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off prowling females, because it was habitual, because every time he looked at it he still felt the sting of grief and guilt. He made the excuse that he was a cop and cops were perverse by nature and Catholic in their guilt if not in any other way.
    “My wife is dead,” he said, his voice a hard, cold whisper, the emotional shields coming up around him like iron bars. Nearly two years had passed and the words still tasted like the glue of postage stamps, bitter and acrid. He hadn't gotten any better at saying them. He fielded sympathy as awkwardly as a shortstop with a catcher's mitt.
    “I don't talk about it,” he said flatly, mentally drawing a line in the sand and chasing her back to her side.
    His pride and sense of privacy shunned the sympathy of virtual strangers. And simmering beneath that boar's nest, feeding on it, was the anger, his constant companion. He contained it, controlled it, ruthlessly. Control was the key. Control was his strength, his salvation.
    “Oh, God, I'm sorry,” Megan murmured. She could feel his tension across the table. His shoulders were rigid with it, his jaw set at an angle no sane person would challenge. She felt as if she had trespassed on sacred ground.
    She propped her elbows on the table and rubbed her hands over her face. “You're batting a thousand, O'Malley. If there's a pile of shit to be found today, you'll step in it with both feet.”
    “I hope you're not referring to the cheese factory,” Mitch said dryly. He forced a wry smile. “I'd hate to have to send the health inspector down there again.”
    Megan peeked out at him from between her fingers. “Again?”
    “Yeah, well, last year there was a minor incident involving a mouse tail and a brick of Monterey Jack . . .”
    “Gross!”
    “Les Metzler assures me that was a one-time thing, but I don't know. Personally, I make it a policy not to buy cheese from a place where the gift shop also features taxidermy.”
    “They don't,” she challenged.
    “They do. I can't believe you didn't see the sign when you were out at the factory.
Metzler's BuckLand Fine Cheese and Taxidermy.
Les's brother Rollie does the taxidermy. He got hit in the head with a rolling pin as a child and became obsessed with roadkill. He's not quite right,” he said in an exaggerated whisper, twirling a forefinger beside his temple. Leaning across the table, he glanced around for eavesdroppers and whispered, “I buy my cheese in Minneapolis.”
    Their gazes locked and Megan felt something she didn't want or need to feel. She jerked her eyes down and studied the pattern in his necktie—a hundred tiny renditions of Mickey Mouse.
    “Great tie.”
    He glanced down as if he'd forgotten what he was wearing. All the cynicism melted out of his smile. The rough edges of his face softened as he ran the strip of burgundy silk between his fingers. “My daughter picked it out. Her tastes run a little off the
GQ
scale, but then, she's only five.”
    Megan had to bite her lip to keep from sighing. He was the chief of police, a big tough macho guy whose main fashion accessory was probably a nine-millimeter Smith & Wesson, and he let his little girl pick out his neckties. Sweet.
    “A lot of cops I know don't have the fashion sense of a five-year-old,” she said. “My last partner dressed like a bad parody of a used car salesman. He had more plaid polyester pants than Arnold Palmer.”
    Mitch chuckled. “You didn't list fashion police in your oral résumé.”
    “I didn't want to overwhelm you.”
    They both ordered the meat loaf. Megan declined the suggestion of a glass of wine, knowing it would aggravate her headache. Mitch asked for a bottle of Moosehead beer and made a point of noticing the waitress—a blond girl of eighteen or nineteen—had had her braces removed. The girl smiled shyly for him and went away blushing.
    “You seem to know everyone here,” Megan said. “Is this one of those hometown boy-makes-good stories?”
    Mitch pulled apart a