“Well, it’s a good thing you’ve got some money. See, it’s dangerous for pretty boys like you to be mixed in with gen pop. Do you know what that is?” Floyd swallowed, barely moving his head. “General population. It’s where the rapists, killers, mutilators, and the like hang out. They have their own code of justice—funny enough—and the murder of a beautiful young girl ranks pretty high on the list of crimes they don’t tolerate. But I’m sure a wealthy boy like yourself can pay for a private cell while you wait for the judge to consider your innocence.”

“Is that true?” Floyd looked like he was going to be sick.

“Nah.” Agent Edmonds narrowed his eyes. “They don’t believe in segregation in the prison system. Rich. Poor. They’re all mixed up. Killers. Baby-faced art lovers doing favors for people they don’t know.”

“I swear, man.” Floyd’s voice became whiny as he edged farther away from the package like it was a contagion. “It was just a quick way to earn a few bucks since my parents have me on a stupid allowance until I get a job.”

Sheriff Huggins pulled out a stool and put a hand on pretty boy’s shoulder. “Why don’t you sit down and tell us how this package came into your possession. From the beginning.”

Floyd nodded and looked up at Sheriff Huggins with tenderness and appreciation. “I found an envelope on my doorstep. Inside was a letter and a wad of cash. The letter said there would be more. Next day a package gets delivered to my door and all I have to do is attach an address slip and mail it out. Then I get another five grand.”

“That’s it?” Agent Edmonds growled.

“And you have no idea who’s paying you or what the packages are?” Charlie asked.

“Dude, they left a stack of bills on my porch. Why would I ask questions?”

Sheriff Huggins continued. “How many times have you done this?”

“Only a couple. Am I going to get in trouble for this? I don’t want to go to jail. I didn’t do anything wrong. Didn’t kill anyone.”

As much as the playboy annoyed him, the evidence just wasn’t there to prove Floyd Hollins had anything to do with Sydney’s murder. He looked down at the painting Sheriff Huggins had unwrapped. Charlie knew the broad strokes of this piece made it a contemporary abstract. Red and black. Charlie wasn’t artistic in the least, but he could’ve probably created something similar. He searched the canvas for the artist’s signature, conflicted about whether he wanted to see Sydney’s name on it or not. But there was no signature. Weird.