Man, if that’s the case, then I’m totally swearing off hitting on my friends’ relatives.

He pondered this at a stoplight for a moment.

Well, unless they’re smoking hot.

The sheriff’s office was quiet, and only one car lingered in the parking lot. Tiny town like the Nod, you didn’t expect a lot of action on a weekend night, as long as guys like the Impressionist were locked up. The only reason the place was open at all was because it also served as the basic nerve center for the entire county’s police force. Otherwise, it would be shut down like the rest of the Nod.

Howie sucked in a deep breath. He really hated the idea of sauntering into the office with a lockbox of evidence that had been obtained under less than entirely legal circumstances. Then again, the last time he’d been here, it had been to break and enter with Jazz. Followed by stealing and duplicating a medical examiner’s report, then opening a murder victim’s body bag. Was he really going to get into any more trouble for this?

“I’m totally tattooing ‘I Heart Howie’ on Jazz for all this nonsense,” he said aloud, then got out of the car before he could change his mind.

Inside, he found only his least-favorite member of the Lobo’s Nod sheriff’s department, Deputy Erickson, lingering at what was usually Lana’s desk, idly clicking away at the computer. Jazz had forgiven Erickson for all of the stuff that went down during the Impressionist hunt last year, but Howie still couldn’t get over the way Erickson had slapped cuffs on him, leaving bruises he’d had to cover for a week.

Now the deputy looked up as Howie approached. “Hey, Howie. What can I do for you?”

“Your friendly veneer doesn’t fool me.” Howie made a show of sniffing the air. “Is that bacon I smell? Or maybe scrapple?”

“Right, right, I’m a pig. You’re hilarious. Do you actually need to be served and protected or is this purely an antisocial call?”

Howie filed away the idea of an “antisocial call.” He liked it. “I need to see G. William,” he said as officiously as possible. “I have a matter for his eyes only.”

Erickson gestured to the empty office. “The boss is probably already fast asleep. What, you think he lives here? Even he gets a night off every now and then.”

Howie frowned at the way the universe constantly foiled his plans.

“Look, Howie, whatever it is, I’m sure I can—”

“Nope.”

“Honest to God, all of that stuff from October is water under the bridge. Jasper and I—”

“Nope.”

Lana’s chair creaked as Erickson leaned farther back than it was accustomed to. “You’re not going anywhere, are you?”

Howie chose to punctuate his point by planting his butt on the very same bench where he and Jazz had once been cuffed.

“When the big man locks you up for annoying the police, don’t come crying to me,” Erickson said, reaching for the phone.

“That’s not a real crime,” Howie said confidently.

Oh, crap. What if it is?

“Hey, G-Dub!” Howie called cheerfully a little while later. “What’s the happy-hap?”

G. William, it turns out, was not already asleep when Erickson called.

“I’ve got the last ten episodes of Letterman on my DVR,” he grumbled on his way into the office. He glared at Howie. “It took me a week to figure out how to record and play back on that stupid thing. This better be good.”

“It is,” Howie promised, raising the lockbox.

G. William nodded as if he’d been expecting this. “Would this have anything to do with the nine-one-one call that came in about the old Dent property?”

Howie managed to communicate volumes of distrust and distaste with a single glance in Erickson’s direction.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Erickson complained.

“My office,” G. William relented. “Double-time it, Howie. I love me some top-ten lists.”

Settled into G. William’s office, Howie clutched the lockbox to his chest.

“You have to give it to me at some point, Howie,” said the sheriff.

“First, I want immunity.” That’s what they always said on TV.

“Immunity from what?”

That was a good question. “Well, the death penalty, for starters.”

G. William actually thumped his forehead against his desk. “Howie, unless you’ve got a dirty bomb in that box, I doubt there’s anything in there that would lead to you getting the death penalty.”

“I’m just being careful.”

“Give me the damn box.”

Howie reluctantly handed it over. “I’m pretty sure you’re violating my civil rights.”

“You’re not under arrest. You came in here voluntarily.” G. William popped the lid. “If anything, you’re violating my rights to a peaceful evening at—” He broke off. “Ah, hell. Goddamn it all.”

As G. William methodically removed each item from the lockbox with a pair of tweezers and held it up to the light, Howie recounted how he and Connie had expertly and with much savoir faire followed the trail of mystery texts that led them to Billy Dent’s backyard.

“That place is a real eyesore now, by the way,” he added. “The town should do something about—”

“Howie!” Tanner yelled. “Stop bitching about the appearance of the crime scene!”

Howie jerked at the bellow. “Sheesh, G. William. It’s just a hole in the ground. It’s not really a crime scene.”

Tanner jabbed one thick, threatening finger in the air between them. “You disturbed evidence. That’s a crime, Howie. Then there’s trespassing—the guy who owns this land didn’t give you permission to go diggin’ it up.”

Oh. Right. That was all true. How inconvenient. Howie’s mom had never found out about his brief arrest at Erickson’s hands, but he was pretty sure if G. William cuffed him now, there’d be no way to avoid telling his parents.

“Sorry ’bout that, Sheriff. We were just—”

“And this.” Tanner lifted the birth certificate with the tweezers. “This could be explosive for Jazz, you know?”

“Do you think…” Howie started, then stopped.

Tanner shrugged as though he’d said what was on his mind, anyway. “I don’t know what to think,” he said. “But we’re gonna look into all of it.” He started talking as if Howie wasn’t even in the room. “Go to the phone company and try to trace the texts from there… Probably go back to a burner… Maybe track where it was bought… Might give us a lead.” He clucked his tongue. “Damn, boy. Wish you kids’d come to me right from the get-go.”

Howie suddenly felt very small and very young. G. William’s calm, measured disappointment somehow stung worse than his outbursts. “Yeah, I know. But it was for Jazz, you know?”

“Just… just get Connie in here right away so that we can get elimination prints from her. We’ll need them from you, too.”

“I didn’t touch anything,” Howie said. “Well, just the box, but I was wearing gloves. I’ve seen CSI. Plus, it’s cold out and my hands get all scratchy.”

“Fine.” G. William picked up the phone on his desk. “You call Connie, and I’m gonna call—”

“That might be tough. She’s out of touch right now.”

G. William paused with the receiver halfway to his ear. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Howie suddenly realized that it would be bad if he told Tanner where Connie was headed, but he didn’t have a lie prepared. Not for the first time in his life, he wished he had Jazz’s think-on-his-feet-edness.

“Um…”

“What are you not telling me, Howie?” Tanner asked, his voice quiet and serious. “Now’s the time. Remember: I can always decide to file charges later. Evidence tampering. Maybe obstruction. You’re a minor and it’s your first offense, but trust me when I say this: Going into the system is no fun.”

Well, hell, there’s something else Jazz and I would have in common—juvenile records.

“There’s nothing else, sir. I swear it.” His voice didn’t sound convincing even to himself. “Oh, wait! I almost forgot. There’s a chance Jazz’s aunt is also totally a psychopathic serial killer, too. I sort of have my fingers crossed against that one, though.”