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face up like she’d sucked a sour lemon. “He wouldn’t tell me his name,” she said quietly. “And he’s giving me the creeps.”
    “Send him in,” Jesse said. “May as well keep this day going on that steady downward spiral.”
    “Good luck,” Dawn said.
    She left the room and seconds later his doorway was filled with what could have been a character from a bad horror movie. His massive arms were solid muscle. A soft fleshy stomach that he probably filled with beer and rare steak pressed against the confines of a designer t-shirt. His eyebrows were dark angry streaks over lopsided eyes. He looked as if an earthquake had passed through his face and shifted one eye socket lower than the other.
    The mismatched eyes quickly appraised Jesse. Then the guy said, “You Jesse Ryder?”
    Jesse stood but knew better than to extend his hand to shake. Everything about this guy was off. He said, “I am.”
    “I have a message for you.”
    Jesse focused on the thin scar that covered the length of the man’s left cheek. He said, “From who?”
    “Mr. Covington would like you to reconsider his offer.”
    “And if I don’t?”
    The man smiled, revealing a broken front tooth. Even the smile was crooked. It was like one side of his face was sliding off. Definitely horror movie material. The guy tossed a photo face down onto Jesse’s desk, then turned and strode out the door.
    Jesse waited until the guy walked past Dawn’s desk and let himself out the outer door. Then he picked up the photo, turned it over, and winced. The clothing told him that the person had been male. One hand had no fingers. The other had been crushed flat. The face was not recognizable as human.
     
    ***
     
    Jesse was ushered through the high gates of Walpole’s maximum-security prison. The guard brought him to a small room with one scratched metal table, two equally scarred metal chairs, and no windows. The guard said, “I’ll be right out in the hall.” Then he stepped out and closed the door behind him.
    Jesse sat on one metal chair, which was bolted to the floor, and waited. Five minutes later the back door to the room opened. A second guard nodded to him as he ushered his prisoner inside. Chris Nyles, a tall lean man who showed each of his thirty-two years, plopped into the opposite chair and glared at Jesse. “Who the hell are you?” he asked.
    The guard secured Nyles’ cuffs, then stepped out into the hall. Jesse said, “My name’s Jesse Ryder. I’m a private investigator.”
    “I didn’t kill her,” Nyles grumbled.
    “I’m not here about your case.”
    “Then what the hell do you want?”
    Jesse leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. He said, “I understand you and Danny Bellows were good friends.”
    “So what if we were?”
    “I’m interested in how he died.”
    “They say suicide.”
    “I know what they say,” Jesse said. “But I don’t believe he killed himself. Do you?”
    Nyles shifted in his seat, pulled at his cuffs. “I wouldn’t know,” he said. “I wasn’t there.”
    “But you know what he was involved in prior to his death.”
    “What’s it to you?”
    “I want to nail Alex Covington.”
    Nyles snickered. “And what makes you think I can help you with that?”
    “I know Bellows worked for Covington,” Jesse said. “Intimidation stuff with certain clients, some tampering with evidence.”
    Nyles shrugged. Jesse leaned back. He let the silence surround them. Then he said, “He did real well until it came to a certain hit. He screwed that up.”
    “What are you getting at?”
    “He’d become a liability,” Jesse said. “Covington had him disposed of.”
    “And what if he did? What the hell has all this got to do with me?”
    “Nothing,” Jesse said. “Except that Danny Bellows was your best friend. And you might like revenge.”
    “And what do you get?”
    “The same.”
    Nyles was silent a moment. “How’d you get your info?”
    Jesse shook his head. “Confidential. But it