happening out there—meth in the abandoned silo and something else on Doris McKinnon’s old land.”

Everard nodded grudgingly.

“Not to light another fuse under you, but I’m wondering about Baggetto, too.”

“You’re safe, since I don’t know the guy. What’s he up to?”