“The faster you answer my questions, the faster we’ll be done.”

With a sigh, Loming led me to the kitchen and reached for the coffeepot, filling a mug for each of us. Colorful cereal bowls and sturdy plastic spoons were strewn across the table, the detritus of a kid-friendly breakfast. Loming reached for the belt on his robe. He’d been a slimeball during our first meeting, and I half expected to be writing him up for indecent exposure once our meeting was through, but he only drew the belt tighter, slouched in place, and said, “Fire away.”

“My theory,” I explained, “is that Brett disappeared the weekend of June 20th. I have some new information about that Saturday. He went to the St. Albans drive-in. X-Files was playing. Sound familiar?”

“Ma’am, I can’t remember what movie I watched last week.”

“It was a long time ago. I get it. Just do your best.”

He furrowed his brow. “Yeah. I saw it.”

“With Brett?”

“Oh sure, we held hands across the console.” He rolled his eyes. “He was there. So was I. That was it.”

But Felicia had specifically said Loming had plans to meet Brett. It was because she was so sure Loming had been at the movie with my uncle that I’d decided to pay him another visit. That, and his status as the Swanton Police Department’s prime suspect. “So you went alone?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“There was a lot of hype about that movie. I, for one, was dying to watch it. Were you a fan of the TV series?”

“Not especially.”

“So why’d you go to the drive-in that night?” My gaze was drawn to the table once more. I thought of the son with the stomach bug, and the other one I knew from school. I set down the coffee Loming had handed me. “How old are your children, Mr. Loming?”

He ran his fingers across his burnished jaw. “Russ Jr.’s thirty-four and Max is two years younger. Why?”

I did the math and said, “That would make them, what, fifteen and thirteen that summer? Prime drive-in age. That movie was big with teenagers.” Just about everyone I knew had planned to be there for its release. “You didn’t bring them with you?”

Looking baffled, Loming said, “I guess they didn’t want to come.”

Or you didn’t want them around. “Did you talk to Brett while you were there?”

“Sure. We always parked in the same place, way off by the picnic tables.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Baseball. Politics. The weather.”

Asshole. “And money?”

Next to his history of assault, money was the reason the police chief was keeping a close eye on Loming. Loming sighed before he answered.

“Like I said, he owed me. Maybe two hundred. Not a lot.”

“Did you threaten him?”

“No!” The flesh on Loming’s healthy, freshly scrubbed cheeks dulled. With his buzz cut and his face bunched up with apprehension, he looked like an overgrown kid.

“Did you kill him because he didn’t have the money?” I said.