Tomasetti drives around to the rear of the house, where gravel gives way to terra-cotta-colored paving tones. Outside a four-car garage, a teenage boy in swim trunks and flip-flops is washing a green Jaguar XJ6. Looking to my left, through the trees, I see the shimmering blue water of the lake. There’s some kind of observation tower, and, lower, a boathouse and dock.

Tomasetti kills the engine and frowns at the kid. “Wonder if his mom and dad know he’s here.”

“I wonder if they know Mr. Karns likes to take photographs of naked teenagers.”

“Goddard says he’s a pseudocelebrity around here.”

“That’s wrong on so many levels.”

He mutters an unflattering adjective beneath his breath as we exit the vehicle. The boy stops washing the car and stares at us as we traverse the flagstone walkway to the house.

Stone stairs usher us to a large veranda that wraps around the front of the house and looks out over the forest beyond. A dozen or more Boston ferns hang from baskets. Clay pots overflowing with red geraniums and larger pots filled with lush palms lend a tropical feel.

We reach the massive front doors—mahogany with beveled skylights on both sides—and I press the doorbell. For the span of a minute or so, we just stand there, taking in the view, listening to the birds, gathering our thoughts. Despite the pressure of the case, the murder of Annie King, the impending interview with Karns, standing in the midst of such tranquil beauty, I find myself starting to relax.

I’m reaching for the bell a second time when one of the doors swings open. A tall African-American man with blue eyes and short-cropped hair that’s going gray at the temples looks at us as if we’re a couple of solicitors in need of being turned away. He’s wearing gray khakis and a white polo shirt, no shoes. He’s movie-star attractive, with the kind of face that compels people to stare. I’m not exactly sure what I expected Stacy Karns to look like, but this isn’t it.

“Stacy Karns?” Tomasetti asks.

“That’s me.” His voice is deep and pleasant, with just a hint of a northeastern inflection. “How can I help you?”

We pull out our IDs and hold them out for him to see.

Surprise flashes across his features. “Wow. Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation. That can’t be good.” His gaze flicks first to Tomasetti and then lingers on me. “What’s this all about?”

“We’d like to ask you some questions,” Tomasetti tells him.