Nor would his best friend’s.
Jamison answered the door.
Bleary-eyed, unshaven, his hair tousled, he stood in a T-shirt and sweatpants, his feet bare.
And he reeked of booze.
As if he’d drunk half a fifth of whiskey before tumbling into bed and was now sweating out the alcohol. He was a mess. Again. Pierce had thought it was due to the loss of his wife. Because of his grief. Now, though, he knew better and understood what was eating at him.
“What’re you doing here?” Jamison asked and glanced beyond Pierce to the darkness beyond his porch.
“I think you know.”
Jamison’s eyes narrowed a bit. “You caught the Slasher?” he said, but he didn’t believe it.
“Not yet.”
“Then …?”
“I think you know.”
“Naomi,” Jamison said and stepped out of the doorway to allow Pierce to pass.
“Right.”
He let out a long breath and ran stiff fingers through his unruly hair. “I assume you found her phone.”
“You mean the burner phone?” Pierce said, nodding as they walked through the main hall to the game room off the kitchen, Jamison leading the way and snapping on lights. “Yeah, it was hidden in the car. Under a panel. And it was the number that matched the calls we found on Knox Quinlan’s.”
“So they were really having an affair?”
“You know that already.”
Jamison motioned to the arched opening to the dark kitchen. “You want coffee?” he asked. “It’s early, but I can—”
“No. Look. This isn’t a social call.” Pierce took the two steps down and into the game room, where, once Jamison snapped on the lights, the Kittle collection of weapons and trophy kills was on full display. Rifles and shotguns, long bows and automatic weapons behind glass and mounted on the walls, long-dead prey with glittering glass eyes that seemed to glower down on them, and from the front hallway, he heard the steady ticking of the grandfather clock.
Counting down the seconds.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
“Not a social call?” Jamison repeated. “Well, I guess not, considering the time.”
Feeling the weight of his pistol tucked at his back in the waistband of his jeans, Pierce nodded. “Right.”
Jamison walked to the bar, where a half-full bottle of Maker’s Mark stood open. “Then why are you here,friend,” Jamison asked, “if not to join me in a very late nightcap or a really early pick-me-up?” He reached under the bar, and Pierce tensed, thought about whipping out his weapon.
But Jamison came up with two glasses. He set them down on the bar so hard, the bottle of whiskey rocked a bit.
“No thanks,” Pierce said.
“You sure?” He poured three fingers in each short glass.
“Absolutely.”
Tick. Tick.
Jamison eyed him, then shrugged, though beneath his seeminglycool exterior, he was tense, the cords in his neck visible, his jaw set and hard. “Your loss.” Never letting his gaze leave Pierce’s, Jamison tossed back the first drink in one large gulp. “What’s up?”
