20
Sheriff John Miller was a rugged man with piercing blue eyes like those Paul Newman had been blessed with. He was trim and lean for a man nearing his mid fifties. His tan uniform shirt had the razor thin line that comes from expert ironing.
His dark curls were tinged with gray, but his swarthy, world-weary features belied his true age. The man should have been a male model, thought Dolores, studying the man after entering his office.
He stood and smiled when she entered. Laugh lines appeared around the edges of his dancing blue eyes. He was a real charmer. Her mother would call him an old smoothie.
Sanchez held out her right hand.
He grasped the offered hand in his. His dry, warm flesh was rough, but he applied just the right pressure. Small-town sheriffs were often diplomats as we
