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Scarlett spotted him at once and said something to Swenson, who turned, silently watching Archie cross the glossy floor to them.

Despite his inner howl of protest, Archie kept his expression pleasantly blank.

“Looking for me, detective?”

Swenson’s baby face was flushed, although that probably had as much to do with chatting up the police chief’s pretty sister as the heat of the day or the sudden reappearance of Public Enemy Number One.

“Would you mind coming down to the station, Mr. Crane? Chief—we—have a few more questions for you. If you wouldn’t mind.”

Archie repressed a sardonic smile at that quickly suppressed Chief. No question who was the driving force behind this homicide investigation, and tempting though it was to respond with a snappish, Suppose I do mind? he was not going to make life difficult for this cub cop. Nor for himself, because he could guess how Beau would react to any perceived challenge to his authority, particularly from Archie.

“Sure. I guess my nap can wait.”

Swenson gave a short laugh, like he thought Archie was kidding. Scarlett, with an expression uncannily reminiscent of her older brother, studied him critically.

Archie followed Swenson outside and around the back of the inn to where Swenson’s unmarked police vehicle was parked in the small, shady, and mostly empty lot.

In case Archie was in any doubt, it was instantly made clear he was being brought in as more than a mere formality or as part of a cooperative effort when Swenson unlocked the back seat, indicating Archie should sit behind the cage like any other detainee.

Or maybe Swenson was as clueless about professional courtesy as he was everything else.

Archie climbed into the back and buckled up, as if this was all routine. He truly was past caring. Between his ever-lurking exhaustion and the emotional strains of the day, he just wanted to get round two over with.

Swenson, however, was in a chatty mood.

“Has Twinkleton changed a lot since you lived here?” he asked as they pulled out of the parking lot.

Archie said dryly, “It hasn’t changed at all.”

Swenson considered that for a moment or two.

“I guess you must spend a lot of your time chasing serial killers?”

Archie snapped out of his preoccupation. “Me? No. Different division entirely.”

“Oh?” Swenson asked very casually, “What division are you?”

Archie considered and discarded a couple of replies. He said vaguely, “Mostly operational support. Administrative stuff. I work out of D.C. Usually.”

Not lately. Not for the last year and change. But usually.

“You don’t look like a desk jockey.” Swenson’s eyes met Archie’s in the rearview mirror.

Archie shrugged. He had no idea what he looked like these days, beyond the worse for wear.

Less than six minutes later, they pulled into the tidy little blacktop square set aside for Twinkleton PD parking. Swenson pulled into an official slot, got out, and unlocked Archie’s door. Archie unfolded from the backseat and followed Swenson inside.

He had about a twenty-minute wait on his own in the interview room.

Knowing what that was about, Archie was unimpressed—though, usually, he’d have made an effort to conceal his feelings. Maybe none of this was personal. Maybe he was doing Beau an injustice by reading disrespect into standard operating procedure. Unfortunately, when it came to Beau, he couldn’t seem to separate his personal feelings from his professional experience.

He leaned back in the hard wooden chair and stared up at the soundproofed ceiling.

He had been in many interview rooms over the years. Generally, on the other side of the metal table. This was the typical small town police station interview room, stark and functional, designed for utility rather than comfort. The walls were beige, the floor linoleum, the lighting bright and fluorescent and universally unflattering. There was a one-way mirror on the far wall and a mounted camera in one corner of the ceiling.

The closest thing to an ornamental touch was the clock on the wall silently counting down each irritating minute.

He was on guard but not unduly nervous. Frankly, he had reached that stage of fatigue where he didn’t have the energy for anything beyond getting through the next hour without saying things he would almost certainly regret.