Ten miles from Brushton, I call Tomasetti. He doesn’t pick up. Meeting, I think. But that keen sense of loneliness presses into me again. I force it back into its hidey-hole and leave a message.

The blinking neon sign for Skelly’s Diner welcomes me at just after three P.M. The “S” has burned out and the sign reads KELLY’S DINER. It’s a dive, seemingly in the middle of nowhere. The building had once been a service station; there’s a covered portico and an island where the gas pumps were. The windows are steamed up. There are two cars parked in front. In the gravel lot behind the building, a white SUV emblazoned with the New York State Police insignia is hitched to an unmarked travel trailer. I pull around and park next to it, out of sight from the street.

I’ve just shut down the engine when I see Frank Betancourt exit the trailer. He’s wearing a black parka and gray slacks. A second man who I assume is Sheriff Dan Suggs exits the passenger door of the SUV as I’m getting out. He’s tall, with a pear-shaped body stuffed into a Franklin County Sheriff’s Department jacket. The three of us meet between our vehicles.

“Good to see you again, Chief Burkholder.” Betancourt extends his hand. “I hope the snow didn’t make the drive too difficult.”

“Four-wheel drive helped.” I turn my attention to the other man.

“Sheriff Dan Suggs.” He reaches for my hand with both of his and shakes it with a good bit of vigor.

I guess him to be nearing fifty. Receding hairline. Red hair that’s going gray at his temples. Mottled complexion. Eyes the color of faded denim. Tall with a generous pudge at his middle. He looks like someone’s favorite uncle. The one who brought you candy when you were six and made you laugh about stuff you weren’t supposed to laugh at.

His gaze is genial and direct. “I appreciate you coming all the way up here to do this, Chief.”

“I’m glad to help.”

“Coffee’s on.” Betancourt motions toward the trailer. “I brought our portable office.”

I toss an admiring look at the RV. “Nice digs.”

Betancourt moves ahead and ascends the steps. “Twenty-seven-foot Winnebago. Confiscated it during a drug bust a couple years back,” he says, opening the door. “Comes in handy for long assignments or when we need a mobile base.”

“Or to keep someone out of sight,” I add.

He holds the door open for us. “That, too.”

“Staties get all the good toys,” Suggs grumbles good-naturedly.

The interior smells of coffee and the pressed-wood redolence inherent to all trailer homes. This one has been transformed into an office, replete with built-in shelves that accommodate a copier/fax machine, a flat-screen TV, police radio, and a plethora of complicated-looking electronics. Ahead and to my left, a sleek laptop and a short stack of manila folders sit atop a table that had originally been a dining booth.

The trailer rocks slightly when Suggs comes up the stairs behind me. “This thing’s nicer than my own living room.”