A Hummer had arrived a few hours after the Escalade left, carrying three men. That vehicle was registered to a cooking school, run by a Keith O’Bannion. It made sense because it looked like two of the three men had brought food.

Which was likely needed because the house was filled with people.

The Escalade had returned shortly after the Hummer’s arrival. The bulky man went into the house and a few minutes later a teenager had come through the door. Cade had been momentarily elated, but it hadn’t been Brewer’s stepson.

The kid had been followed by two men—different from the three who’d arrived in the Hummer. One of the men was the other guy who’d been talking on the front stoop when he’d arrived. The kid was walking seven fucking dogs. Seven. The two men each took a couple of the leashes and that seemed to calm things down.

Cade had no idea who any of them were, but at least the dogs were no longer in the house. However, there were still way too many people in there for him to make a move. So he’d waited some more.

The final visitor drove a Toyota Tundra and had slowed once, passing the house entirely before turning around to park across the driveway. The driver was a man, but that was all Cade could see, because he wore a jacket with a hood. He’d emerged a short time later with one of the guys from the Hummer. They’d been quiet, not saying a word as they’d walked stiffly to the truck.

This was the quietest group of people Cade had ever trailed. Nobody said anything as they walked to and from the house.

Until Dani Novak had finally emerged. With the bulky Escalade driver, who was a cop. Detective Stone, she’d called him. Then she’d promised to “be good” so that the detective would take her “to him.”

To him. The cop was taking the doctor to the safe house. Cade was so glad he’d been patient. Taking off his headphones, he started his SUV and slowly followed them, keeping them in view. He’d have the kid in his sights soon enough.

Bridgetown, Ohio
Monday, March 18, 12:55 a.m.

Diesel stared at the monitor on his right, willing Ritz to hurry. He’d run the password-cracking program dozens of times since developing it years ago. Ritz had never met a password it couldn’t crack. Normally he used it to gain access to the accounts of the targets of the Ledger’s “special investigations,” those individuals who’d abused their families, but who’d slipped through the justice system. Tonight he was sifting through the passwords in the casino’s administrative database.