“No, but you’d think so the way she stays on my ass. The first cop that questioned me took my phone, so I can’t even call her.”

Hick slid back into the booth. “Mr. Sherman, you have a problem.”

He regarded Hick sullenly. “Whut?”

Rather than addressing him, Hick turned to Joe. “A witness says he saw Mr. Sherman placing something in Ms. Bennett’s pocket.”

Joe leaned against the back of the booth, folded his arms over his middle, and fixed an accusing frown on the young man, who’d suddenly grown nervous.

“Oh. That. Yeah. See…” He ran his tongue over his lips. He cracked his knuckles. “I forgot about that.”

Joe said, “He must think we’re stupid, Agent Hickam.”

“Guess so.”

“I swear!” he squeaked. “I forgot.”

“You told me you didn’t know her.”

“I didn’t. Don’t!”

“That you hadn’t laid a hand on her.”

“I didn’t, except for…for that.”

“What did you pass her?”

“My digits.”

“Your what?”

“My phone number. B-before I went over to her, I tore off a piece of my cheeseburger wrapper and wrote my phone number on it. I poked it down into the pocket of her jeans.”

“What did she do?”

“Told me to get my hand off her ass. Not in those words, but I—”

“You have a gun?”

“Whut?”

“I’m not stuttering, Royce. Answer the question.”

It was clear that he contemplated lying, but then nodded with reluctance. “A deer rifle out in my truck, ’less it’s been stole while I’ve been in here for so damn long.”

“Handgun?”

Again, he conducted a brief mental debate before saying under his breath, “Two.”

“Where are they?”

“One in my truck under the driver’s seat. The other’s home with my old lady. She keeps it on the nightstand when I’m out at night. You can call and ask her.”

“Oh, count on us doing that, Royce. It will take time to get a search warrant for your truck. However, you can waive the warrant.”

It took him a moment to process that, then from the front pocket of his dirty jeans, he produced a set of keys and slid them across to Joe. “Knock yourselves out. I got nothin’ to hide.”

“Like your priors, you mean?” Hick said.

Royce swore under his breath, then copped an attitude and defended himself in a mutter. “Everybody shoplifts something in their lifetime.”

“You served thirty days for that. A hundred and twenty days for vandalizing a tire store.”

“The asshole fired me for no good reason.”

“I’ve heard enough.” Joe nudged Hick. Hick got out of the booth and Joe followed. But as Royce Sherman started to leave, Joe said, “You stay put. While we’re checking out your firearms, you’re going to sit here and try to remember everything else you’ve conveniently forgotten to tell us about your encounter with Jordie Bennett.”

They left him protesting and claiming that his rights were being violated. Joe didn’t think he was a conspirator or anything close to one, but, as he rejoined Deputy Morrow, he handed him Royce Sherman’s set of keys and filled him in.

“I have no reason to think we’ll uncover the murder weapon, but in addition to the search of his truck, have someone confirm that one of his handguns is at home with his ‘old lady.’ Also, make certain the officers questioning his friends ask about whatever it was that he slipped into Jordie Bennett’s rear pocket.”

Morrow assured him that both issues would be handled and left to see to it.

“Okay,” Joe said to Hick, “next up, the bartender.”

The man behind the bar was a barrel-chested giant with a bushy black beard that blended into his hair, which he wore in a braided ponytail extending almost to his waist. He was dressed in an army-green wifebeater, which left his arms bare to show off their sleeves of elaborate tattoos.

If Joe owned a bar in the backwoods that served a rough-and-tumble clientele, he would want this guy in charge.

He offered him and Hick coffee, and they accepted. After declining cream and sugar, Joe began the interview by asking him if Jordie Bennett was a regular customer.

He laughed, flashing remarkably straight, white teeth. “No. Her showing up here tonight made history. She walked in, my jaw dropped. That’s why I noticed the time. Ten p.m. on the dot.”

Joe and Hick looked at each other, thinking, Like she was meeting someone.

Joe went back to the bearded man. “She’d never been here, but you recognized her.”

“Soon as she cleared the door. She and her brother are the closest thing we have to celebrities in this town. People who didn’t know them already sure as hell did after that Billy Panella mess. Y’all haven’t treed him yet?”

“Working on it,” Joe said tightly.

“Find the money?”

Joe ignored that. “The shooting victim, had he ever been in here before last night?”

“Not that I recall, and I have a talent for remembering faces. Especially faces like his. Ugly son of a bitch.”

“Uglier now,” Hick murmured.

“Yeah,” the bartender said with a small sound of regret. “When the kid came running in here, yelling and puking, I went outside to see what was what.” His beard only partially concealed his grimace. “I’d seen the like in Iraq. Only good thing about going out that way is that you never know it. This poor bastard turned his back to the wrong guy, I guess. When they came in, I knew right off that both were carrying, but I never would’ve—”

“How’d you know they were carrying?” Joe asked.

“I have a talent for that, too,” he said without false modesty. “I spot someone packing, I keep an eye on him. Or her. But those two didn’t seem to be looking for trouble.”

“Ms. Bennett, was she packing?”

“No. Purse was too small and her clothes fit her too good.” He flashed a man-to-man smile, which Joe was hard-pressed not to return.

“Tell me about the other guy.”

He squinted one eye. “Better looking than his pal, for sure. In fact, they didn’t strike me as two who’d be friends. They were as different from each other as daylight from dark.”