“Bo,” Sack said, extending his hand, which Bo grasped with a firm grip before letting go. “You look like hell. I hope you haven’t gotten into any trouble already.”

Bo rubbed his fat lip and glanced at his shirt and slacks, both of which had dirt and grass stains on them, not to mention streaks of caked blood. For a couple of seconds, he pondered whether he should share his near-death experience the night before with the prosecutor. What Finn Pusser had done constituted attempted assault and probably several other crimes. But as he gazed up at Sack Glover and took in Sack’s custom-tailored navy suit and perfectly coifed hair, Bo remembered that the new DA was in Michael Zannick’s pocket. If Bo had any intention of reporting the incident at Booker T.’s farm, it wouldn’t be to this man. “What can I do for you, Sack?”

The prosecutor glanced through the window of the office and then back at Bo. “Is that Lona Burks in there?”

Bo followed his gaze and saw Lona sitting behind Ellie’s old desk. She was typing furiously on the computer with an intense expression on her face. Bo wondered if Lona ever relaxed and then remembered what she’d said about her prior addiction to drugs and alcohol when she was a dancer at the Sundowners. Always on guard, he thought.

“It is,” Bo said. “Do you know Lona?”

“Not really,” Sack said, but Bo could tell he was lying.

“Well then, like I said, what can I do for you?” Bo approached him and pointed at the envelope. “You got a steak in there for me?”

Sack smiled. “It’s a copy of the arrest warrant along with the letter mentioned in last night’s Casimir’s Vine blog.” He handed the envelope to Bo.

“Casimir’s what?”

“Vine. It’s a blog written by an anonymous local group.” He paused. “You haven’t seen last night’s entry?”

Bo shook his head, feeling a nervous twinge in his stomach. “Enlighten me.”

“Somehow the Vine got word that our investigation had uncovered a letter written by the victim. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t provide discovery this soon, and I’m pissed off that Frannie Storm gave you copies of those witness statements and her report.” He shrugged. “But since we obviously have a mole in the sheriff’s department, I thought it only fair to give you a copy of the letter.”

“Big of you,” Bo said.

“Read it and let’s talk.” Sack walked past him toward his car, which was a silver Porsche 911 sedan. Not the vehicle of your average public servant.

“Hold on.”

Sack opened the door to his car but waited to get in. “What?”

“Are you seeking the death penalty?”