“I went to bring him some papers he had forgotten. When was this?”
She felt trapped. “It was... it was about a week ago. And that’s the only time you’ve been to his place?”
“That’s right.” Now if they had her fingerprints, she would be in the clear.
Deputy Blake sat there, studying her, and she felt guilty. She wanted to tell him the truth.
Maybe some burglar had broken in and killed him—the same burglar who had killed Jim Cleary
ten years earlier and three thousand miles away. If you believed in coincidences.
If you believed in Santa Claus. If you believed in the tooth fairy.
Damn you, Father. Deputy Blake said, “This is a terrible crime.”
There doesn't seem to be any motive. But you know, in all the years I've been on the force, I've never seen a crime without a motive.
There was no response. “Do you know if Dennis Tibble was into drugs?”
“I'm sure he wasn't.” “So what do we have? It wasn't drugs. He wasn't robbed.”
“He didn't owe anybody money. That kind of leaves a romantic situation, doesn't it?”
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