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Sorry. I got wound up. It’s just I hear about any little tenuous connection to Cushing, and I start thinking this might be the big break I’ve been looking for.”
    â€œI’ll keep an open mind, but except for here, I haven’t heard a whisper about Cushing in any of this. If anything pops, I’ll let you know.”
    â€œYou da man, Abe,” Elliot said. “And hey, welcome back.”

12
    H AL C HASE EASED himself into the comfortable chair that faced the sheriff’s desk. As always in the presence of his boss, he was somewhat nervous, and more so now because he had no idea why he’d been summoned. Adam Foster, the boss’s chief deputy and a hard-ass of the first order, hadn’t given him any hints to ease his mind while he’d waited in the outside office, although he came up with a few possibilities.
    Hal had had several interruptions in his workday yesterday, including: extra time off at lunch when he’d gone over and called on Dismas Hardy; the earlier interview with the Homicide people; Abe Glitsky’s appearance before his shift was technically finished. Burt Cushing wasn’t a big fan of flexibility in work scheduling. You were supposed to be somewhere at a certain time, and by God, that’s where he wanted you to be. To keep a jail full of animals at bay, you had to keep order, and a key element of order was punctuality. You were where your comrades expected you to be so that you could be counted on—for backup, for protection, for the power of numbers, and for simple safety.
    A relatively short, squat, powerful fireplug of a man, Cushing made up for his stature with an oversize personality. Hal found it difficult to read Cushing’s face and, until he knew why he was here, hardly dared to look at it. But he knew its features well: pitted pale cheeks, closely set dark eyes under a low brooding forehead, a brush-cut marine haircut, a cauliflower nose over a thin-lipped mouth that somehow managed to convey warmth with a frequent smile. Hal had heard the voice rumble in anger, had heard it command attention with a low-volume order. But today, when it came, the voice was solicitous and sincere. “How are you holding up, son?” he asked.
    â€œTrying, sir.”
    â€œThose Homicide people giving you a bad time?”
    Hal nodded. “Pretty much. They think I killed her.”
    â€œPardon me for putting it baldly, but do they know she’s dead?”
    â€œI don’t think so. Someone would have told me.”
    â€œI guess that’s true. I pray she’s not.”
    â€œThank you, sir.”
    Cushing paused, then lowered his voice. “She’s a terrific person. You know that? A wonderful person.”
    Hal straightened in his chair. “I wasn’t sure you’d have remembered her, sir. It’s been a couple of years.”
    â€œYes, well. She’s not the kind of person anyone is likely to forget. Even if she hadn’t . . .” He stopped and took another tack. “I sometimes feel she saved my daughter’s life. That may be an exaggeration, but not much of one.”
    Hal remembered it well. Cushing’s thirteen-year-old daughter, Kayla, had been suffering for months from severe acne, her lovely face starting to scar, perhaps permanently. Kayla had gone to at least three ­dermatologists and taken several different drugs, all to no avail, when Hal had overheard a conversation between a couple of his sergeants about the sheriff’s ­extreme distress at this seemingly hopeless situation. Hal had suggested a new anti-acne drug that his wife was very enthusiastic about.
    It turned out to be a bit of an effort. Only two doctors in the city were prescribing the drug, and neither was accepting new patients, but Katie told Cushing that she could probably get Kayla an appointment and, if the doctor agreed, get her on the drug. Within a month, Kayla’s acne was all but