Archie produced the invitation Sanchez had given him but the man waved it away, and instead scanned a printed list he had on a clipboard. Archie could see the bulge under his suit where he was wearing a gun. That kind of thing could be hidden, but he wasn’t trying. “I don’t see you,” the man said. Archie saw his body language shift. He straightened up, his chest expanded. He rotated a finger in the air, and two other men in suits looked up and started to make a beeline for them.

“I’m a friend of Leo’s,” Archie said quickly. “Maybe you should check with him.”

Archie had a brief fantasy of the man with the clipboard calling Leo down from the house and then Archie and Leo jumping into a car and driving away together. Could it be that easy?

The other two suits arrived on either side of Archie. They looked like they’d come out of the same Humvee that the first guy had—same body type, same general facial structure, same military bearing.

“Stay with him,” the first suit told the other two, and he gave Archie a skeptical look and stepped back, already lifting a cell phone to his ear.

The two new suits crossed their arms in unison. Party guests streamed past them, jewelry glinting in the torchlight. They were all wearing masks. Archie was pretty sure his tux hadn’t come with one. Maybe he could cut two holes in his sock and tie it around his head. He thought about making that joke out loud, but he had the feeling it would go unappreciated.

“So,” Archie said. “Nice place, huh?” The island was over five acres. Archie wondered how many bodies were buried on it.

They didn’t answer.

“Have you seen Leo around?” Archie asked. Just an old friend, dropping by for a visit.

Nothing.

The first suit returned. “You’re wanted inside,” he said.

*   *   *

Jack Reynolds was waiting in his office for them, wearing a tuxedo and puffing on a cigar. Music from the party was a distant thrum through the textured stucco walls.

It had been over a year since Archie had seen Jack. When they’d first met, almost fourteen years before, Jack had been leaner, almost hawkish. He was one of those men who seemed to get better-looking as they aged. Though he was sixty-five, the lines around his eyes and mouth, the silver in his dark hair, only made him look more dashing. He looked like one of those grinning silver-haired men in Viagra commercials who were always getting off motorcycles and heading inside to get it on with their waiting wives.

Now Jack sat on the edge of his desk, the desk lamp behind him the only light on in the room. Cigar smoke hung like a cloud over his head.