It was a moment before she said, “Investigating officer’s report makes the scene sound a little ambiguous. It might have been reduced to manslaughter, if there’d been a hearing. And the suspect was a juvenile, of course, which still counts for something. But since they can’t find the guy…”

I had my elbow propped on the door, my chin in my fist. A parody of a relaxed pose. “Darn shame,” I said across my knuckles.

“What can you tell me about Richard Weineman?”

“He’s dead.”

“That has a nice melodramatic ring.” She stopped the car at a four-way and said, “Why don’t you just tell me what happened that night?”

Air came and went in my lungs. My hand was lightly curled and resting against my lips; I could feel my thumbnail digging into the lower one. I kept my eyes on the scenery, though it was no longer moving. “Because it’s none of your business.”

Her hand shot out, grabbed my wrist; she pulled my hand away from my mouth, my arm down across my body, and held it there. “I think my business is exactly what it is. I’m a cop.”

We were twisted mirror images of each other: both breathing a little too loud, staring into each other’s eyes. Our hands met at the mirror plane.

“You’re not asking because you’re a cop,” I said, my voice weightless. “You’re asking because you know I have to tell you. Because you’re a cop.”

Something happened in her face, something that was both harder and softer, and neither. She let go of my wrist and turned, eventually, back to the wheel. The car eased forward again.

“Maybe I’m asking to find out if I’ve got a psychopath in the passenger seat.”

“I think you’re safe,” I said. “And so do you.”

Neither of us spoke again until we stopped.

Juvenile Detention, on Water Street, was the whole of my experience with copshops in B-town, and that only from the visitor’s side. This wasn’t J.D. Something about the architecture suggested an old library, the comforting municipal sort that must have had columns stipulated in the endowment. Rico saw me looking and said, “Chrystoble Street Station. Sometimes known as Scotland Backyard. Come on, you’ll be a nice addition to the ambience.”

I followed her up the steps, through the heavy double doors, and into a surprisingly civilized room. The walls were wainscotted halfway up in oak; above that they were painted the green of a honeydew melon. The long windows wore louvered wooden shutters, the louvers open now to encourage the hot, heavy air to circulate.