“What the hell is this about?” he asked me, after he closed the door. “You come barging in here like Eliot Ness, or Rudolph Giuliani back in his prosecutor days.”

I held up a picture of Caroline. “It’s about her,” I said in the quietest voice I could manage.

It took him a second, but I saw a flash of recognition on his face, then a fast recovery. He was brighter than he seemed.

“Pretty girl. Who is she?”

“Are you saying you’ve never seen her before?”

He laughed defensively, and a little more of the anchorspeak came into his voice. “Do I need a lawyer here?”

“We found your phone number in her apartment. She was murdered.”

“I’m sorry about that, the girl’s murder. A lot of people have my number. Or they can get it.”

“A lot of call girls?” I asked.

“Listen, I don’t know what you want with me, but this is obviously some kind of mistake.”

Whatever he was publicly, this guy was nothing but a scumbag to me now. It was clear he didn’t care about Caroline and what had happened to her.

“She was twenty-four,” I said.

I held up the picture again.

“Someone took bites out of her. Probably raped her before they killed her. Then they put her body through a wood chipper. We found what was left of her—the remains—in a plastic bag being transported by a mob guy.”

“What are you… Why are you telling me this? I don’t know the girl.”

I looked at my watch. “I’m going to offer you a deal, Ryan. The terms are good for the next thirty seconds. You tell me how you found out about her, right now, and I leave your name out of my investigation. Unless, of course, you’re guilty of something a lot more damaging than procuring.”

“Is that a threat?”

“Twenty seconds.”

“Even if I had any idea what you were talking about, how do I know you are who you say you are?”

“You don’t. Fifteen seconds.”

“Excuse me, Detective, but you can go to hell.”

My hand was cocked, but I caught myself. Willoughby flinched and took a step back.

“Get out of my office, unless you want me to have you thrown out.”

I waited until the full thirty seconds were up.

“I’ll see you on the news,” I said. “Trust me, you won’t be the one delivering it.”

Chapter 19

TWENTY MILES OF thick, old-growth Virginia forest separated Remy Williams’s cabin from pretty much everything else in the world. It was a pristine bit of wilderness with all the privacy he could ever want. A person could scream all night long out here and never be heard.

Not that there ever was much screaming or carrying on out here. Remy appreciated efficiency, and he was good at what he did.

Disposal.

The thing he didn’t like was surprises—like the bright headlights that raked back and forth over his cabin window just after darkness fell that night.