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his desk.
    “You can bitch about First Amendment rights all you want, Harry, but I’m telling you if you print that, we’re going to have words.”
    Swift sat in one of the chairs before Max’s orderly desk and looked idly about the small office with its battered file cabinets, wooden coat rack, bulletin boards and bookcase with leather-bound volumes that were older than Max.
    Whatever Harry said on the other end of the line amused Max. He gave that deep, growly laugh that always sent a pleasurable shiver down Swift’s spine. He wished Max would hurry up and get off the line. He hoped the phone call never ended.
    The first time Swift had been to this office was six years ago, not long after he’d moved to Stone Coast. He’d woken one morning to find someone had plowed into his parked car during the night. He reported the hit and run and spent a couple of minutes talking to the then newly elected Chief of Police. The only thing he really recalled of that first meeting was that he’d immediately liked Max’s air of quiet, easy competency. It hadn’t occurred to him that Max was gay. Sex, let alone romance, had been the last thing on his mind in those early brittle days of his recovery.
    “I’m just an overworked, underpaid public servant of the people.” Max’s eyes met Swift’s and he winked.
    That was another thing Swift remembered from that very first meeting. Max’s unexpected charm. You didn’t look for charm from a cop. Swift didn’t, anyway. But Max had it in spades. It didn’t hide the tough competency, just made it a little more palatable, like the spoonful of sugar that helped the medicine go down. As now. Harry—most likely Harry Wilson, editor of the Stone Coast Signal —was having the law laid down in the nicest possible way. And as pissed off as he undoubtedly was, he’d probably vote Max into office for a second term when Max came up for reelection in two years.
    Hannah came in and left a sheaf of papers in the tray on Max’s desk. “I’m taking off,” she whispered to Max.
    He raised a hand in absent acknowledgment. “Yeah, yeah,” he said good-humoredly into the mouthpiece. “Same to you, my friend.” He stood his pen on its nose, absently balancing it for a second, then catching it before it fell. “Sure, give me a call. Maybe sometime next week.”
    Swift smoothed his suddenly damp hands on his jean-clad thighs. The moment of truth. He wasn’t ready for it.
    After all, no one need know what he’d done. Even when Tad was caught, he might not say Swift had given him keys to the cabin. It might never come out at all.
    But no. No. Swift no longer permitted himself to run from the difficult things.
    Max hung up and smiled across his desk at Swift. His eyes were the warm color of good whisky. “Your timing is perfect. I’ve just got time to grab some supper before I have to meet the coroner.” He rose, six foot four of lean muscle, and reached for his leather jacket hanging from the coat rack.
    Swift stayed seated. “Max, I have to talk to you.”
    “Something we can’t talk over while we eat?”
    “Indigestion guaranteed.”
    Max took a closer look, scrutinizing Swift’s face. He slowly sat down again. “Okay. Shoot.”
    His heart was hammering with something weirdly close to panic. Swift made himself go on, made himself speak calmly. “I neglected to tell you last night that I’d seen Tad Corelli earlier. In the afternoon. After my classes were finished. In fact, I loaned him the keys to my place on Orson Island.”
    Max didn’t move a muscle. He didn’t even blink. He was so still, Swift wondered if he’d heard.
    He opened his mouth to ask, but Max finally said in a voice stripped of any emotion, “You didn’t think that was something you ought to mention?”
    “Yes. But…I wanted to talk to him first. I wanted to convince him to give himself up.” Swift watched Max reach for the phone. “He’s not there now.”
    “And you know that how?”
    “I went out