"It's open," Sales bellowed, returning to his fish on the stove as if he'd been expecting a friend.

The pungent scent of onions in a hot skillet flooded Bolinger's mouth with saliva. It was nearly dinnertime. He'd been in the squad room bullshitting with one of his men about an arson when word came in about Lipton's being shot. Since it was just downstairs, everyone and his brother had responded. Because he was so familiar with Lipton's case, Bolinger had been given the lead. And although the witnesses' descriptions of the shooter didn't match Sales, his gut told him that was the place to start. If Sales didn't pull the trigger, he probably knew who did.

Bolinger assessed the great room, its bare timbers, its stuffed animal heads, the weapons in the case and on the wall. Despite all that, it was a comfortable place, with aging leather furniture and Indian rugs that were worn without being shabby. Knowing how much money people were putting into their lake houses these days, it didn't surprise Bolinger that Sales was making a decent living.

"Keep coming, Sergeant," Sales's voice echoed from the kitchen.

Bolinger paused in front of the gun case against the wall before rounding the bar and taking a seat at the small circular table wedged into the corner of the kitchen. Without speaking, Sales left his fish long enough to take two Coronas from the icebox. He set one in front of the detective, took a swig of his own with a knowing look, and returned to the stove. Bolinger just watched. Sales didn't appear rattled in any way. Was it possible that someone could attempt such a daring assault without being shaken up? Possible, but rare.