“Official word is he got off on a technicality,” Tomasetti said. “But I heard Joey Ferguson walked because he turned over on you. He ratted you out. Fucked you over.” He leaned back in his chair and contemplated Kinnamon. “That means he gets the house on the lake. A pretty wife. The kids. And a boat. You get life in a six-by-six-foot cell.”

The other man said nothing. But Tomasetti didn’t miss the color that climbed up his neck or the way the muscles in his jaws quivered with tension. “Who the fuck are you? And why would you come in here and tell me that shit? You got some beef with Ferguson?”

Tomasetti closed the file and got to his feet. “Good luck with your trial.”

Kinnamon hissed something, but Tomasetti pressed the call button, shutting him out. When the door opened, he left the room without looking back.

Chapter 21

CHAPTER 21

Half an hour later, I’m standing twenty feet from the bank of a raging Painters Creek, watching a volunteer firefighter retrieve McCullough’s body from the water. Next to me, Skid slurps at an extra-large McDonald’s coffee, watching the scene as if he’s sitting cross-legged in front of the television watching an old episode of Jonny Quest. Behind us, two paramedics from Pomerene Hospital stand beneath the branches of a black walnut tree that does little to shield them from the rain.

“Chief?”

I glance behind me to see the coroner approach, sliding a little in the mud as he comes down the slope from the front of the house. He’s eyeing me as if it’s my fault he’s out tromping around in such inhospitable weather and he’s holding me personally responsible. His eyes slide toward the life preserver–clad firefighters as he starts toward us.

“I wish people would choose better weather in which to die,” he grumbles as he reaches us.

Skid chuckles into his coffee.

The doc doesn’t smile. “Any idea who it is?”

“I think it’s the homeowner, Jerrold McCullough,” I tell him.

“Chief!” The nearest firefighter looks over his shoulder at me. “You might want to see this.”

Skid lowers the cup from his mouth and looks at me. “You want me to go, Chief?”

“I got it.” I cross to the water’s edge, where the two firefighters, both of whom have safety tethers attached to their life vests, are standing in hip-deep water. “What is it?”

“This guy didn’t just fall off the deck and get tangled in that rope,” he shouts to be heard above the roar of the water. “His hands are bound.”

In light of the other two murders, I shouldn’t be surprised, but there’s always something intrinsically shocking about murder. “He’s tied to the deck?”

“Looks like.”