Kat’s father had seen it early. “This life,” Dad had told her, eying Kat’s mom standing over an oven. “It’s a trap for a girl.” The only girls Kat grew up with who stayed in the neighborhood had been knocked up young. The rest, for better or worse, had fled.

Kat turned around, her gaze heading back toward Suggs’s table. He was staring straight at her. He didn’t look away when she spotted him. Instead, he brought the bottle up toward her in a distant, sad toast. She nodded in return. Suggs took a deep long swig, his head back, his throat sliding up and down.

“I’ll be right back,” Kat said, starting toward him.

Suggs rose and met her halfway. He was a short, burly man who walked as though he’d just gotten off a horse. The room was warm now, the weak air-conditioning no match for the crowded hall. Everyone, including both Suggs and Kat, had a thin sheen of sweat on them. They hugged, no words exchanged.

“I guess you heard,” Suggs said, releasing her.

“About Leburne? Yeah.”

“Not sure what to say here, Kat. ‘I’m sorry’ doesn’t seem appropriate.”

“I know what you mean.”

“I just wanted to know I was thinking of you. I’m glad you’re here.”

“Thanks.”

Suggs raised his bottle. “You need a beer.”

“That I do,” Kat agreed.

There was no bar, just a bunch of coolers and kegs in the corner. Ever the gentleman, Suggs opened the bottle with his wedding band. They clinked bottles and drank. With all due respect to the Bob Barker or Drew Carey look-alike, Kat had traveled here to talk to Suggs. She just wasn’t sure how to begin.

Suggs helped her out. “I heard you visited Leburne before he died.”

“Yeah.”

“What was that like?”

“He said he didn’t do it.”

Suggs smiled as though she’d just told him a joke that he was pretending he found amusing. “Did he, now?”

“He was on a mess of drugs.”

“So I guess he was telling one last lie.”

“Just the opposite. They were more like a truth serum. He admitted killing others. But he said that he just took the blame for Dad’s murder because he was serving life anyway.”

Suggs took a long sip of beer. He was probably in his early sixties. He still had a full head of gray hair, but what always struck her about him—what struck most people about him—was that he had the kindest face. Not handsome or even striking. Just kind. You couldn’t help but like a man with that face. Some people look like jack-offs, even though they may be the sweetest person in the world. Suggs was the opposite—you couldn’t imagine a man with this face could be anything but trustworthy.

You had to remind yourself that it was just a face.

“I found the gun, Kat.”

“I know.”

“It was hidden in his house. In a false panel under his bed.”

“I know that too. But didn’t you ever find that odd? The guy was always so careful. He’d use his weapon and dump it. But suddenly, you find the murder weapon stashed with his unused guns.”

The quasi amused smile stayed on his lips. “You look like your old man, you know that?”

“Yeah, so I hear.”

“We had no other suspects or even theories.”

“Doesn’t mean there weren’t any.”

“Cozone put out a hit. We had a murder weapon. We had a confession. Leburne had means and opportunity. It was a righteous bust.”

“I’m not saying you guys didn’t do good work.”

“Sure sounds like it.”

“There are just some pieces that don’t fit.”

“Come on, Kat. You know how these things go. It is never a perfect fit. That’s why we have trials and defense lawyers who keep telling us, even when the case is completely solid, that there are holes or inconsistencies or that the prosecution’s case doesn’t”—he made quote marks with his fingers—“fit.”

The band stopped playing. Someone took the microphone and began a long-winded toast. Suggs turned and watched. Kat leaned closer to him and said, “Can I ask you one more question?”

He kept his eyes on the speaker. “I couldn’t stop you if I still carried my piece.”

“Why did Stagger go up to see Leburne the day after he was arrested?”

Suggs blinked a few times before turning his face toward her. “Come again?”

“I saw the visitors’ logs,” Kat said. “The day after the feds arrested Leburne, Stagger interrogated him.”

Suggs mulled it over. “I would say something like ‘I think you’re mistaken,’ but my guess is, you’ve already confirmed it.”

“Did you know about it?”

“No.”

“Stagger never told you?”

“No,” Suggs said again. “Did you ask him?”

“He said he went up on his own because he was obsessed with the case. That he was impetuous.”

“Impetuous,” Suggs repeated. “Good word.”

“He also said that Leburne didn’t talk to him.”

Suggs started peeling the label off his beer. “So what’s the big deal, Kat?”

“Maybe nothing,” she said.

They both stood there, pretending to listen to the speaker.

Then Suggs asked: “When did Stagger visit exactly?”

“The day after Leburne was arrested,” Kat said.

“Interesting.”

“Why?”

“Leburne didn’t even come up on our radar until, what, a week later.”

“Yet Stagger was up there first.”

“Could have been a good hunch on his part.”

“One you and Rinsky missed, I guess.”

Suggs frowned. “You really think I’m going to take that bait, Kat?”

“Just saying. It’s bizarre, right?”

Suggs made a maybe-yes/maybe-no gesture. “Stagger was gung ho, but he was also pretty good about leaving us alone. He respected that Rinsky and I were running the investigation. The only thing we let him do was run down that fingerprint hit, but by then, we already had Leburne dead to rights.”

Kat felt a small tingle in the base of her spine. “Wait, what fingerprint?”

“It was nothing. A dead end.”

She put a hand on his sleeve. “Are you talking about the fingerprint found at the murder scene?”

“Yep.”