And finally, there was Willy, who’d pulled the short straw to notify Don Kalfus’s next of kin—or whoever opened the door—not only to tell them Don had been found dead in a trunk with his head bashed in, but—oh, by the way—what was the latest crooked thing he’d been up to that had gotten him killed? And sorry for your loss.

“You okay?” Lester asked as if on cue, the car rolling to a stop at the top of the hill.

She pushed open the door as if escaping from a burning building. “Yeah. Stuff on my mind.”

Lester peacefully eased his frame out of the car. He knew her well, knew many of the demons hounding her—all the way back to a rough childhood—and was of a forgiving nature anyhow. In his book, Sammie Martens was entitled to a bad day now and then. For one thing, no way Les could imagine having Willy Kunkle as a mate, even if he did admire the man’s results.

The building before them, large from a distance, proved immense up close and was tricked out with sufficient wrought iron appendages to satisfy a castle—knockers, hinges, lanterns, and rings large enough to suspend carcasses. Lester couldn’t resist commenting, “Looks like somebody made out at the medieval accessories fire sale. Watch out for arrows and moats.”

He’d barely pushed the bell before the large wooden door swung open to reveal not a knight but a bearded fat man in an Orvis shirt and high-end blue jeans. Lester was torn between visions of an urban Falstaff and an imitation Hemingway.

“Saw you drive up,” the man said. “I’m Lemuel Shaw. I help you?”

“We’re cops,” Sam said, taking an instant dislike to him. “We need to talk.”

Willy Kunkle, at least, was neither among strangers nor wandering onto a theatrical set. He and Ron Klecszewski were on South Main Street, in Brattleboro, heading for the home of Don Kalfus’s next of kin.

For Ron, this was a rare and enjoyable reunion, if not an opportunity to catch up. Not for Willy. Indeed, over the years that Ron and he had worked together before VBI’s creation and Willy’s departure, they had never once had what could be called a “chat.”

Nevertheless, they had run cases, interrogated suspects, exchanged a laugh or two, traveled across town a few thousand times, shared meals at the office, and cursed the legal system for messing up their neatly wrapped-up cases. And Ron had been subjected to Willy’s unceasingly caustic opinions, judgments, and dismissive one-liners, to the point where Ron’s wife had once asked him if the satisfaction of shooting the guy might not be worth the penalty.

While occasionally agreeing that she might’ve been onto something, Ron had never seen his colleague in that light.

In part due to Klecszewski’s own generous nature, he had understood, as he knew Joe Gunther did, that Willy Kunkle’s was a special case. There were people, Ron had rationalized, who like Japan’s famous living national treasures, had qualities or abilities that deserved special recognition, or in Willy’s case, at least limited and continual absolution.