Stuck in the grass of the house next door was a red and white re-election sign. Sheriff Connelly, the sign said, the man for us. It didn’t take a creative genius to come up with that campaign slogan. Gabe slid out of the car, enjoying the blue sky and fifty-nine degree temperature that welcomed him. Winter in South Carolina. The sheriff’s office was actually a converted church, one of those old brick deals complete with scrollwork over the red double doors at the entrance. Maybe they had a confessional inside. Talk about multitasking. Bad guys could step into the box and make things right with God and the law all in one stop. Wait until I tell Tom. “Un-frigging-believable.” The passenger door slammed and, unable to resist his habit from home, he hit the lock button. “Listen, city boy,” Jo said walking around the car, “we’re in someone else’s town. They do things differently here. You’ll need to dial it down.” He met her at the rear bumper and assumed the I-am-Officer-Townsend stance of squared shoulders and folded arms.
