“Hmm. A convicted felon, huh? Wouldn’t have figured.”

Hank almost doesn’t inquire further. He can’t help the way his nose wrinkles at this, although he’s been a shitty detective for a long time.

But will he be here long enough to care who is and who isn’t a felon from whatever distant world? He hopes not.

“You kill someone?”

Eyeing the tragic assortment of food on display, Hank points to the sushi-looking dish. “Never had spam myself. You go right on ahead. Tell me how it is.”

Bit of a snicker, deep in his chest.

“They do these sort of get-togethers often here?”

Okay, so he’s being nosy. But if he’s going to be here for who knows how long, why not ask? Hank figures he’s got a couple of days, maybe a week, before most people figure out he’s a deadbeat. Which is fine by him. Probably.