“What are you doing? What the hell’s going on here?”

Connor slipped a pronged choke collar over the dog’s head and tied the leash to the iron railing outside the front door. The Labrador yelped and dropped to the ground, writhing while pawing at the restraint secured to his snout.

Three police officers followed through the door and fanned out inside the home. “I have a search warrant for your premises,” Jennings repeated amidst the commotion.

“For what?”

“Where were you around eleven-thirty last night?”

“Where was I? Home, in bed, watching TV. Why?”

“Anyone else here? Wife, kids…”

Madison clenched his teeth. “My wife and kids are…away. No one else is here.”

“So you were alone?”

“Yeah. Look, what’s the problem? I don’t-”

“Did you lend your car to anyone today?”

“No. Would you just tell me what’s going on?”

As they spoke, Seaver walked in through the open front door. He nodded to Jennings. “We’ve got him.”

Jennings stepped toward Madison. He spun him around and placed his arms behind his back, shoving him up against the wall. Snapping handcuffs on his wrists, he said, “Phillip Madison, you’re under arrest for the murders of Otis Silvers and Imogene Pringle. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right-”

“This is insane! I want to talk to my attorney.”

“You’ll get your chance. If you can’t afford one, which I doubt judging by the spread you’ve got here, one’ll be appointed for you.”

Jennings escorted Madison out of his house and down the marble steps, where a police car was pulling up.

“Get in the car,” Jennings said as he opened the rear door.

As he placed Madison into the backseat of the cruiser, Seaver took Jennings aside. “We found a busted headlight, a dent in the fender and grille, and probably blood spatter around the left front wheel. Hood’s warm.”