I brought my forms over to the cashier, wondering how big a bite Luella’s bill would take from my budget. Standing in line behind people paying traffic fines, court-ordered child support, penalties for littering, tampering with crime scenes, I felt too tired to go on. One never sleeps well in jail, no matter how splendid the accommodations, but I was tired down to my bones.

I was tired of cleaning up the sad detritus of other people’s lives, tired of arguing with government agents, tired of trying to imagine why decent lawmen, as Sheriff Gisborne reportedly was, suddenly began acting as shills for the army or big corporations. Money had changed hands, or threats had changed ears—it was always the same story, and I was tired of reading it. No wonder Jake was fed up with me: I was fed up with myself.

When I’d handed over my credit card and signed on all the appropriate lines, I collapsed onto the nearest bench. My hair felt filthy, and my good jacket needed cleaning. I could smell my own body, and it wasn’t enticing.

One of the clerks tapped me on the shoulder. “You okay, miss?”

I jerked awake and managed a ghastly smile. I was fine—in which case there was no loitering.

I pushed myself upright and headed for the exit, where I stopped abruptly. Colonel Baggetto, AKA Pinsen, and the sheriff were having an intense conversation in the middle of the hall.

The woman behind me, with two toddlers in tow, ran into me and shouted angrily.

“Sorry,” I said. “I wasn’t expecting to see my ex here.”

“You still need to watch where you’re going,” she said, but less belligerently: running into an ex is never pleasant.

The deputies and clerks were eyeing the sheriff and his cohort overtly, but the trio had picked a strategic spot where they could see anyone who was trying to eavesdrop and they were far enough away that only a skilled lip-reader could make out their words. One of the many skills TV detectives have that I lack.

I paused a moment, but I was no more successful than the clerks in deciphering the conversation. I walked over to the men and smiled sunnily, or at least tried to, despite my fatigue-fogged brain.

“Warshawski!” The colonel tried to act nonchalant. “What are you doing here?”

“Recovering from a night in the Douglas County Jail. Paying my fine so I can return to society without a blemish on my character. The sheriff here can tell you all about it. How about you? They must miss you over at Fort Riley.”

Gisborne and Pinsen were giving me those glassy looks that tell you you were a topic of their conversation, but Baggetto had easier social skills; he smiled genially and said, “It’s good for all relationships to have some space now and then.”

“Any luck with your canister?” I asked.