It takes me ten minutes to reach the Painters Mill City Building, a two-story redbrick structure built at the turn of the century. I take the elevator to the second floor, where the town council meeting room and offices are located. I find Norm at his desk, a mug of coffee and a bagel piled high with cream cheese sitting on the leather blotter in front of him.

He looks up when I enter his office. He doesn’t look like he got much sleep last night. And he doesn’t look happy to see me. “What do you want?” he asks.

When I was in the police academy, one of the first concepts I learned was “the force continuum.” The term basically outlines the ten levels of force a police officer uses to gain and maintain control of a person or situation. It begins with a uniformed presence and verbal commands and goes all the way to the use of deadly force. No cop wants to become involved in a scuffle or fight, or God forbid, a shooting, whether justified or not. But while a good cop will do everything in his power to avoid escalation, he can never let himself be intimidated by it.

I don’t bother with a greeting. “I need for you to come to the police station with me.”

“What?” A humorless laugh erupts from his throat. But I don’t miss the way his eyes flash to the hallway behind me, telling me he’s more worried about someone overhearing than he is at the prospect of a trip to the station. “What’s this about?”

“Jerrold McCullough is dead.” I say the words brutally.

“Oh my God.” The color drains from his face. “How?”

“He was murdered,” I tell him. “I need you to come with me to the station.”

“But … why? I had nothing to do with it. For God’s sake, I’m not a suspect, am I?”

“You can either come with me voluntarily or I’ll cuff you and you can ride in the cage. It’s your choice.” I glance over my shoulder at the mail person pushing a cart down the hall. “The latter is guaranteed to get the tongues wagging. I don’t think you want to make a scene.”

Snarling something beneath his breath, he grabs the bagel and hurls it into the trash. “When my lawyer gets finished with you, you won’t even be able to get a security job.”

I motion toward the door. “Let’s go.”

Chapter 22

CHAPTER 22

An hour later, I’m sitting in the interview room across the table from Norm Johnston and his lawyer, a young hotshot by the name of Colin Thornsberry. I’ve met him several times over the years, and each time I like him a little less. He’s an attractive man just shy of thirty, with a weakness for expensive clothes, a cocky attitude, and the manners of a chimpanzee.