“That’s one of the questions I plan to ask him—especially since his boss said his typical lunch routine is to hang around and play with his cell.”

“Suspicious.”

“But not incriminating.” Brent rose from the corner of his desk and settled into his chair. “I asked the boss to keep our conversation confidential.”

“You think he will?”

“Yeah. He didn’t come across as a huge fan of Jackson.”

“Did he offer anything else?”

“He said Jackson shows up and does the job, so no complaints on the work side. But he’s overheard him making demeaning remarks about his wife to his coworkers—and bragging about his, shall we say, extracurricular activities—which didn’t endear him to the man.”

“He’s cheating on his wife?”

“His cell records would suggest that. There are frequent calls to a waitress named Candy Norris who works at a local bar.”

“What a loser.” Colin snorted his disgust. “However . . . planting a fake bomb, slashing tires, and issuing threats just to get his wife back under his thumb on the home front seems excessive.”

“Eve agrees with you. But we’ve got his DNA at her car.”

“I know—and that can’t be coincidence. Everything points to him.” Colin shrugged. “Maybe the guy’s just arrogant. Thinks he’s smart enough to put one over on law enforcement. Some criminals are convinced they’re invincible and get bolder and bolder . . . until they get caught.”

“That could be the case here.”

“But if he is your guy, how would he know about the history that caller brought up on the radio program?”

“He may have run into someone who knew Eve back in her teaching days. The wife of the jerk she dated told at least a few people what happened.”

Colin laced his fingers over his stomach. “We have more questions than answers at this stage.”

“Agreed. That’s why I’m going to go talk to him. Want to come along?”

“Sure. It could be interesting—and the intimidation factor of two-on-one won’t hurt.”

“That did occur to me.”

“I’m meeting Trish for dinner after we’re finished, so I’ll join you at the house. I’ve got the address.”

“Sounds good.”

Five minutes later, after attending to his own messages and riffling through a stack of papers in his inbox, Brent left the office behind.

And tried to tamp down his disquiet.

New as he was to the detective ranks, he’d been around the law enforcement block often enough to develop accurate instincts—and those instincts said Jackson was guilty.

Yet something felt . . . off.

Frowning, he exited the building and lengthened his stride toward his car.

Maybe his uneasiness would dissipate after he talked to the man. Jackson could let a key piece of information slip that would lead to solid, admissible evidence.

The very thing needed to take this case forward.