Free To Hell in a Handbasket by Beth Groundwater Page A

statements and share them with him. Can you meet him at the justice center tomorrow morning?”
    â€œYes.” Claire shivered again. She couldn’t get warm.
    The officer peered at her in concern. “How about the three of you get in my patrol car? We’ll continue the interview there.” He signaled the crepe-stand workers. “Three hot chocolates, then stick around. I need to talk to you, too.”
    Roger helped Claire to her feet. As she trudged to the police car, she said a silent prayer for Boyd. He needed to live, to help find out who had tried to kill him—and succeeded in killing Stephanie.
    _____
    At eight-thirty the next morning, Roger pulled the car into the parking lot of the Summit County Justice Center. Claire studied the red brick building with its peaked green roof. Flanked by firs and aspens and Colorado and U.S. flags, it seemed to be just another unassuming local government building, like the public library next door.
    She followed Roger and Judy through the glass doors into a quiet two-story lobby with green indoor-outdoor carpeting. The stern face of a mounted bighorn sheep stared down at them from over the entrance to the jail side of the building, as if to say, “Beware, all who enter here.” The Hanovers turned in the other direction, down a hall decorated with DARE posters and drug-free pledges signed by Summit County children.
    Roger held open the door to the sheriff’s office, and Claire told the receptionist who they were and asked to see Detective Silverstone. As Silverstone led them to his desk, she noted the space looked like any other business office—insurance, engineering, marketing—except some of the occupants wore uniforms of black shirts and green-gray pants with black strips along the side. And their belts bristled with handcuffs, black leather cases holding who knows what, and holstered guns.
    Silverstone, however, wore jeans and a work shirt. The only clothing that identified he was a member of the sheriff’s office was his black fleece vest with a yellow star on the left side, emblazoned with blue letters spelling out “Summit County Sheriff’s Office.” He led the way into a large room divided into four gray half-cubicles open to the center, each with its own computer. Three desks were unoccupied, and a patrol officer sat typing at the last. The soulful strains of a Tab Benoit song Claire recognized from the Voice of the Wetlands CD came from a radio turned down low.
    Silverstone motioned for the Hanovers to sit in three chairs positioned in front of one of the rear desks. “Anyone want coffee?”
    Claire shook her head. Judy and Roger refused also. They had polished off a whole pot of coffee before they came, because none of them had slept much after getting home. Claire had called the Summit County Medical Center early that morning. Boyd had been flown to Denver Health Hospital’s Trauma Center on the Flight for Life helicopter. But she hadn’t gotten any information out of Denver Health before they left for the justice center.
    â€œHave you heard anything about Boyd Naylor?” she asked, as Silverstone seated himself behind his desk.
    A pained expression crossed his face. “He died on the operating table. Too much damage to internal organs.”
    Oh, God. A wall of sadness slammed into Claire, forcing her against the back of her chair.
    â€œDamn,” Roger whispered.
    Judy dug for a tissue in her purse as a tear ran down her cheek.
    â€œI’m sorry,” Silverstone said. “Did you know him well?”
    â€œWe just met him last night,” Roger said.
    Silverstone cocked a brow and eyed each of them. “Maybe you can explain to me why you three have been the first on the scene for not one, but two suspicious and fatal accidents in the last two days.”
    Roger gripped the arms of his chair and thrust his chin out. “You can’t seriously think we had anything to do