He parked next to a small Toyota SUV on the grassy lane that led up to the house, and got out. A barefoot woman came out wearing a red apron, her hands covered with flour. “If you’re lost, I’m not one of those gadget geeks with a neutered voice to tell you how to find the public outhouse. If you’ve got business with me, identify youself, and state your purpose. I’ve got baking to do, and I take it seriously.” She was about his age, tall, with short black hair in a pageboy, and long arms. “DNR, Detective Grady Service, Your Honor.” He held out the draft warrant. “You shaking that paper at me like I’m an ill-tempered dog?” He laughed. “I’m glad to be the source of your amusement, Detective, but that’s not an answer.” “I need a warrant signed, Your Honor.” “You see the magistrate?” “Huw Nugle said you’d have to sign it.”
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