Joe shrugs. “Maura does what she wants.” He picks his teeth with a long, yellowing fingernail as he watches me. “So I ask again: Why are you here? I’ve been locked up a long time, no Rita Hayworth posters hiding holes in my cell wall. I didn’t kill the Bergen girl. But you know that.”

I offer a nod. “Do you know why someone would copy your murder?”

“No one copied my murder. I reckon they paid homage to your grandma’s book, no?” He emphasizes homage like it’s real fancy.

“Or maybe someone you know did it to send a statement,” Ben throws in.

“That’s fucking stupid.” Joe slams his fist down on the table.

The guard in the corner goes on red alert, fingers brushing at a taser at his waist. I give him an All’s good hand signal.

“People are asking questions back in Seaview,” I say. “She was killed the exact same way.” I pause, raise my eyes to his, make sure he sees me. “You know I found the body.”

He laughs, and I wasn’t expecting it. Like the stray dog he is, it came out a bark.

“Well, isn’t that a coinkidink!” He licks his lips, eyes darting between Ben and me, before landing laser-focused on Ben. “Have you had a taste yet? You know, Ellis women are tigers in the sack.”

Ben tenses beside me, jumps forward just an inch, fists clenched on the table. I stop him, laying my hand on his thigh, giving it a squeeze. No need to defend me.

“Haven’t you wondered who did it?” I ask, bringing Joe back to the matter at hand.

“Doesn’t concern me.” Joe is nonchalant, like we’re discussing the weather. “I wish them the best of luck.”

A killer offering well-wishes to a killer. Sweet.

“What was it like killing Caroline?” I’m teeing up the question I really came here to ask, if inelegantly.

Joe quirks his head to the side, studies first me, then Ben, as if working out a trick. But he takes the bait. Ish.

“It was great. Made me feel all powerful-like. Takes a lot to strangle a person.” He flexes the wan musculature of his sinewy arms, kisses a nonexistent bicep.

“And where did you get insulin back in 1970?” I finish, the non sequitur that is anything but.

Joe’s brow furrows, and he practically guffaws. “I don’t know. The pharmacy? How would I know? I’m not diabetic.”

Exactly. He doesn’t know why I’m asking. Ben shifts next to me. He gets it, too.

Joe Bedecki is a lot of things: a lech, a dick, a sad old man. But there’s one thing he’s not: a killer. Joe Bedecki didn’t murder Caroline Quinn.

So why is he lying about it?

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT