“Rupert. Max Rupert.”

Bolger gave no indication he’d heard of Max or cared. He took a seat at the small table and looked blankly at Max.

“I was hoping I could talk to you about the disappearance of Sandy Voight.”

“Disappearance?”

“It’s my understanding she turned up missing about four days back. Or do I have that wrong?”

“Let me guess,” Bolger said with a grin. “You’re a psychic and you know where she is?”

“I’m a friend of the family. I’m just trying to help.”

“There’s nothing to help with here. There was no disappearance. Sandy Voight took her boy and ran off. That’s it. The case is closed.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“I’m not gonna talk about a case with some rando off the street. It’s confidential.”

“So it’s an active investigation.”

Something stirred in Max, a sense of potency that had gone dormant. Like watering a starving plant, turning the questions on Bolger had invigorated Max. It felt good.

“There’s nothing active about it,” Bolger said.

“If it’s not an active investigation—if it’s closed—then it’s not confidential.”

“Now you’re gonna tell me my business?”

Max felt like a runner hitting his stride. “Someone probably should.”

The narrowing around Bolger’s eyes was unmistakable—umbrage—but before he could feed off that anger, Max continued:

“If it’s not an active investigation, then it’s not confidential. Minnesota Statute Thirteen Eighty-Two.”

Bolger shifted in his chair, turning from irritated to curious. “What did you say your name was?”

“Max Rupert.”

Bolger stood, said, “Excuse me,” and left the room.

Max pushed his chair away from the table, leaned back, and crossed one leg over the other to wait. He knew that Bolger would be looking up whatever he could find on Max Rupert. He also knew that when Bolger returned to the room, there would be a shift. It would no longer be a sheriff deigning to listen to the whims of a hermit; it would be one trained investigator talking to another.

Ten minutes later, Bolger came back carrying a couple sheets of paper. Max could see that one had his picture, an article that ran when he was awarded a citation for saving a young woman’s life. As Bolger took his seat, he looked back and forth between the picture and Max.

“It’s me,” Max said.

“You’re a detective? Why didn’t you say so?”

Max started to clarify that he was a former detective, but thought better of it. “What makes you sure that Sandy Voight wasn’t kidnapped?”

Bolger shifted back to his angry face. “Did Lyle send you here?”

“It’s natural that he’d want answers.”

“I gave him answers. The problem is he won’t accept the truth.”

“Maybe I can help with that,” Max said, shifting tack. Interrogation 101—make them believe you are on their side. “If he hears it coming from me, he might take it better. My understanding is that you and Lyle have a rough history.”

Bolger tapped a finger on the table as he considered Max’s pitch. Max hadn’t yet sealed the deal, so he added, “The man’s hurting. What have you got to lose, Sheriff?”