The smell of burnt coffee and industrial cleaners permeated the NYPD precinct where Sam sat in the chair next to Officer Parsons’ desk. The policeman handed him a Styrofoam cup of steaming coffee. Sam accepted it, but stared at the black liquid without taking a drink.
“There’s so much I still don’t understand,” he said softly. “I had no idea Joel was faking the stalker. How did you figure it all out?”
Parsons took his seat. “He had us all fooled for a while, but our computer experts were able to trace the messages back to email accounts he has set up himself. Then we noticed the break-ins occurred when Joel was the last one to be in the apartment.”
“No,” Sam said. “When we found the knife in the cutting board, we had left at the same time.”
“You told us you both went out into the hallw
