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As Chief Morgan’s cruiser pulled into a space between two rusted vehicles, Jenna glanced at her watch—just over an hour since they’d left Harris Lynch cooling his heels in a holding cell, waiting for his lawyer.

“That lawyer’s sure taking their sweet time showing up.” Colonel Spelling grumbled. “And Lynch isn’t talking.”

“Meanwhile, maybe we can get something useful from Mickey,” Jenna replied. “If he took that samovar to our suspect, Lynch had to know it was stolen.”

“And if we can connect Lynch to stolen property,” Jake added, “we can hold him on that while we work on getting evidence for the murder charge.”

“You really think Mickey will cooperate?” Spelling asked, his skepticism evident.

“He won’t volunteer anything,” Morgan replied flatly. “Mickey’s been in the game too long. He knows exactly what to say and what not to say. But I’m pretty sure I can turn him around.”

The four officers left the vehicle and approached the building along a cracked concrete walkway. “Third floor, apartment 3C,” Morgan said, stepping carefully over a broken beer bottle.

The interior hallway was dimly lit. Graffiti decorated the walls, and the carpet beneath their feet was stained beyond recognition. They climbed the stairs in silence, each step creaking under their weight.

Jake leaned close to Jenna as they reached the second-floor landing. “Reminds me of places I used to patrol in Kansas City. Never good news when we got called to buildings like this.”

When they reached apartment 3C, Morgan stepped forward and knocked firmly. The sound echoed down the empty hallway. Silence followed.

Morgan knocked again, harder. “Mickey Guest. Pinecrest Police. Open up.”

After a moment, they heard movement inside—the scrape of a chair, footsteps approaching the door. A chain slid, a lock turned, and the door opened just wide enough to reveal Mickey Guest’s face.

“Well, well,” he said. “If it isn’t Chief Morgan again. And you brought your friends.” He stood blocking the doorway, hair disheveled, but his eyes alert and calculating.

“Can we come in, Mickey?” Morgan asked, though his tone made it clear it wasn’t really a question.

Mickey’s lips twitched into something resembling a smile. “You got a warrant, Chief?”

“We’re just here to talk,” Jenna said. “About Harris Lynch.”

“Lynch?” Mickey’s expression remained unchanged. “What about him?”

“We’ve got him in a cell,” Morgan said. “We suspect him of murder. But we need something to hold him on until we get proof. We’d like you to come down to the station, answer some questions.”

Mickey leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “I don’t think so. I’ve got rights, and unless you’re arresting me for something, I’m not going anywhere.”

Jenna caught Jake’s eye. They both knew Mickey was right—they had no grounds for an arrest, no warrant for entering his apartment.

“Then we’ll talk here,” Morgan said, undeterred. “You were at Golden Legend Treasures earlier today.”

Mickey shrugged. “So? Last I checked, browsing antique shops wasn’t illegal.”

“What were you doing there?” Jake asked.

“Just looking at stuff. That’s what a lot of people do in shops. Lynch has some interesting items. I like to keep an eye on what’s available.”

Jenna stepped forward. “We saw a very nice samovar at Lynch’s shop. Did you sell it to him?”

Mickey’s eyes narrowed slightly, but his composure held. “What’s a samovar? Whatever it is, I don’t know anything about it.”

“You expect us to believe that?” Morgan pressed. “You have a history.”

“Only ancient history,” Mickey corrected. “I’ve already served my time for all that, and I’m clean now. Any deals with Lynch—and I’m not saying there ever were any—were before I got sent up.”

Jenna studied Mickey’s face, noting the ease with which he deflected their questions. His responses were measured, his body language controlled. He’d been through this kind of routine many times before.

“Mickey,” she tried one last time, “a man is dead and Lynch could be connected. If you know something—”

“I don’t,” he cut her off. “And even if I did, talking to cops has never done me any favors.” He stepped back from the door. “Now, unless you’re here to arrest me, I’ve got things to do.”

“Tell you what, Mickey,” Morgan said. “I’m going to get that warrant to search your place right now. I know a judge who owes me a favor.”

