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LEAVENWORTH, KANSAS

Fatheads is part pool hall, part dive bar. And obviously named before the world got enlightened, or too sensitive, depending on your worldview. When Poppy enters there’s a momentary silence like the patrons are taking note. It’s a cop and corrections officer bar, but she’s a new uniform in town. There’s the requisite pool table with burly men cracking eight. A dartboard. Those neon beer signs. Mumbled laughter, she suspects directed at her.

She scans the room. There are few women in the place. Her gaze stops on a heavyset man at the pool table with two other dudes. He looks much as he did in the Missouri River Killer interrogation video. He wears a flannel shirt even though it’s summer.

Poppy heads over. She hears someone say “blow job height,” which she ignores. The old Poppy would’ve confronted the guy. Maybe she’s matured.

“Mr. Buckman,” she says.

He doesn’t answer. He clasps the pool cue and bends down to take the shot. He misses and curses to himself.

“Mr. Buckman,” Poppy says again.

“What is it, sweetheart? Am I illegally parked or something?”

He’s showing off for his friends at the pool table. Poppy swallows down the anger rising in her. See, she has matured.

“I’m new to the sheriff’s office,” she says. She knows he’ll recognize the uniform, the rank on her nameplate, so she doesn’t need to say more.

“You don’t say,” he replies, thick with sarcasm.

“I hoped you might be willing to talk about one of your old cases.”

He takes a swig of beer. “I’d love to, dear.”

“Excellent,” she says, surprised, and gestures to a wooden booth where they can talk in private.

“But I’m afraid I can’t.” He takes another drink, watches his friend hit a striped ball into the side pocket.

“You can’t?”

“After my case against the sheriff’s office, I signed an NDA as part of the settlement. You know what that is?”

She knows what a nondisclosure agreement is. And she knows a patronizing ass when she sees one too. She also knows Buckman left the force on bad terms. Margaret said as much. But Poppy didn’t realize there’d been a lawsuit.

“I doubt an NDA covers a prior case,” she says. “You may have heard that we found Alison Lane’s car in Suncatcher Lake?”

He doesn’t respond.

“I just have some questions. About the file. I wondered if you spoke with—”

Buckman holds up a hand. His face has reddened.

“Let me guess, you heard ol’ Daryll Buckman was a lazy, incompetent investigator? Didn’t work his cases.”

“I never heard that,” she says.

He shakes his head. “If you’re gonna have a career in this business, little lady, you need to learn to lie better.” He then looks at his friends. “Can you give us a minute?”

Poppy views this as a good sign. He’s willing to talk.

“I won’t take notes. Won’t tell anyone you spoke to me. The NDA won’t be an issue and—”

Buckman cuts her off: “Look, you wanna know why the investigation was crap, look in your own house.”

She blinks. “I don’t understand.”

“Ask yourself who they’re protecting.”

“Who? Who’s protecting someone? I don’t understand.”

Buckman shakes his head. “Three words: Not. My. Problem.” He looks her directly in the eyes. “Be gone when I get back with my drink.” He then marches off to the bar.

She watches him. He’s pissed off. The bartender pours him a shot and he kicks it back.

Poppy feels a churning in her gut. Look in your own house.