Clint entered the building and presented himself at the oversized front desk. “Yes, sir, what can I do for you this fine day?” the granite-jawed, gray-haired sergeant asked. “I’d like to see the chief of police, please.” “Well, the chief is a very busy man, sir,” the sergeant said. “Maybe there’s something I can help you with?” “Do you know anything about the murder of Anne Archer?” I asked. “Anne who?” The man screwed up his face. “Murder? ” “I really think I should speak to—” “Sergeant,” a man standing nearby said, “I’ll handle this.” “Very well, sir,” the sergeant said. “This is Lieutenant Abernathy, sir. He’ll take care—” “Yes, Sergeant O’ Connor,” Abernathy said, “I just said I’d do that. Please, sir. Over here.” Clint walked over and joined the man, who put his hand out. “Edgar Abernathy, detective lieutenant.” “Clint Adams.” The two men shook hands. Abernathy appeared to be in his mid-forties, a little taller than Clint, in good shape and wearing a suit that had once been expensive but had seen better days.