“See you later, then,” Mickey said, about to close the door.

“But I’m going to ask my friends to wait for me here, outside your door.

That way we’ll be sure that nothing comes out of your place that we don’t know about.

In fact, a couple of them can watch the outside, just in case something happens to fall out a window.

Of course if you’re not holding any stolen goods now, you’ve got nothing to worry about. ”

Mickey’s gaze hardened, locked onto the stern expression of Chief Morgan in a silent standoff.

Suddenly, Mickey’s lips curled into a smirk. “How ‘bout we make this interesting?” He suggested, his voice carrying an undercurrent of defiance. “I give you some info...you keep me outta cuffs.”

He crossed his arms defensively over his nondescript clothing, his posture suggesting a man accustomed to bargaining for his freedom. And Morgan’s expression indicated his willingness to go along.

A deal? Jenna glanced sideways at Jake. This whole encounter was beginning to sound a little shady to her.

Jake leaned towards Jenna, lowering his voice so only she could hear him. “I don’t like it either. But this is Chief Morgan’s jurisdiction.”

The Pineville Police Chief’s gaze never wavered from Mickey’s face, his stern expression unchanging. “Maybe we’ll cut a deal,” he suggested, his voice low, “but only if I can be certain you won’t be caught peddling stolen goods again.”

Mickey’s eyes flickered to Jenna before returning to Morgan. “Deal,” he grunted in agreement. “Exactly what’s your question?”

“Did Lynch know the things you sold to him were stolen goods?”

“Of course he knew. I even told him exactly where they came from.” With a grin, he added, “Even that samovar. And yeah, I know what a samovar is.”

“And you’ll attest to that in writing? In court if necessary?”

“Just as long as we’re clear. No more charges against me?”

“You got it—at least as long as you keep your nose clean.”

Inside, Jenna felt a flare of protest at the arrangement. The words were on the tip of her tongue to challenge it, but she swallowed them down. Jake was right, this was Morgan’s call; his authority held sway here.

“I’ll be keeping an eye on you, Mickey,” Morgan warned.

Mickey’s smile was thin. “You always do, Chief. You always do. I take comfort in that. Really.”

With that, he closed the door. The sound of multiple locks engaging followed.

The drive back to the Pinecrest Police Department was quick and quiet. When they arrived at the station, a young officer met them at the entrance, practically vibrating with news.

“Lynch’s lawyer just got here, Chief. They’re waiting in Interview Room One.”

“About time,” Spelling muttered.

Jenna nodded her thanks to the officer and led the way through the station. The familiar bustle of police work—phones ringing, keyboards clicking, muted conversations—was oddly comforting after the tense scene at Mickey’s apartment.

Outside the interview room, they paused for a brief strategy session.

“Let me take point,” Morgan suggested. “I’ve known Lynch for years.”

“I’ll support,” Jenna agreed. “Jake, you observe. Note any reactions, inconsistencies.”

Jake nodded, his eyes meeting hers with quiet understanding.

“And you, Colonel?” Morgan asked Spelling.

“I’ll let you handle it,” Spelling replied. “I’ll observe from the adjoining room.”

With roles established, they entered the interview room.

Harris Lynch sat with perfect posture at the metal table, his expression neutral.

Beside him sat a woman Jenna instantly recognized as Eleanor Winters, one of the most formidable defense attorneys in the area.

Her charcoal suit was impeccable, her silver hair pulled back in a severe bun, and her piercing eyes followed each officer as they entered.

“Chief Morgan, Sheriff Graves,” Ms. Winters acknowledged with a crisp nod. “I understand you’re holding my client with insufficient support for your charges.”

Morgan took a seat across from Lynch. “Counselor, we have some questions about a murder.”

“My client has no knowledge of any murder,” Ms. Winters replied smoothly.

Jenna fought to keep her frustration from showing.

“Mr. Lynch,” she tried again, “where were you the night before last between midnight and four in the morning?”

