I folded my map of the bridle trails and tucked it into the Thomas Guide. I was so bored I was about to start cleaning out my purse when I heard him winding down his end of the conversation. I looked at the door in anticipation of his return.

A moment later he appeared, his expression oddly unreadable. “Michael Sutton’s dead.”

“What?”

“He was shot sitting in his car in the lot at Seashore Park.”

I was speechless, staring at him with disbelief.

Cheney went on, probably hoping to soften the impact. “The officer at the scene says a woman walking her dog heard the shot and saw a black sports car pull out of the lot. She only caught a flash, and apparently she doesn’t know a Corvette from a Sherman tank. The ‘black’ she’s pretty sure about unless the car was dark blue. I shouldn’t be telling you this much, but you’re a good friend and I trust you to keep your mouth shut.”

I sat there, unable to absorb the news.

He put a hand on my arm and squeezed. “We’re heading out to the scene and I don’t want you there. We can talk about it later when I know more.”

Chapter 33 - Thursday, April 21, 1988

33

Thursday, April 21, 1988

Jon pulled his car into the driveway, removed the handgun from under the seat, and got out. He walked around the main house to the back door, gun carried loosely at his side. He let himself in. The liquor supply was kept in the butler’s pantry between the kitchen and the dining room. He set the gun on the counter, opened the cabinet, and took out a bottle of Cutty Sark. He found a highball glass and poured himself a stiff drink that he downed neat. He put the glass on the counter and held out his hands. He’d expected to be shaking, but his hands were steady. His heartbeat was slightly elevated, but otherwise he felt fine.

How naive he’d been about the act of shooting a man to death. In his most recent thriller, he’d described a character’s shooting of a vagrant. The killing was random—no motive, no weapon left at the scene, and nothing that tied the killer to his victim. The fictional police investigation had gone nowhere and it should have been written off as the perfect crime. Naturally, a mistake was made, a minor matter. In the end, the killer wasn’t caught, but he endured a nasty fate of the sort only a novelist could cook up. Jon realized now how completely he’d misunderstood the act of taking another man’s life. It was simple, of no consequence. The only surprise had been the sound Michael Sutton made when he realized what was going on. Jon would have to struggle to erase the quick cry.