“What in the hell is the matter with you, Crowe? You stoned?”

“No more than usual,” Theo said. “What’s the problem?”

“The problem is you removed evidence from a crime scene.”

“I did?” Talking to the sheriff could drain all of Theo’s energy instantly. He fell into a beanbag chair that expectorated Styrofoam beads from a failing seam with a sigh. “What evidence? What scene?”

“The pills, Crowe. The suicide’s husband said you took the pills with you. I want them back at the scene in ten minutes. I want my men out of there in half an hour. The M.E. will do the autopsy this afternoon and this case will close by dinnertime, got it? Run-of-the-mill suicide. Obit page only. No news. You understand?”

“I was just checking on her condition with her psychiatrist. See if there were any indications she might be suicidal.”

“Crowe, you must resist the urge to play investigator or pretend that you are a law enforcement officer. The woman hung herself. She was de-pressed and she ended it all. The husband wasn’t cheating, there was no money motive, and Mommy and Daddy weren’t fighting.”

“They talked to the kids?”

“Of course they talked to the kids. They’re detectives. They investigate things. Now get over there and get them out of North County. I’d send them over to get the pills from you, but I wouldn’t want them to find your little victory garden, would you?”

“I’m leaving now,” Theo said.

“This is the last I will hear of this,” Burton said. He hung up.

Theo hung up the phone, closed his eyes, and turned into a human puddle in the beanbag chair.

Forty-one years old and he still lived like a college student.