It offered a full range of games and slots, elegant bars, live entertainment, and a handful of well-appointed hotel rooms, which carried an ungodly price tag.

“Lady of the River, here I come.” He started to drop the matchbook back into the suit coat pocket, but paused, turning it over instead. Nothing was printed on the back, which surprised him. Usually a business would add an address, a phone number, or at least a website somewhere. Not sure what he was expecting, he flipped the front of the matchbook up.

Bingo. A very small playing card—the Joker—was printed in gold, which made it pop from the black background. Below the card was the word Walden and what appeared to be a date, 03/08, also printed in gold. March eighth was two Fridays ago.

But what was Walden? “Hey, Siri, search for Walden.”

The first items in the results referred to Walden College, but the next was a Wikipedia link to a book by Henry David Thoreau. The bio for Thoreau answered the question.

Henry David Thoreau’s best friend was Ralph Waldo Emerson.

“Blake Emerson,” he muttered. The name on the rental agreement for this apartment. It could be a coincidence, but Grant didn’t think it was.

Pocketing the matchbook, he headed into the bedroom. He’d searched the living room for a safe, but found none.

He glanced around, noticing a throw rug that didn’t exactly match the decor. He was a little impressed with himself, he had to admit. I suppose all those HGTV shows that Cora watches are coming in handy.

He nudged at the rug with his toe, satisfied when he revealed the corner of an in-floor safe. It, too, opened with their sister’s birth date. The dread that had become his constant companion intensified as he lifted the safe’s door.

Reaching inside, he pulled out two wallets. One held Wes’s detective shield and police ID card. The other held his driver’s license and credit cards. He hid them because he’s undercover, he thought hopefully. Please let him be undercover. He opened the wallet with the detective shield and studied the photo of his older brother. They were three years apart, but looked enough alike that many people mistook them for twins, especially from a distance.

He hesitated, then put the shield in his own pocket. “In case he’s in trouble,” he muttered to himself. If Wes was in trouble, he might need someone to vouch for him.

Reaching into the safe again, he pulled out a gun he recognized as Wes’s service weapon. He checked the chamber and the magazine. It was unloaded, so he set it aside. His breath caught in his throat, because the next gun he pulled out was not one he recognized. It had no serial number, the plate having been filed off.