Both VBI men were wearing the labeled armored vests identifying them, prompting an already taxed Willy to ask, “Really? That makes you the only cop in the county not hanging around your pal’s house. Nice leadership.”

Joe spoke directly, privately praying that Houston had led them to the proper address. “We want Lemuel Shaw.” He proffered a document. “Here’s the warrant.”

Herrick looked genuinely surprised, to Joe’s satisfaction, and shouted over his shoulder down the hallway, “We got company!”

If he expected either man to respond like an unleashed hunting dog, Herrick was disappointed. Instead of pursuing some unseen quarry, Willy reached out, grabbed his arm, calmly said, “You’re under arrest. Turn around,” and spun him on his axis as Joe pulled out a pair of cuffs.

Toward the back of the dark, evil-smelling hovel of a building, Lemuel Shaw heard the warning and looked up from the laptop he’d been using to monitor the alarm and surveillance systems at his home across town.

He did react as if to a starter’s pistol, slapped the computer shut, leaped to his feet, and bolted to the back door overlooking the rear deck. As he stepped outside, a heavily armed New Hampshire state trooper dressed in Ninja black appeared as if from nowhere and grabbed hold of his shirtfront. “Lemuel Shaw,” he said through his ski mask. “You’re under arrest.”

Shaw didn’t miss a beat, despite his earlier panic. His body relaxing as he spread his arms wide, revealing only the computer and no weapons in hand, he replied, “Lawyer.”

“What we got,” Willy Kunkle told his boss, “is a dog’s breakfast. Tons of circumstantial junk, basically not a single smoking gun, the world’s most convoluted story line, and nobody talking.”

They were still on Herrick’s front porch, watching the owner and his tight-lipped guest being escorted to separate cruisers. The property was alive with cops, searching for, collecting, and documenting evidence.

“Maybe,” Joe answered placidly.

Willy was incredulous. “What do you see I don’t?”

Joe gestured toward the vehicle holding Herrick. “He hasn’t invoked a lawyer yet, has he?”

Willy gave that a moment before saying, “He knows the system from the inside. You think he’s hoping to make a deal?”

“I’m willing to listen if he does.”

They chose the most imposing building they could think of quickly—the federal courthouse in Concord, New Hampshire, named after Warren Rudman and, although built in the 1990s, looking like a throwback to the art deco thirties. The U.S. Marshals had office space there, where Joe and Willy brought the increasingly beleaguered Clyde Herrick. All three of them ended up in yet another bland room, equipped solely with a table, chairs, and a video recorder. The intended impression of its being in a structure designed to decide people’s fates had apparently reached home. Herrick was ready to talk.

Joe slid the Miranda form across the table for openers. “You know what this is, Clyde. It’s your choice—right now, right here—to either work with us or invoke your right to remain silent. You know better than anyone where you rank in all this. I recommend you choose wisely.”