“Busy man in his youth,” I say dryly.

She motions to the folder. “I put contact info and Glock’s old incident report in there, too.”

“Thanks.” I look at the report. True to Belinda Harrington’s assertion, Dale Michaels had filed a complaint, claiming Seymour’s dogs were loose and digging in his trash. Seymour was issued a citation and that had been the end of it. Or was it?

* * *

I blow most of an hour returning e-mails and phone calls. At 8 A.M., I’m back in my Explorer and heading toward the home of Dale Michaels’s neighbors. Kerry Seymour and his wife live on a small tract of land just south of the Michaels property. I pull into the asphalt driveway and park next to a maroon Ford F-150. The house is a redbrick ranch that looks professionally landscaped or else someone has a green thumb. Ahead is a good-sized metal building with an overhead door. A chain-link dog kennel with a concrete run is located on the south side of the building, but there are no dogs in sight.

Drizzle floats down from a cast-iron sky as I leave my vehicle and take the sidewalk to the house. I open the storm door and use the brass knocker, which is, not surprisingly, in the shape of a dog’s head. The door opens a few inches and I find myself looking at a middle-aged woman wearing a pink robe over flannel pajamas. Lower, two Labrador noses sniff at me through the opening.

“Mrs. Seymour?” I ask, showing her my badge and identifying myself. “Is Kerry Seymour home, ma’am?”

“He’s here.” She looks past me as if expecting to see the SWAT team preparing to swoop in. “He do something wrong?”

“Not that I know of,” I say. “But I’d like to ask both of you some questions.”

The door opens the rest of the way. Mary Ellen Seymour is holding a coffee mug in one hand, a magazine tucked beneath her arm. At her feet, the two dogs stare at me, panting.

“What happened?” she asks.

“Your neighbor, Mr. Michaels, was killed last night.”

“Killed? Oh my God. How?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

“Mary Ellen?” A man wearing striped pajamas and a ratty-looking robe enters the foyer. He’s tall and thin, with a narrow face framed by a horseshoe mustache. He comes up behind his wife, sets his hand possessively on her shoulder. “What can I do for you?”

The woman doesn’t give me a chance to answer. “Kerry, Mr. Michaels next door is dead! Can you believe it?”

“Dale? Dead?” Brows knitting, he rubs his hand across his chin. “Damn.”

I purposely didn’t reveal how Michaels was killed. It doesn’t elude me that he didn’t ask.

“His daughter found him last night,” I tell them, watching them carefully for any outward signs of previous knowledge or nervousness. “I’d like to ask you some questions,” I tell them. “May I come inside?”

“Oh. Sure.” Glancing down at the dogs, the woman sets down the magazine and points. “Greta! Dagmar! Go!”