It was late winter—cold, harboring decaying, crunchy snow, and punctuated by surrounding bare-armed trees, their dark branches upthrust in surrender or supplication. It was getting warmer—slightly—the days longer, the lakes melting from their edges, and snowfall more frequently turning to rain. Winter was dying, for which Joe was grateful. He liked New England’s seasons, had known them all his life, and cherished living where, for six months at least, nature could be lethal. But it was the variety that gave the place life, and everyone he knew was ready for the coming spring, especially now that the annual maple sugarers were done collecting their product.

Everyone apart from the person responsible for their spontaneous gathering, who presumably no longer cared.

Joe rolled to a stop by the side of the road, the only vehicle not using its strobes.

A man, narrow, intense, unsmiling, approached with watchful eyes. His lame left arm was pinned to his side by its hand being tucked into his Tyvek suit’s pocket. This was Willy Kunkle, one of Joe’s small special unit, whose injury had been incurred years earlier in a shoot-out, but whose natural talent—and Joe’s influence—had kept him employed.

“Hey, boss,” he said in greeting, his accent betraying a hint of his New York City roots. He opened Joe’s door and stood back to let the older man out.

Joe looked at him inquiringly as he straightened and stamped his feet.

Willy answered the unstated question. “It’s a clusterfuck. We’re gonna earn our pay with this one.”

Joe nodded, looking around. “Who else is here?”

“Who isn’t?” Kunkle counted off. “We got state police, sheriff’s deputies, our crew, the ME’s office is responding, EMS just left, and the local fire department is working the detour. We’re only missing the town constable. Even the wrecker showed up early to rubberneck.” He gestured toward a shallow ravine running between the woods and the hard-packed dirt road. “But that wasn’t what you meant, I know. Sam’s down there. Lester’s wrapping up a case at the office. Should be here soon.”

Sam was Samantha Martens, another squad member and the mother of Willy’s child, Emma. Lester Spinney was the last of the VBI’s southeast regional team—one of the agency’s smallest despite its caseload, which was not something this tight-knit group wanted to change. They’d become family over time and preferred no outside meddling.

As he pulled on the type of white coveralls everyone else was already wearing, Joe indicated the roof of the abandoned car he could see from this angle. “Looks fancier than your average used pickup.”

“By about a hundred grand,” Willy agreed. “Mercedes four-door. Crap car, in my opinion. All flash for a lotta cash. You could do as well with a GM. Course, that’s just me. It’s registered in New Hampshire and was reported stolen five days ago.”

Joe was beginning to grasp his colleague’s point about complications. “Therefore not belonging to the dead man I was told was inside?” he asked doubtfully.

“You wish. Let’s just say the word inside is a matter of interpretation. He’s in the trunk, which they made way too small, natch.”