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that. Money and marriage. Tricky things to investigate. But he was going to try.
    “Different topic. Everything set for your first Movie Night?”
    “All set.” Roelke had proposed a summer series of free, family-friendly movies in the village park. His theory was simple: kids watching a movie were not bored and, therefore, not getting into trouble. He’d written a grant that pulled in some state dollars, and gotten approval from the village board.
    “Lined up all the help you need?”
    “I’ve got volunteers from the Lions Club, American Legion, the Fire Department, and the Kettle Moraine Snowmobile Club.”
    “Good. One more thing.” Chief Naborski gave him a level gaze. “Wasserman’s retiring.”
    Roelke felt every cell quiver, like a hound catching a scent.
    “So there’s going to be a permanent, full-time slot opening up,” Naborski said. “Patrolman II. Earns $7.40 an hour.”
    Which would be a nice bump from Roelke’s current Patrolman I status, at six bucks an hour.
    “We’re not going to open the search to outside applicants,” the chief was saying. “Not when I’ve got two good part-time officers already waiting.”
    Two good part-time officers, Roelke thought. Me and Skeet.
    Naborski twiddled a pen in his fingers, like a cheerleader with a miniature baton. “It’s out of my hands, of course. The Police Committee will handle it. Get your application to the Village Board by next Wednesday.”
    “Will do.” Roelke realized that his right knee was bouncing up and down with suppressed energy. He forced it into stillness.
    Chief Naborski let the front of his chair bang to the floor, his end-of-conversation signal. “Any questions?”
    “No sir,” Roelke said. But there was one more question. It clanged like a bell in his brain as he left the chief’s office, checked his duty belt, told Marie where he was going, and headed out.
    If Skeet wins this job, Roelke thought, what the hell am I going to do?
    _____
    Simon Sabatola lived outside the village. The short drive gave Roelke time to consider strategy. Putting Sabatola on the defensive would probably accomplish nothing. Good cop, then. I am your friend.
    Roelke felt his eyebrows rise as he turned into a long, winding drive. The place looked like an estate, better suited for suburban Chicago than rural Wisconsin. The grass was the uniform lush green that signaled the regular arrival of a lawn service team with power trimmers and tanks of herbicide. Flower beds lined the drive, filled with a few plants he recognized—roses, day lilies, hydrangeas—and a lot he didn’t. No dandelions or dead blooms in sight.
    The house itself was a modern chalet. Roelke parked beside a gleaming black Lincoln Town Car. When he knocked on the front door he half-expected a maid or uniformed butler to answer. Instead, a small man in an expertly cut navy-blue suit appeared.
    “Mr. Sabatola?” Roelke asked.
    “No, I’m Edwin Guest. I work for Mr. Sabatola.” Guest paused, eyebrows raised expectantly.
    Roelke introduced himself. “I’d like to speak with Mr. Sabatola.”
    Guest hesitated. He was balding, and had a thin face and pale eyes, with no particularly memorable features. Roelke wondered if rich people looked for that when they hired people.
    Finally Guest ushered him inside. “I’ll see if Mr. Sabatola is available.”
    “I’ll wait until he is.” Roelke smiled pleasantly.
    Guest disappeared. Roelke used the pause to take impressions of the house. The décor favored leather and steel, with splashes of color provided by large abstract paintings on the walls. Roelke stared at one particularly vivid piece, trying to make sense of the primary colors slapped on the canvas. What did people see in this stuff ? It probably cost a fortune, and Libby’s young son could have—
    “Officer McKenna?” A man entered the hall from a side room. “I’m Simon Sabatola.”
    Roelke shook the widower’s hand. Simon Sabatola stood over six feet, with broad