It didn’t surprise me that Loming was still working in manufacturing, trade jobs in Swanton being what they were. Like Brett, Loming was a local; I’d crossed paths with his youngest kid in school, a loudmouth named Max, but had no recollection of Loming himself. It took all of thirty seconds for me to see why he and Brett had been an inseparable pair. Even wearing faded blue coveralls, Loming had that same smirk and swagger, and while he might have passed for handsome once, his bulging middle now made him look considerably more pregnant than Suze.

Loming didn’t waste any time with pleasantries, though he did shake my hand. “I already told that fat old cop I don’t know anything about what happened to Brett, but I’m happy to repeat myself. Glad I wore my best suit,” he said. There was something sexual about his grip. I snatched my hand away and resisted wiping it on my pants. I didn’t bother to clarify that I wasn’t with the local police, just flipped open my notebook and asked if I could take some notes. Loming gave me a withering look, but didn’t debate my request.

“Why do you think I’m interested in interviewing you, Mr. Loming?”

Loming was balding, and had shaved his head down to quarter-inch gray bristles. He massaged the stubble as he spoke. “Brett and I used to be buddies. That was a long time ago.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. What do you make of all this? Any ideas about what happened to your friend?”

“Ex-friend. Like I told you guys before, Brett must have rubbed someone the wrong way.”

“Like how?”

“Like he owed someone money and didn’t pay up.”

Money. It was at the core of most crimes, the chewy black center you knew was there but had to crunch through layer after layer of lies to reach. Money—wanted, owed, distributed in a way deemed unjust—brought out the worst in people, from greed to desperation, jealousy to pride. Coming off a case where following the money had helped Tim and I catch a killer, I knew this for a fact. If Loming was right and Brett had owed someone money, this case might be more of the same.

“Any idea who he was in debt to?”

Without taking his eyes from mine, Loming said, “You seem awfully young to be a detective.” Wetly, he snapped his tongue against his teeth. “Must be pretty dangerous work.”

I can’t explain it, but whenever my scar catches someone’s attention, I feel their stare like a needle being dragged down the skin of my cheek. “Answer the question, Mr. Loming.”

“Brett’s stack of IOUs was taller than me.”

“Did he owe you money?”

“He might have. Nothing major, though.”

“Did you know Brett was planning on leaving town?”

“He told me, yeah. I didn’t blame him. His wife was a psycho bitch, pardon my French. They’d already split, but she wouldn’t stop harping on him. I figured leaving Swanton was the only way he could cut ties with that woman for good.”