Jack watched the good-looking black man in his thirties close his cell phone and turn in his direction. Parker Riley had definitely changed from the picture of the band in front of the bus. He didn’t look like a rock star at all. Or Jack’s vision of one anyway. He resembled an accountant. He was dressed neatly in pressed, tailored brown slacks and a cream colored dress shirt opened at the throat. He wore wire-rimmed glasses.
“You must be Lieutenant Reeves,” the man said, sticking out his hand for Jack to shake. “Parker Riley.”
“That wasn’t just Chad Storm coaching you on what to say was it?” Jack asked, not shaking the offered hand.
“It was Chad, but no he didn’t coach me. Are you always this suspicious?”
“My line of work, I guess.” He gestured to two folding chairs laid out next to a
