The lawyer looked at Keller, then at Trey Barnes, the prosecutor heading the case against Neal Flanagan, the former governor’s henchman. “So now you want to hear what he has to say?” the lawyer asked. “What’s changed?”

“I’m not sure anything has. But the FBI asked for a sit-down”—the prosecutor gestured to Keller—“so here we are.”

“He’s got plenty to say. But I need a commitment. Time served.”

The prosecutor guffawed. “Sylvia, there’d be a lynch mob outside my office. Some of the girls were fourteen years old.”

Flanagan chimed in: “I didn’t know—”

“Shut up,” the lawyer said to her client, not looking at him. To the prosecutor, she said, “They’ll understand that you did what you had to do. This’ll be the biggest case of your career.” She looked at Keller. “Both your careers.”

“You keep saying that,” the prosecutor said, “but I need more than the fairy tales you’ve been floating. I’m not going to ruin the reputation of good people without some corroboration.”

“I’m sorry,” Keller said. “I’m late to the party. I have no idea what either of you are talking about. How about we go off the record, a proffer, let me ask a few questions, and then you all can see if there’s a deal to be made?”

Flanagan’s lawyer crossed her arms, then nodded reluctantly. The prosecutor gestured for Keller to ask her questions.

Keller leaned in, looked at Flanagan. “I need to know why you visited Daniel Pine in prison.”

Flanagan smirked.

The indictment said he’d cultivated a troupe of young girls—runaways, wannabe models, lost souls—and held parties for rich and powerful benefactors who funded his lavish lifestyle. He was, in short, a pimp for sycophants and pedophiles. One of his patrons had been the governor of Nebraska, who’d been forced to resign when one of the girls had the foresight to secretly videotape their encounters, then sold the tape and tales of debauchery to a tabloid. The Nebraska FBI field office soon uncovered the full sinister conspiracy. The hub of the wheel in the entire mess was Neal Flanagan.

The vile man finally spoke. “In addition to my, ah, parties, I used to do other work for the governor.”

“What kind of work?”

“You know, special projects. Digging up dirt on political rivals, finding doctors with lax prescribing standards, keeping people quiet who needed to be quiet, stuff like that.”

“You’re a fixer,” Keller said.

The man made a face, but he didn’t deny it.