“Who the hell do you think you are?” she demanded. The man looked like everybody’s caricature of a demented mass-murdering school shooter. She wondered if she could get around behind her desk and draw the .38 revolver she kept in her top drawer.
He grinned. “The man who’s gonna make you famous, darlin’. William Z. Trigg. Billy to his friends.”
“And how do you propose to do this, Mister Trigg?” He wasn’t moving. She moved sideways, trying to look casual. If he moved fast, she’d open the drawer and empty all five chambers into him. This was not happening.
But he just slid the chair in front of him around, spun it, and sat down backwards in it, chin on the frame, still grinning. “Sorry if I smell bad. I been up all night, trying to get you a little evidence. I need a shower bad, but you ne
