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he knew what he was doing.

CHAPTER 4
    R oberto had gone by the time I left the bar, and taken his Mustang with him. Fortunately, as I was leaving, Rebecca had thrown me the keys to a 1976 Plymouth Trailduster, which turned out to be bright red and was probably big enough to be its own moving house. Still, it was better than walking the 1 50-odd miles to Stratford. I threw the bag onto the backseat and climbed inside.
    The journey took a few hours. The snow and ice on the roads made driving at speed dangerous, and when it started to snow heavily, my movement dropped to a crawl. By the time I reached the small town of Stratford, it was dark.
    The roads were relatively abandoned, the weather and time of night combining to keep people inside, but I passed several open fields and some farmland that gave the town a picturesque look. Once in the town itself, it looked like the kind of place that gets put on postcards for tourists. Unfortunately, as I made my way through the town, the thoughts of a group of murders operating out of there dampened my enthusiasm for the place.
    The police station was a large building, considering the “ Welcome to Stratford” sign had said it had a population of only 9212 people. There were six patrol cars out front, and the rapidly falling snow had covered them in a thick layer of whiteness.
    I parked the Trailduster on the street and immediately wished I could use my fire magic to keep me warm as I dashed to the front door of the building. Once inside, I reveled in the warmth that washed over me.
    I glanced around, noting the elevator to the far left and stairs just next to it, alongside two closed doors, although I was in the wrong place to read what was on the nameplates attached t o them.
    “Can I help you?” a surly-looking cop asked from behind the desk in front of the door. I noticed from the three inverted chevrons on his shoulder that he held the rank of sergeant. He drummed the tip of his pen against the wooden counter and did not appear happy to see me.
    “I’m here to see William Moon,” I said.
    “The detective know you’re coming?”
    I nodded. “Apparently.”
    “And you are?”
    “Nathan Garrett.”
    He scribbled something down on a piece of paper. “Sign here.” He placed a book in front of me, with a pen tied to the spine. I flicked to the front cover and found it was a visitors’ log.
    “You going to read the whole thing, or just do as I asked?”
    I filled in my name and who I was there to see, but left my address blank.
    “You need to put something in there.”
    “I’ve just gotten to town; I don’t live anywhere at the moment.”
    The desk sergeant shook his head and mumbled something about out-of-towners that I chose to ignore. He wrote “no fixed abode” on the page and slammed the book shut. “Second door down the hallway.” He pointed in the direction, presumably just in case I got lost on the thirty-foot walk. “Second door.”
    “Thanks,” I said with as cheerful a tone as I could manage and set off in the direction.
    “Second door,” the sergeant called after me.
    “Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that?” I called back. Sometimes I can’t help myself.
    I didn’t wait for a response and opened the second door, letting it shut behind me as I entered the short gray corridor beyond. There was one door on my left, with the word stationery written on it, and another door in front of me, which led to a sizeable open-planned office space.
    Two men and a woman all sat in silence, each of them at their own desk, either reading something or typing on a typewriter. A glass office with the word Captain stenciled onto the door sat at the far end, but it was dark inside, its occupant clearly gone home for the day.
    The woman, a youngish brunette with a small button-like nose, on top of which sat her equally small glasses, asked, “Can we help you?”
    “I’m looking for Detective Moon,” I said.
    She pointed to a desk at the far end of the office where