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the grizzled old cop had snapped at Rhyme. “They don’t get confused. They get fucking dead . The greatest single threat to an investigator is unfamiliarity with his environment. Remember that.”
    Thom parked the van and went through the ritual of lowering the wheelchair. Rhyme blew into the sip-and-puff controller of the Storm Arrow and rolled toward the County Building’s steep ramp, undoubtedly added to the building grudgingly after the Americans with Disabilities Act went into effect.
    Three men—in work clothes and with folding knife scabbards on their belts—pushed out of the side door of the sheriff’s office beside the ramp. They walked toward a burgundy Chevy Suburban.
    The skinniest of the three poked the biggest one, a huge man with a braided ponytail and a beard, and nodded toward Rhyme. Then their eyes—almost in unison—perused Sachs’s body. The big one took in Thom’s trim hair, slight build, impeccable clothes and golden earring. Expressionless, he whispered something to the third of the trio, a man who looked like a conservative Southern businessman. He shrugged. They lost interest in the visitors and climbed into the Chevy.
    Fish out of water . . .
    Bell, walking beside Rhyme’s chair, noticed his gaze.
    “That’s Rich Culbeau, the big one. And his buddies. Sean O’Sarian—the skinny feller—and Harris Tomel.Culbeau’s not half as much trouble as he looks. He likes playing redneck but he’s usually no bother.”
    O’Sarian glanced back at them from the passenger seat—though whether he was glancing at Thom or Sachs or himself, Rhyme didn’t know.
    The sheriff jogged ahead to the building. He had to fiddle with the door at the top of the handicapped ramp; it had been painted shut.
    “Not many crips here,” Thom observed. Then he asked Rhyme, “How’re you feeling?”
    “I’m fine.”
    “You don’t look fine. You look pale. I’m taking your blood pressure the minute we get inside.”
    They entered the building. It was dated circa 1950, Rhyme estimated. Painted institutional green, the halls were decorated with finger paintings from a grade-school class, photographs of Tanner’s Corner throughout its history and a half-dozen employment notices for county workers.
    “Will this be okay?” Bell asked, swinging open a door. “We use it for evidence storage but we’re clearing that stuff out and moving it down to the basement.”
    A dozen boxes lined the walls. One officer struggled to cart a large Toshiba TV out of the room. Another carried two boxes of juice jars filled with a clear liquid. Rhyme glanced at them. Bell laughed. He said, “That there just about summarizes your typical Tanner’s Corner criminal: stealing home electronics and making moonshine.”
    “That’s moonshine?” Sachs asked.
    “The real thing. Aged all of thirty days.”
    “Ocean Spray brand?” Rhyme asked wryly, looking at the jars.
    “ ’Shiners’ favorite container—because of the wide neck. You a drinking man?”
    “Scotch only.”
    “Stick to that.” Bell nodded at the bottles the officer carried out the door. “The feds and the Carolina taxdepartment worry about their revenue. We worry about losing citizens. That batch there isn’t too bad. But a lot of ’shine’s laced with formaldehyde or paint thinner or fertilizer. We lose a couple people a year to bad batches.”
    “Why’s it called moonshine?” Thom asked.
    Bell answered, “ ’Cause they used to make it at night in the open under the light of the full moon—so they didn’t need lanterns and, you know, wouldn’t attract revenuers.”
    “Ah,” said the young man, whose taste, Rhyme knew, ran to St. Emilions, Pomerols and white Burgundies.
    Rhyme examined the room. “We’ll need more power.” Nodding at the single wall outlet.
    “We can run some wires,” Bell said. “I’ll get somebody on it.”
    He sent a deputy off on this errand then explained that he’d called the state police lab at Elizabeth City and