Roscoe rose and picked up his bag, slinging the strap around his shoulder. “I’m sorry I wasn’t honest with you before, but I want to keep my job. I have a child to support. If Nathan Ficco wanted to, he could have my job with a snap of his fingers. And Anderson made me promise not to tell anybody. He said it would be worse if his father got in trouble, so I respected his wishes.”

I nodded as Roscoe walked out of the room. His story struck me as plausible. And I preferred thinking Roscoe hadn’t been involved with Patty.

I took out my phone and texted Will to meet me at Nathan Ficco’s house.

Will was there before I was. I parked next to him in the horseshoe driveway and got out. We walked up to the door and he said, “What’s up?”

“You’re just here as a witness. Don’t say anything, and whatever you do, don’t upset him. We need him talking.”

A housekeeper answered and I asked for Nathan. Without a word, she left to get him. Nathan wore a full business suit, though he was retired and it was the middle of the day.

“I’ll refer you to speak to my attorney, gentlemen.”

“Mr. Pritcher is technically Anderson’s attorney, Mr. Ficco. And we just want five minutes of your time. No more.”

“I will not help in this witch hunt to condemn my son.”

“I’m not asking you to. I want to ask about something else that may be related. Five minutes, and then you’ll never see me darken your doorstep again.”

He shifted his gaze from one of us to the other and said, “Fine. Five minutes.”

We entered the home and followed him to his study. He sat down in a chair. There was a glass of whiskey next to him, and he took a sip and said, “Do you want a drink?”

“I’m fine, thanks. And the pope here doesn’t drink.” I folded my arms. “Where’s Mrs. Ficco, by the way?”

“Out. Now what is this about?”

“She’s been out every time we’ve been here.”

“Yes, women can actually leave the house, Mr. Graham. Miracle of miracles. Now what do you want?”

“I want to talk about Anderson’s eye injury.”

“Why?”

“Call it curiosity.”

He took another sip. “The damn fool never was very coordinated. When he was six I tried to teach him how to ride a bike, and he broke his leg falling off. He’s fragile.” He raised his glass to take a sip. “Might as well have had a girl.”

“Well, regardless, what do you know about what happened?”

He shrugged. “Just what he told me. He tripped on the field and hit the jagged edge of some pipe.”

I nodded and glanced around the study. “You got any brass knuckles around, Mr. Ficco?”

“Any what?”