Page 70 of Fire on the Moon

“But what happened to the dead man? How did he get mauled by a large animal—or two large animals inside this nursing facility?”

“No idea,” Frank Decorah said. “You can stay here to continue that investigation, or you can escort us to the station house.”

“I don’t appreciate a member of the public dictating police actions,” Murphy snapped.

“Of course,” the Decorah chief said. “Which is why you may want to contact your lieutenant. I have further pertinent information relevant to the investigation.”

“What?” the cop demanded.

“I’d rather keep it private, which is why we should go to the station.”

While Frank was talking to the officer, Zane moved to stand beside Francesca’s chair. When he reached for her hand, she turned her palm up and gripped his fingers.

“Are you okay?” he murmured.

“Mostly. What about you?”

“I’m fine.”

Murphy was speaking to someone on the phone now.

Keeping her voice low, Francesca asked Zane, “You had your phone recorder on when you came in here?”

“Yes.”

“But your phone is still in your pants pocket.”

“I was transmitting it to Knox and Jonah.”

“Oh. Good thinking.”

“And I see you got rid of my pants.”

“In one of the drawers.”

Murphy interrupted their conversation. “We’re all going down to the station.” He made it sound like he was the one issuing a decree.

He looked at Zane and Francesca. “You’re riding in a police cruiser.”

“Of course,” Zane said.

They were ushered into the back, with a different officer driving, but at least they weren’t handcuffed. Frank Decorah trailed in his rental.

“When did your boss get here?” Francesca asked.

“Just after the excitement in the nursing home.” He looked from her to the cop driving the cruiser, and she nodded and stopped talking.

When they arrived, they were ushered into an interrogation room, where they waited for several minutes for a lieutenant to appear. Again, Zane made it clear from his body language that it was better not to talk while they were alone.

The door finally opened, and a broad-shouldered man in a suit strode into the room. He looked to be in his mid-forties, with strands of gray creeping into his dark hair.

“I’m Lieutenant Henderson,” he said. His next words were, “I’d like to hear why you think you shouldn’t be arrested for murder.”

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