There was a lot of machinery, some of it not new. A huge bandsaw appeared to be at least fifty years old, but it was clean, rust-free and well oiled. Three men were working on different machines, each with hearing protection and goggles. Half a dozen newly completed kitchen cabinets hung on a wall, awaiting painting and hardware.

Stone let Dino take the lead into the shop. He could do most of the talking, too, and it was just as well, given the size of the lump in Stone’s throat brought on by the scent of sawed wood.

A tall man near the front of the shop switched off his machine when he saw them enter. He pulled off his earmuffs and let the goggles fall to his neck as he walked slowly toward them. “This way,” he said, beckoning. He led the way into a spacious office containing an old rolltop desk and a large drawing table. Rolls of plans protruded from pigeonholes next to the desk. He pointed to a pair of nicely built chairs, and they sat down.

“Remember us?” Dino asked.

Rhinehart nodded but didn’t speak.

“Wonder why we’re here?”

“Yes, I do,” he said slowly. His voice was deep. “I didn’t think we had any further business.”

“Looks like we do,” Dino said. “There’ve been a bunch of burglaries.”

“In Camden and Rockland? I knew the state cops would get around to me sooner or later, but why is the NYPD interested?”

“Your parole officer wants to know if you’re involved, Hal,” Stone said.

Rhinehart shook his head. “I haven’t been off the island since I got back here. I’m confined to it, according to my agreement with my parole officer. I can’t get on the ferry, unless I have his permission, and I’ve made a point of not leaving.”

“Do you own a boat?” Dino asked.

“Yes, my father’s, but it’s been laid up in a shed since he died.”

“Do you own a gun?”

“My father had a deer rifle. It’s locked in a case over at the house, and it hasn’t been fired since he got sick.”

“You know Dick Stone’s house?” Stone asked.

“Sure, I do; my dad and I built the study, the kitchen and the dressing rooms. Why?”

“I recall that you once did some other work, besides burglary,” Dino said. “Something more specialized.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rhinehart said.

“Vito Thomasini, shot in his bed,” Dino said. “Edgar Bromfield, shot on his front doorstep from a roof across the street.”

“I’ve heard of Thomasini. Who hasn’t? Never heard of Bromfield, and I was nowhere near either of them when they were killed.”

“If you’ve never heard of Bromfield, why do you know you were nowhere near him when he was shot?” Stone asked.