“I’ll give you the lab findings and the coroner’s report. You come back to me with proof that you can handle more and I’ll give you more.”

In other words, he’d dole out tidbits as I fed him my findings. That was fine. This place looked easy enough to break into. I’d get the files myself. So I agreed, and he ran off a copy of the lab and coroner’s findings and, as a bonus, threw in the name of the killer.

“Cody Radu. Ginny Thompson’s boyfriend.”

“But you don’t have enough evidence yet to charge him.”

Bruyn snorted. “No one in this town needs a scrap of evidence to tell us Cody’s guilty.” He cocked his head, then glanced to the window. “And speaking of that son of a bitch, I hear him now.”

He walked to the front door and opened it just as a rusty pickup squealed past, muffler dragging and belching blue smoke, earning a glare from a guy getting out of his silver SUV across the road.

The pickup driver was a weasel-faced guy with hair that hadn’t been washed since Christmas. He slowed to give me a skeevy once-over, mouthing something I was sure wasn’t hello. Then he shot Bruyn the finger, gunned the engine, and roared off.

“Nice guy,” I said.

“Oh, Cody’s a sweetheart. Look at that bastard. Off playing golf, not a care in the world.”

Stereotyping is bad. Living with Lucas and Paige, that’s a lesson that’s been drilled into my head. I can’t say it always penetrated. However hard I tried to imagine the loser in the pickup swinging a nine iron at the country club, it just wasn’t working.

A boom from across the road made me jump, and I looked to see the SUV owner standing at the back of his vehicle, hatch closed, golf bag in hand. He was in his midthirties, clean-shaven, blandly good-looking, dressed in a bright blue golf shirt and pressed trousers. I could see him at the country club. But with Ginny Thompson? No way.