The entirety of Chester Pratt’s face shifted and contorted, locking into a grimace, like a man who’d just swallowed a plug of tobacco. His leg stopped pumping up and down and he appeared to hold his breath as his eyes roved from Reggie Caruthers to Quinn.

“I don’t think that’s any of y’all’s business,” Pratt said. “That’s a personal matter.”

“Everything in a murder investigation is personal,” Quinn said. “Don’t you think, Reggie?”

“You bet, Sheriff.”

“I’m done here,” Chester Pratt said, standing up and pushing the chair hard behind him. “You got any more questions or accusations, how about you call up Sonny Stevens. I came over here during business hours out of respect to you, Sheriff. But seeing you don’t have the same for me, I’ll be getting back to work.”

Chester Pratt headed for the door and Quinn listened as the man’s tasseled loafers slapped down the hallway and out to the front door. Reggie switched chairs and pulled up the seat Chester had been in. His tan uniform was stiff and creased that morning, the silver star polished and gleaming.

“Damn, that man sure is guilty,” Reggie said.

“Yep,” Quinn said.

“ ’Least now we know the why,” Reggie said. “Just not the how.”

“Any word back on those prints from Gina’s Nissan?”

“Nope,” he said. “What about that blade you found under her seat? Want me to send it over to Batesville? Maybe see if they can rush things up.”

“A rush at the lab?” Quinn said. “It’ll be six months before we see the report.”

“Probably,” Reggie said. “How ’bout I run down some of Pratt’s recent bankruptcy filings? See just how far his ass is in debt?”

Quinn nodded, checked the time, and picked up the phone to call Lillie Virgil.

“I also want a deputy watching the liquor store and Chester’s house,” Quinn said. “Tell them to use that old GMC we have in impound. He knows we’re onto him but let’s not make a point of it. Not yet.”