“My client will not answer questions regarding his whereabouts,” Ms. Winters interjected. “Unless you have evidence linking him to Mr. Derrick’s death, these questions are inappropriate.”

Jenna caught Jake’s eye across the table. His slight frown mirrored her own thoughts. Their case against Lynch for murder was circumstantial at best, based on his attitude and his reported desire for an object he didn’t possess.

The interview continued for another forty minutes, a verbal chess match with Ms. Winters blocking every attempt to extract useful information from Lynch.

Chief Morgan finally said, “Okay, but I can hold Mr. Lynch on another matter.”

The lawyer looked at him inquisitively.

“Dealing in stolen property,” Morgan told her. “I’m referring to one item in particular, a samovar we saw in your shop, Mr. Lynch.”

Lynch remained silent, deferring to his lawyer with a glance. The two of them went into a huddle, whispering together. Then Ms. Winters announced, “My client admits he acquired a samovar. He purchased it from a customer who claimed it was a family heirloom.”

“And I have a witness who will swear, in court if necessary, that your client knew it was stolen. And I will hold him on that charge.”

Although the lawyer argued valiantly, the police chief gave no ground. Ms. Winters finally marched away, making threats of a lawsuit.

By the time Lynch was returned to his cell and the four officers regrouped, Jenna’s temples were throbbing with tension.

“We didn’t get what we needed on the murder charge,” Jake observed, loosening his collar slightly.

Morgan countered. “We’ve got enough to hold him on the stolen goods charge. And Judge Peterson owes me a favor—we’ll have a warrant to search his shop and financial records in no time at all.”

Jenna leaned against the wall, a frown creasing her forehead. “I’m not convinced Lynch is our killer.”

Three pairs of eyes turned to her in surprise.

“What do you mean?” Morgan demanded.

“It’s just...” Jenna struggled to articulate the feeling gnawing at her. “The connection feels tenuous.”

Jake studied her face with interest. “You thinking Mickey’s our guy instead?”

Jenna shook her head. “No. I just think we’re missing something.”

“Look,” Morgan said more gently, “we’ve got Lynch in custody. That’s a win. Let’s get the warrant, search his shop thoroughly, and see what else turns up.”

Jenna nodded reluctantly. “Alright. But I want to keep all options open. This case isn’t as straightforward as it might seem.”

The subtle exchange of glances between Morgan and Spelling didn’t escape her notice—concern, perhaps, or doubt about her judgment. She’d seen that look before when her intuition led her down paths others found questionable.

Morgan sighed in frustration. “Sheriff, I’ve known Lynch for years. He’s got a temper. He’s threatened people before.”

“I know,” Jenna acknowledged. “But—”

“But what?” Spelling challenged. “What other leads do we have? Mickey Guest? He’s a thief, not a killer. And we have nothing connecting him directly to Derrick.”

Jenna fell silent. She couldn’t deny the logic of their arguments, yet something felt off about the whole scenario. The pieces fit too neatly in some ways, and not at all in others.

“We should head back to Trentville,” Jake suggested, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “We can start fresh tomorrow.”

Jenna checked her watch. The day had slipped away faster than she’d realized. “Agreed. There’s nothing more we can do here today.”

As they prepared to leave, Jenna couldn’t shake the feeling that they were missing something vital. Lynch might be guilty of receiving stolen goods, and he might well be a public nuisance, but a murderer?

Jake unlocked the cruiser with a beep that seemed too cheerful for their mood. They pulled out of the parking lot in silence. Traffic was light as they headed toward the highway that would take them back to Trentville, the county seat and their home jurisdiction.

After several minutes of quiet, Jake cleared his throat. “You know, if you’re not convinced about Lynch, I trust your intuition.”

The simple statement warmed Jenna more than she expected. In a profession that valued concrete evidence and logical deduction, having someone trust her instincts meant more than she could express.

Before she could respond, the car’s radio crackled to life.

“Sheriff Graves, come in. This is Officer Delgado.”

Jenna reached for the radio. “Go ahead, Maria. What’s up?”

“We’ve got a bad situation at the Derrick crime scene, Sheriff.”