“That’s a long way from murder,” Spenser noted.

“It’s a very long way from murder,” Amanda agreed.

“He’s got a modest following, plays a lot of open mic nights, and puts his own music out… probably because he’s got no recording deals. And like I mentioned earlier, he works as a bartender at the Whistle to pay the bills,” Jacob said.

The Whistle Stop—the Whistle locals—was one of the oldest and seediest bars in Sweetwater Falls and tended to cater to a pretty rough crowd. She and her deputies had been called there more times than she could count to break up a brawl. Most of the clientele at the Whistle had pretty extensive jackets.

“Okay, so he’s a struggling musician with a spotty but largely non-violent and mostly inconsequential criminal history,” Spenser said.

“Right,” Amanda said. “Nothing I see suggests he’s capable of murder.”

“Maybe not. But you have to account for an artist’s passion. Having somebody steal his art might be enough to drive him to the edge, if not over it,” Spenser said.

“It’s possible. It just doesn’t read right to me though,” Amanda said.

“Well, I guess I’ll find out,” she replied. “Do you have a current address?”

“Yep. He’s got an apartment over in Little Paris,” Jacob replied.

Little Paris was the name given to the artsy neighborhood on the eastern side of town as a backhanded, tongue-in-cheek homage to one of the world’s most artistic cities. The art scene in Sweetwater Falls wasn’t as lively as the one in Seattle, but it wasn’t for lack of effort. In addition to a couple of small galleries, there were a few large warehouses that housed artistic collectives. Musicians, writers, poets, sculptors, painters… artists of every stripe could be found living and working on their craft over in Little Paris.

“Okay, good. Text me the address,” Spenser said. “I’m going to go see what good ol’ Bo has to say for himself.”

“Watch your back,” Amanda said.

She got to her feet and headed out of the conference room. Working the case and with a mission firmly in mind, Spenser was calmer and more settled than she had felt last night. Now, she just needed to hold on to that.

Artsy was probably the best way to describe the Wellstone, the apartment complex Bo Graham called home. Every door and window frame were a different color, the only unifying thing about them being they were bright and vibrant. The side of the building that faced the street was one giant mural that looked like it had been added to and freshened up over the years. The end result was a riot of colors and different styles and images. It was such a chaotic scene, it shouldn’t have worked. But somehow, it did. It turned what would have been a plain, three-story, boxy, concrete building into something unique and strangely beautiful.

Walking through the Wellstone made Spenser think of a college dorm—except for the fact that it was clean and didn’t reek like beer and pot. Like dorm rooms, photos and decorations hung on most every door and whiteboards hung beside each of them with the name of the current resident written at the top. Notes of love and affirmation on some, sarcastic jokes were on others, and some bore words of inspiration. It made her see the Wellstone wasn’t just an apartment building. It was a community. A family of sorts.

Spenser got to the third floor, then made her way down to Bo’s apartment and knocked on the door. The sound of music, muffled through the door, cut off and Spenser heard the sound of shuffling feet approaching. The door opened and Bo Graham looked back at her. His eyes were bloodshot and half-closed, and he had a goofy smile on his face. Under the heavy aroma of incense wafting out of his apartment, Spenser caught the distinct scent of pot.

“Sheriff,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“Mr. Graham—”

“Call me Bo.”

“All right, Bo, I need to speak with you,” she said. “May I come in?”

His body tensed, and his expression grew uncertain.

“Relax,” Spenser said. “I’m not here to bust you for a little weed.”

“Then… what are you here for?”

“We need to talk about Seth Hamill.”

His expression morphed from worry to tightly controlled anger. His jaw clenched and the bushy mustache he sported on his upper lip quivered. Bo stepped aside and held the door open, any misgivings he had about letting her in quickly evaporating. He closed the door behind Spenser, then joined her in the living room. On the end table next to the sofa that was positioned beneath a lone, large window, a half-smoked joint sat in an ashtray beside a can of Red Bull. A guitar was propped up on the cushions and across from the couch, a TV tuned to a baking show sat on a small table that matched the one next to the couch.

Bo’s place wasn’t large and aside from the two matching end tables, the rest of the furniture was mismatched. Obvious thrift store finds and hand-me-downs. Colorfully patterned rugs covered the hardwood flooring, and artistic photos of himself playing at various gigs hung on the walls. The predominantly black and white photos were good. Like, gallery-quality good. Whoever took them had a very keen eye.

“My girlfriend is a photographer,” he said, noticing she was looking at the pictures.

“She’s talented.”

“She is,” he replied. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“I’m good, thanks.”

Bo took a seat on one of the three tall stools at the bar that looked into the galley-style kitchen, putting himself as far away from the joint in the ashtray as he could. He obviously hadn’t realized Spenser had already clocked it. He was tight. Tense.

“Seriously, you do realize weed is legal in this state, right? You can have up to an ounce,” Spenser said. “And that one little half-smoked joint isn’t an ounce, so even if I were here to rattle you about the weed, I couldn’t. There isn’t more than an ounce in plain sight, and I have no warrant. So, seriously. Chill, Bo.”

He exhaled and seemed to visibly relax. Spenser just shook her head, not understanding how an obviously regular user didn’t have the law memorized backward and forward. She would have thought habitual users would be the ones who grasped the law that governed it the best. Bo offered her a shaky shrug and gestured to the ashtray on the end table.

“I don’t use it a lot,” he said. “I just… it helps me creatively sometimes.”

“Cool,” Spenser replied. “Like I said, I don’t care about that.”

“Right. Okay. You said you wanted to talk about Seth.”

“I do.”

“I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re here about.”

“You don’t sound sorry he’s dead.”

He scoffed. “I’m not. If I knew who did it, I’d shake their hand. I mean, he was a thief. Stole my work and passed it off as his own. I’m sure he did the same thing to others.”

“I saw your video. One of them anyway.”

“Of course you did,” he said. “That’s why you’re here.”

“It is. You’re very outspoken about your feelings about Hamill.”

“He’s a thief. Plagiarists like Hamill are parasites. They’re among the lowest forms of life on earth,” he said. “As far as I’m concerned, he got what he deserved.”

“Wow,” Spenser said. “That’s intense.”

“You’re not an artist. I doubt you’d understand.”

“I’m not an artist. You’re right. But believe it or not, I do understand. I’m sure it can’t be easy to watch somebody steal something you poured a piece of yourself into and have a level of success with it that, perhaps, you didn’t have.”