After leaving him at the station, I was too keyed up to go home, so I called Mona and got the lowdown on Jack Warner, Long’s alibi. He owns Backwoods Construction Company, a small firm that specializes in designing and building log cabins. He’s divorced. No minor children. No record—not so much as a speeding ticket. I don’t have high hopes of gleaning any particularly helpful information. Still, the alibi needs to verified, and since I can’t sleep, I might as well work.

It’s ten-thirty P.M. now, and I’ve been parked on the street outside Warner’s house for half an hour. I knocked on the door when I first arrived, but there was no answer. Facing an empty bed at home and the temptation of Tomasetti back at the motel, I decided to wait for Warner.

He lives in a nifty little A-frame cabin with lots of glass and rustic detail. The house sits on about two acres; the trees are so thick I can barely see the porch light from the street. The lot backs up to Painters Creek—one of the most coveted areas in town—and is probably worth a small fortune.

As I study the property, I find myself thinking about Todd Long. The contrasts between Warner and Long are striking. Long is an ex-con who spends his days schlepping shit into railroad cars and his nights in a trailer. Warner, on the other hand, owns a construction business and lives in one of the nicest houses in town. What’s the connection? Are they just bar buddies? Friends? Acquaintances?

I’m thinking about calling it a night when headlights wash over my car. A sleek black BMW convertible pulls into Warner’s driveway. It doesn’t elude me that Mary Plank had been seen getting into a dark-colored car. A moment later, the house lights blink on. Firing up the engine, I turn in and park.

As I start toward the front door, the forest around me comes alive with a cacophony of crickets and frogs from the creek. Somewhere nearby, an owl screeches. Moths and other flying insects circle the porch light. I ascend the wooden steps and knock. Warner answers almost immediately.

The first thought that strikes my brain is that he’s a nice-looking man. I guess him to be about thirty years old with dark brown hair and eyes the color of espresso. He has the tanned skin of someone that spends a good bit of time in the sun. He’s not exactly buff, but the size of his arms tells me he lifts weights. He wears a navy polo shirt with a designer emblem on the pocket. Jeans faded to perfection. Boat shoes with no socks.

“Jack Warner?” I hold up my badge.

He can’t hide his surprise. “Yes?”

“I’m Chief of Police Kate Burkholder. I’d like to ask you some questions.”