“A funeral,” Fannie said. “In New Orleans. I just got back and heard about all the action the other night. I know you say you didn’t shoot that Royce fella in the head. But I couldn’t blame you, Sheriff. The man was bad for business. He was the kind of creepy old coot who’d show up with a dozen roses from the Piggly Wiggly to hand out to some teenage girls.”

“You won’t have to worry about that anymore,” Quinn said.

“I heard y’all shot who did it,” Fannie said. “Maybe the same fella who killed Wes Taggart?”

Quinn shrugged but didn’t say anything about the hat they’d found or that they believed there was a second shooter who had escaped Royce’s place, the older man in the video footage from the jail.

“A shame you shot him,” Fannie said. “If you ever find him, tell him he’s got free lap dances all night long. Royce and Wes Taggart. A goddamn two-for-one special.”

Quinn kicked up his boots, watching Fannie stroll toward the open seat in front of his desk, his door still cracked open in case anyone wanted to walk in. You didn’t have closed-door meetings with a woman like Fannie Hathcock if you wanted to keep your job. He wished Hondo could’ve been a witness to whatever she came to discuss. Setting his boots at the edge of his desk, he said, “What’s on your mind, Fannie?”

Fannie sat down, resting her elbow on her knee, her hand cupping her face, looking up at him with those tired eyes. “How’s Bradley Wayne?”

“Fine, last time I checked,” Quinn said. “Calmed down a lot since that first day. I think he’s about to bail out, finally.”

“I appreciate what you did for Dana Ray,” Fannie said. “It’s why I always ask for you special. You seem to have a soft place for the working girls. I don’t think I’ve met a stripper yet who didn’t have bad taste in men. I guess it goes with the job. But, goddamn, when I was working the pole, I was a little more careful where my money went. You have to tip the damn house, the bouncer, the DJ. I’d be damned if some lazy peckerhead would be getting my earnings.”

“You could have called,” Quinn said. “Cleotha would have been happy to give you an inmate report. Jail records are also available online, twenty-four hours, and up-to-date.”

“You don’t like me,” Fannie said. “Do you?”

“I like you fine, Miss Hathcock.”

“Christ,” she said. “Don’t call me that. Some simpleminded folks make more of it than it is. Men seem to resent a bossy woman, seem to think it means I got something tucked between my legs.”

Quinn smiled. “I never thought that, Fannie. Ever.”

“Good.”