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Alan had been to the police department many times to see Sam Purdy over the years. A few of those times had been after hours.
He knew the routine.
He parked his car on the street, avoiding the visitor's lot, and plodded through unplowed snow to the south side of the building, where the cops park their personal vehicles.
He checked the rows for Sam's car, found it, then high-stepped back through the ankle-deep snow to the public entrance. The outer door of the vestibule was unlocked. Once inside, Alan lifted the telephone that was mounted on the wall. Someone answered after three rings.
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