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“I’m going to have a talk with this guy,” I said. “He keeps looking at me.”
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He stopped and looked at me. I nodded.
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I nodded. Baker had said the victim had been maybe forty. Maybe Joe hadn’t worn well.
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We all went back into the rosewood office. Spread the Sherman Stoller stuff out on the desk and bent over it together. It was an arrest report from the police department in Jacksonville, Florida.
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“Charlie,” I said blankly. “Charlie Hubble. His wife. She’s OK. They didn’t get her.”
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“You think I don’t bring coffee to the guilty ones?” she said.
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