French, scribbling furiously in his notebook, kept interrupting to ask questions. “What happened to the papers you found in the den?” “I took them. I’d tracked paint and knew you’d suspect me of the murder.” “Maybe we still do.” “Get serious! Why would I kill somebody I’d never met?” French shrugged. “Happens every day. What did you do with the papers?” “I wanted to burn them. Turned out the papers weren’t really blank.” French listened raptly as Toby told what he’d discovered, smiling as the link between the Puterbaughs and the Mayan book was firmly established. He asked, “Where are the papers now?” “In my truck. Want me to get them?” French scratched his chin. “Later. Go on.” When Toby told about finding Revuelto’s body in his truck, French stopped him again, poking his shoulder with a blunt finger. “Why didn’t you call us then?” “I figured you wouldn’t believe me. You didn’t before.” French frowned. “Get over it. I’m listening now, aren’t I?
