I wondered how long he’d been there. With him you never know.

The inspector stood, looking mildly rattled. He took in Barron’s size, his steel-toed boots, the hardwood floors. Jericho Barrons is a tall, powerfully built man. I knew O’Duffy was wondering how he could have failed to hear him approach. I no longer waste time wondering about that sort of thing. In fact, so long as he keeps watching my back, I’ll continue to ignore the fact that Barrons doesn’t seem to be governed by the natural laws of physics.

“I’d like to see some identification,” growled the inspector.

I fully expected Barrons to toss O’Duffy from the shop on his ear. He had no legal compulsion to comply and Barrons doesn’t suffer fools lightly. In fact, he doesn’t suffer them at all, except me, and that’s only because he needs me to help him find the Sinsar Dubh. Not that I’m a fool. If I’ve been guilty of anything, it’s having the blithely sunny disposition of someone who enjoyed a happy childhood, loving parents, and long summers of lazy-paddling ceiling fans and small-town drama in the Deep South which—while it’s great—doesn’t do a thing to prepare you for life beyond that.

Barrons gave the inspector a wolfish smile. “Certainly.” He removed a wallet from the inner pocket of his suit. He held it out but didn’t let go. “And yours, Inspector.”

O’Duffy’s jaw tightened but he complied.

As the men swapped identifications, I sidled closer to O’Duffy so I could peer into Barrons’ wallet.

Would wonders never cease? Just like a real person, he had a driver’s license. Hair: black. Eyes: brown. Height: 6 3". Weight: 245. His birthday—was he kidding? — Halloween. He was thirty-one years old and his middle initial was Z. I doubted he was an organ donor.