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That last detail made Joe get up, his own irritation finally rising to the surface. "Maybe I'll just say hi," he said.

Rob glanced at him, waiting a beat before smiling and saying, "Yeah. Why not? I'll just keep poking around."

Joe left the office, crossed the waiting room, and opened the door onto the frozen front parking lot-and two deputies bracketing a red-faced, spittle-lipped barrel of a man who was bouncing on the balls of his feet in barely controlled fury.

"Hey, Dan," Joe said from the door. "Long time."

The man froze in mid-expletive and stared at him. "Gunther?" he finally asked, his tone incredulous.

"Yeah."

"What the fuck're you doing here?"

"Assisting the sheriff's department."

Dan Griffis took two steps in his direction and was immediately closed in on by the two deputies, one of whom rested a restraining hand on his shoulder.

It was a defining moment-a split second when the entire course of the next few minutes rested with Dan and whether he chose to take that hand as a challenge to fight, or as the pacifying gesture it was meant to be.

As far as Joe was concerned, it was a no-loser, with his personal preference being for an old-fashioned piling-on. His famous self-restraint notwithstanding, Joe Gunther was feeling a slow, boiling rage deep inside. The mere possibility that his family had been threatened by this man was enough for Joe to wish him ill beyond a simple threat of legal action. In his youth, Joe had never hesitated to join a fight-a fact only rarely recalled by others now. But in this moment, had Dan offered even the slightest excuse, Joe was ready to try his hand in a nostalgic and perhaps soul-cleansing violent blowout.

But it wasn't to be. Right at the edge of letting loose, Dan took a deep breath and suddenly relaxed, giving Gunther a nasty smile. "You bastard. You know I'm still looking at the Bitch. One fuck-up and I get life." He gently slid the deputy's hand off his shoulder. "Well," he added, "no such luck. I don't know what you jerk-offs're cooking up, but I'm gonna get a lawyer and shove it up your ass."

"Asses," Joe told him. "Proper grammar."

Dan's eyes narrowed before he smiled again. "Right. You would know. Mister Straight-and-Narrow. Guess your brother's not so fancy, though. He have too much to drink before he tried killing your mom? Or did he do it for the inheritance? Must be driving him nuts waiting for her to kick the bucket."

Joe could feel his face burning, despite the cold, but he remained silent, not trusting himself to use his voice. The older deputy, to his credit, spun Dan around and pushed him toward his pickup. "Go home, Dan," he said. "Let them do their job. You wanna call a lawyer, do it from there."

"You bet I will," Dan snarled at him, yanking the truck's door open. "And then I'll sue every last cop in this fucking department." He pointed a finger through his window at Joe, adding, "I'm also gonna make it my life mission to knock you off your pedestal, you preachy cock. You're gonna wish you were in intensive care instead of your faggot brother. You wait. You won't know what hit you."

Again Joe didn't react, although, by now, the initial onslaught of Dan's venom had dulled through repetition.

Dan Griffis gunned his engine and shot out of the garage's dooryard, his vehicle's back end slithering back and forth on the icy ground.

The three men watched him hit the asphalt beyond and squeal away, tires burning. The older deputy turned toward Joe. "We could nail him for that, just for what-the-hell."

Joe nodded, acknowledging the point, but answered, "I'd sooner save my ammo for when it counts."

"Yeah," the deputy agreed. "I see what you mean."

Joe stepped back inside and closed the door. He paused before rejoining Rob, for a moment's worth of privacy. Dan Griffis had always been a bully, a drunk, and a self-involved show-off, from the first time Joe met him, many years ago.

Unfortunately, despite the soothing adage that such people were forgettable, they were not, and their abusiveness mattered and cut deep. It was, in fact, their very careless aggression that caught the public eye and put them higher on the food chain of notoriety. They became a force not only because of the violence of their demeanor but because of the paradoxical respect society granted them as a result. People may admire a good man, but they will more often rally around a brute.

This depressing truth had been Dan's fuel his whole life, as it was for so many of his kind, and yet, whenever Joe encountered it, it rattled him still. He wasn't cynical enough, even now, not to find the insult fresh and disappointing every time.

Pulling his earlobe and sighing slightly, he reentered the office.

"Noisy," Rob commented. "He gone?"

"Gone," Joe told him, thinking, but far from forgotten.

Barrows pushed his rickety chair away from the desk and gestured toward the screen. Hovering in its center was the earlier rectangular warning advising the need of a password. "We need to get past that," he said. "And I'm definitely seizing this computer and applying for a warrant. 'Cause from what I've been able to see, there's a whole lot more here than garage business."

Matthew: I have 3 brothers and 4 sisters SweetAngclass="underline" sorry Matthew: but 2 borthers n 1 sister dont live here SweetAngclass="underline" thats good Matthew: my twin sisters are 16 and my little sis is 12 SweetAngclass="underline" thats kool u have twins sisters Matthew: its aiight Matthew: 1 night i was drunk I went up into my sisters room to get a peak SweetAngclass="underline" of what Matthew: I was curious to what color her underwear was Matthew: its a good thing she was sleeping in a skirt SweetAngclass="underline" oh my Matthew: she didn't wake up or nothing SweetAngclass="underline" thats weird Matthew: yeah i know Matthew: so do you wear mini skirts alot? SweetAngclass="underline" sometimes Matthew: how short do you usually have ur skirts SweetAngclass="underline" 2 me knees Matthew: nice Matthew: you ever catch ur step dad checking you out? SweetAngclass="underline" thats sick Matthew: i just had to ask that SweetAngclass="underline" why Matthew: cuz step dads do check out there step daughters Matthew: idk why they just do

Chapter 11

"These places really do all look the same," Lester Spinney mused, pausing on the threshold and taking in the narrow view of the motel room before him-cheap dresser with TV, the foot of a large bed, nondescript drawn curtains, and two screwed-to-the-wall paintings.

Willy shouldered him roughly from behind. "We'll get you a postcard. Move it."

Spinney laughed and let his colleague push by. On paper, like oil and water, they actually worked together very smoothly, the one fleshing out the characteristics less obvious in the other. In practice, while Willy's intensity homed in on details and people like a laser beam, Lester's disarmingly gentle, hands-off style frequently supplied the more general view, along with access under a suspect's defenses.

He turned back toward the door, where the motel's manager was hovering nervously, still clutching his copy of the search warrant.

"Mr. Nelson," Spinney asked affably, "did you get a chance to check the records for the night in question?"

The manager, a short, round man with thinning hair and glasses, nodded energetically, eager to please. As well he might have been. Before coming over here, Lester had inquired into the Brattleboro police's knowledge of the place. His reward had been an outburst of laughter. This motel, especially, was a favorite stop-off for those wanting sex, drugs, suicide, or all three. As one of the detectives on the municipal building's ground floor had said, "They should charge a hell of a lot more for all the services they provide."

Mr. Nelson was apparently the doorkeeper of a true den of iniquity, although Spinney couldn't help doubting that he benefited from any of it.

During this brief musing, the manager pulled a crumpled sheet of paper from the inner pocket of his jacket and adjusted his glasses.