As soon as the door swished closed across the ruby-red carpet, he noticed the lit floor lamp, which he didn’t remember leaving on. Other than this slim shaft of amber light, the room was completely dark, including the hallway that led to the king-size bed, the bathroom, and the walk-in closet. Somewhere in that darkness, a body was moving. Darren had no idea how they’d gotten in or how long they’d been waiting for him. He pulled his .45 from his holster and a penlight from his pocket. He started down the hallway, safety off, raising his gun as the door to the bathroom swung open and Greg Heglund stepped out, squinting against the laser-like white light shining in his eyes.

Darren aimed the gun away from his best friend and cursed his name.

Greg found this infinitely more amusing than Darren did. He chuckled as he flipped the switch for the hallway light. He reached out to embrace Darren, who rolled his eyes and ducked Greg’s touch. “You didn’t wash your hands.”

“Did you know that urine is mostly sterile?”

“Mostly.”

“Come on, man,” Greg said, comically holding his arms out for a hug.

“How’d you get in here?”

Greg flashed his pocket badge. “And you add white on top of this, I can get in pretty much anywhere except Diddy’s White Party. Ironic, right?”

Darren rolled his eyes. Greg was a white guy who’d had an affinity and an affection for black folks his whole life, and he often took certain liberties when it came to his sometimes questionable sense of humor. But he was a solid dude whose heart and politics had always been in the right place, even before he joined the Bureau. Darren was happy to see him, but he felt a little ambushed. “When you sent me that text, you didn’t say anything about being in Jefferson.”

“I thought I’d surprise you.”

He was wearing a black suit and a black tie, and with his boyish good looks and bright, eager green eyes, Greg looked like a Mormon or a particularly cheerful funeral director. “And anyway, I was supposed to be gone by now.”