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Beau said a little wryly, “Yeah, I’ll give you that. Money, position, none of that stuff, ever meant anything to you.” He seemed to recollect that they were not alone, and glanced at Swenson. He turned back to Archie. “All right. I think that’s it for now, Agent Crane. I’ll give you a ride back to your hotel.”

Swenson threw Beau a quick look of surprise, but said nothing.

Archie also said nothing. He was relieved at this sudden reprieve, but also confused. He’d had the impression Beau was just warming up. Maybe not. So, what was this about? There had to be something on Beau’s mind because Archie couldn’t think of another reason for him to waste his valuable time chauffeuring witnesses or suspects around.

He pushed to his feet, saying brusquely, “Appreciate it.”

He was more skeptical—and possibly uneasy—than appreciative, and Beau’s mocking expression, as he politely held the door open, seemed to recognize that.

As he preceded Beau down a narrow hall, walls lined with framed photos of local heroes and historic events, Archie felt the weight of Beau’s gaze between his shoulder blades, felt the loaded silence between them like something electrical and alive.

“Go left,” Beau ordered, and Archie automatically turned down a short corridor leading to a pair of exit doors. He was happy to skip a stroll through the bullpen—the gauntlet of curious stares and abruptly hushed conversations—though he assumed using the side entrance was convenience, not courtesy.

Generally, he wasn’t sensitive about what others thought or said about him, but something about this place, Twinkleton, not the police station, got to him. The idea that these people thought he might be a murderer? It bothered him more than it probably should have.

And there was the additional discomfort of a few folks maybe remembering that a very long time ago there had been a little bit of a scandal regarding the friendship between the current chief of police and America’s Most Wanted. Though that was more Beau’s problem than his.

As they stepped into the warm evening air, Archie shot a quick glance at Beau’s stoic profile. Did that kind of thing still bother Beau?

Unlikely.

Tender feelings and a career in law enforcement were not compatible.

The exit door swung shut behind them with a little bang. The air was still warm, but the shadows from the old brick building had lengthened across the asphalt lot. It was later than he’d realized.

Neither spoke as they crossed the little car park. Beau pressed his key fob and the locks of an unmarked vehicle turned over, clicking loudly in the quiet air. No beep. LE vehicles did not beep warnings to suspects and fugitives. Beau held the passenger door for Archie—so no pointed effort to remind him he was still a suspect, though, of course, he was.

Archie got in. The car was overly warm from sitting in the sun all day. The interior smelled of leather seats, sanitizer, and the subtle but distinct smell of electronics and wiring. He was still on guard, pushing back the fog of fatigue as he watched Beau turn the key in the ignition. The roar of an older model heavy-duty police vehicle engine filled the silence between them; static from the radio, bleeps and dings of all that electric equipment coming to life.

Typical of Beau, there was no abandoned paperwork or stray handcuffs or extra flashlights, no crumpled coffee cups. The interior of the car was as spic and span as a hospital O.R.

The only clue that Beau was ever off the clock was a red Hot Wheels fire engine parked on the dashboard.

Archie felt a pang at the sight of that tiny die-cast emergency vehicle. He wasn’t even sure why. It’s not like he didn’t know Beau had married, had a kid, had gone on with his life.

He’d gone on with his life, too, after all.

Beau followed his gaze and retrieved the toy car, dropping it into his uniform pocket.

As they pulled out of the parking lot, Beau remarked, “Saturday night, you let us think you’d flown in from Virginia at John’s request. We know now that you and John flew back from Wyoming together.”

“I didn’t—”

“You didn’t what?”

Archie sighed. “I guess I did. And that seems suspicious to you? It wasn’t intentional.”

“What seems suspicious is your instinct to conceal information that you yourself insist is not relevant.”

Archie shrugged.

Beau glanced at him. “That’s it? That’s your answer?”

Archie struggled with himself, admitted, “It wasn’t a conscious effort to be deceptive. It’s habit. Keeping things to myself.”

Beau, eyes on the road, gave an odd smile. “Now that, I’ll buy. You were always secretive.”

It was unfair, but at the same time, Archie knew why Beau thought that, felt that. In truth, his natural reticence was part of why he was so good at his job—and why he was so lousy at relationships.