“Yeah,” she said. “He left maybe two hours ago.”

“The sketch,” I said. “It’s probably taped up in Abe’s office. I need a shot of it.”

“I can’t leave the desk for a half hour,” she said. “But if it’s taped up somewhere, I’ll text it to you.”

I hung up and looked at the rest of the paperwork I had on Monroe.

The pages at the bottom of the stack were a list of investment holdings.

First, a series of partnerships. And then, when it wasn’t clear what percentage Monroe owned of the partnership or who else owned it, Jed Harrington had painstakingly broken that down.

I traced my finger down the list, but they meant nothing to me.

Some REITs. Some trusts. Some LLCs.

It wasn’t until I saw the last investment that the hairs on my arm stood up.

And when they did, I grabbed my keys and that single piece of paper at the bottom of the stack. And I walked out the front door.

I had to talk to someone, and I knew exactly where they were for the next few hours: the Mason Falls jail.

60

When Lauten Hartley saw it was me in the visitation room, he turned to the guard, as if to refuse the visit. But I’d given the patrolman a heads-up that he would probably do that. And this particular blue-suiter was a friend.

Patrolman Cole pushed Hartley forward, attaching one of his bracelets to the ring on the table, and forcing his body down into the chair.

I remembered seeing Hartley just ten days ago at the precinct. He looked so calm and self-assured. Now his wavy copper hair looked wild, reflecting off the orange of his jumpsuit.

“What do you want?” he said once the officer left.

“A favor.”

He blew out his nose and shook his head, his curls dangling over his forehead. “From me?”

I held his eyes and took the paper from my back pocket. The one I’d just found in Jed Harrington’s treasure trove of research.

Hartley looked down at what I’d brought. Saw the name of his partnership. The name of his partner.

“You’re like a damn junkyard dog, aren’t you, Marsh? You just can’t help yourself when you get that smell.”

I didn’t say anything. After all, Hartley was right. My obsessiveness was at the core of this tragedy in my life. I had thought about that more times than I wanted to admit.

I stared at him. “Did Monroe know?”

“The partnership held a liquor store in the numbered streets,” Hartley said. “And two apartment complexes. And it made an eight hundred and twenty percent margin. You think he didn’t know what we were doing?”

Hartley tried to get up, but the chain pulled on him. “Guard,” he yelled.

I grabbed at Hartley’s arm. “Did Monroe order the death of my wife and son?”

“He didn’t have to,” Hartley said. “We knew what was at stake when we took Monroe on as a partner. The choices we’d have to make.”