“I do?” Kara looked momentarily confused. “Oh… to help with the case. They’re suspects, aren’t they?” Belle put her hand on Kara’s forearm and looked straight into her eyes. “You should act like you’re busy, but keep both ears open. I’ll sit here with you and show you how it’s done.” She winked at Kara and then made a shooing gesture with her free hand at Candace and me. “Go on about your business. We got this covered.”

We hurried out, and once we were back in my minivan headed toward Candace’s apartment, she burst out laughing.

“What a great idea dropping Kara with Belle. Kara will get the complete lowdown on Mercy, and we might end up with useful information.”

“You know Belle believes every citizen of Mercy is her child,” I said. “I feel so calm when I’m around her. And speaking of that, promise me you’ll stay calm when I tell you what I just heard.”

“Of course I’ll stay calm. I’m always calm,” she said.

“And I’m Michelle Obama. Let me just spit this out. Belle announced to Kara and me that they found strychnine at What’s Bugging You.”

A long silence followed, and I took my eyes off the road for a second to look over at Candace. Her jaw was set, and she didn’t appear calm at all.

But after a deep breath, she said, “I am most surely glad I heard this before I walked into the station. A cop who’s the last to know about a key piece of information looks stupid.”

A long and very quiet five minutes later we pulled into the apartment complex parking lot.

We always visit at my place because Candace’s apartment remains mostly barren. There’s a mattress, a treadmill, a futon and a television, but that’s about it. She spends little time at home and only rents the place to have space away from her overprotective, overinterested mother, who would have preferred that she still live at home.

I packed her underwear, a few T-shirts and jeans into a canvas tote she threw at me. Meanwhile, she grabbed her toiletries and a uniform that had just come from the dry cleaners. We were almost out the door when Candace realized that the telephone-and-answering-machine combo that sat on the living room floor was blinking with at least one unchecked message.

“Wait,” Candace said. “That’s probably from my mom. She might need something.” She set her bag and uniform down and went over to the telephone.

But when she knelt and pressed PLAY, a familiar raspy whisper made my heart skip. The male voice said, “Don’t think you can protect her. You want your friend safe, you tell her she’s done playing investigator.”

Candace stood and pointed at the phone. “You don’t tell me what to do, you turd. You don’t tell Jillian what to do, either.” She looked at me. “He’s not getting close to you. I promise.”

I nodded, but I couldn’t speak.

Candace’s expression was steely as she pulled the cord from the wall and picked up the phone. “Now. We go to the station and I let the chief listen to this. Gives me a decent excuse to show up there.” She walked over and put her free arm around my shoulder and squeezed. “He’s a brute and a coward, Jillian. And I like nailing those types.”

I nodded again, but now I was frightened for her as well as for myself.

Since Candace lives practically around the block from downtown, we reached the courthouse in less than five minutes. That’s where the police station is located.

I had to run to keep up with Candace when she raced up the courthouse stairs with her answering machine. We entered the lobby, and the security guard manning the metal detector opened a gate so we could bypass this part of entering the building. We headed left down the long corridor that led to police headquarters.

Wrong name. That sounds way too fancy. Benches and molded plastic chairs lined the hall leading to the police station in this, the older and unrenovated part of the historic courthouse. A woman with a swollen jaw and black eye was holding a squirming toddler. She was the lone person outside the police station door.

Candace stopped dead. “Margie?”

The woman looked up at Candace with sad eyes. The little boy freed himself and waddled across the hall. He climbed onto one of the benches and stuck his thumb in his mouth. He wore a diaper and a T-shirt bearing a red truck.

“You’re here to press charges, right?” Candace said.

Margie hung her head.

Candace put her hands on her hips. “No. You are not bailing that bastard out. Please tell me that’s not why you’re here.”

No response came from Margie, and Candace’s frown showed her frustration. “I can’t stop you. But you’re making a mistake.” She looked at me. “Come on, Jillian.”

As Candace opened the door that led into the police offices, I thought about Kara. She should be here to see this side of Mercy. It wasn’t so different from Houston or from any other part of the country, for that matter. Crime, domestic violence, even prostitution met up with law enforcement here.

Inside was another very cramped waiting area that had one advantage-it wasn’t as smelly as the corridor outside. B. J. Harrington sat at the cluttered desk to the left. I nodded at him in greeting, but Candace was already headed down the hall.

Over her shoulder she said, “Wait here while I talk to Chief Baca. I’m thinking this guy is too smart to have used a traceable phone to call me, but we have to go through the motions.”

I took the seat in front of the desk and smiled. “Hey, B.J. How’s it going?” B.J. was a new addition to the Mercy PD. He was taking criminal justice classes at the local community college and did dispatch and paperwork when not in class.

“I’m thinking about sandwiches,” he said. “There’s a lot of different sandwiches these days. There’s your regular kind, but then there’s quesadillas and flatbreads and Hot Pockets, not to mention anything wrapped in lettuce. And if you fold your slice of pizza, that’s sort of a sandwich, and-”

“You hungry, B.J.?” I said with a laugh.

The phone rang, and B.J. listened for a few seconds and then said, “We’ll take care of that, ma’am.” He hung up and got on his radio. “Deputy Dufner. Over.”

“What is it?” came the staticky reply.

“We have a 10-79 near the residence.” B.J. rattled off an address and said, “Over,” again.

“A bomb threat? And not at the high school where they always are?” said the officer.

B.J. blinked rapidly. “Th- that’s wrong. Wait.” B.J. picked up a sheet of paper and scanned it. “I mean a 10- 91b. Sorry. Over.”

“Would you quit with the codes and tell me what this is, B.J.?” Dufner said.

I stifled a laugh, but I didn’t hear B.J.’s response because the professor’s family walked in at that moment.

Sarah VanKleet began talking to B.J. even though he was still on the radio, saying, “We have an appointment with the chief of police.”

B.J. held up his hand as the officer asked for a repeat on the address.

I stood. “Maybe I can tell the chief you’re here.”

The gray-haired man, who looked like he could have been related to the Kennedy clan, looked me up and down. “You’re a plainclothes officer?”

“Uh, no. But I can help.” I hurried down the hall before they could say anything else and rapped on the chief’s office door.

I heard him say, “Enter,” and cracked the door. I saw Candace sitting in the chair on the other side of Baca’s desk.

“They’re here,” I whispered. Why I was whispering, I didn’t know.

“Good. Candace, Sarah VanKleet is mine. You’ll interview the boyfriend. The kids will have to wait since Morris decided he needed a day off. Says he sick.” Baca rolled his eyes. “Thanks for letting us know they’ve arrived, Jillian. Seems like we need volunteers in this place.”

Candace followed me out to the waiting area.

B.J. started to apologize for being occupied, but Candace waved him off. “Mrs. VanKleet, you’ll be speaking with Chief Baca.” Candace looked at the man. “Professor Lieber, is it?”