I looked toward his closed, silent door. I needed to have a talk with him about drinking. The beer had been a one-off. I’d not gotten even slightly buzzed, and in my mind it really didn’t qualify as a transgression. Some would say yes, but I wasn’t so sure. I hadn’t even been freaked out enough to hit an AA meeting.

I fished a pen from my purse, scribbled my response under his bold block lettering, and reposted the note on his door. My scrawl looked chaotic, out of practice. “Sounds good. M.”

Down the three flights of stairs, I pushed out the front door into the cool air, moist with drizzle. In my car, I drove across the bridge into the city toward the police station. Richards was used to an annual visit, but I’d never doubled back.

I found parking on Grace Street, walked up to the sergeant at the front desk, an African American woman in her late forties. I waited fifteen minutes before Richards appeared. He stood tall, his dark suit pressed, his paisley tie straight and shoes polished.

“Court today?” I asked.

“How’d you guess?”

“You were wearing the same suit when you went to court about three years ago when I stopped by.”

“Good memory.”

“Wedding photographers notice clothes.”

“The trick is not to wear it to a crime scene.”

“I’ve ruined a few pairs of shoes at jobsites,” I said. “Mud, rain, splashed wedding cake, even blood—the hazards of nuptials.”

His scowl softened as he nodded toward the front door. “I’m on my way to court, so you’ll have to walk with me to the parking lot.”

I followed him out the front door and down the sidewalk, the cold air tunneling between the buildings on Grace Street. My long legs worked fast to match his pace. “Are you running late?”

“Always.” Eyes ahead, he fumbled for the key fob on his ring.

“Why did you give me the copies of your case notes?”

He didn’t break stride, and he didn’t look distressed. “I didn’t.”

“Who would’ve had access to your personal files?”

He clicked the remote, and the lights of a black, unmarked Crown Vic flashed. “I’ve no idea.”

I shook my head. He was the kind of guy who knew more than he let on. “You know.”

He opened the door, paused for a moment, and then shook his head. “I don’t.”

“They were left outside my apartment door along with my accident report.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” Calmly, he shrugged off his jacket, opened the back door, and slid it onto a waiting hanger. Slamming the door, he settled behind the wheel, turned on the engine, and rolled down the window.

I glanced around, making sure no one was watching. “Of the people you talked to, who do you think was lying to you?”