Trout glanced curiously at Daker, who shrugged but said nothing.

“They seem to be overly impressed by the fact that I had the highest homicide-clearing rate in the history of the department.”

Trout’s mouth opened, but he closed it again without speaking.

“They want me to review famous unsolved cases and offer my opinion on where I think the investigations went off the tracks. Starting with the Good Shepherd case. They plan to call the series In the Absence of Justice. Catchy, eh?”

Trout examined his steepled fingers for a long minute, concluding with another sad shake of his head. “Everything keeps bringing me back to the problem of leaked documents, unauthorized access, transmission of confidential information, violations of regulations, violations of federal and state laws. Endless unpleasant complications.”

“Small price to pay. After all, as you said before, the main thing is justice. Or was it truth? Something like that, right?”

Trout gave him a cold stare and repeated with slow emphasis, “Endless … unpleasant … complications.” His gaze traveled to the mounted wildcats on the mantel. “Not such a small price. Not something I’d want to be in your shoes for. Especially not right now. Not on top of having to deal with that arson business.”

“Excuse me?”

“I heard about your barn.”

“How does that relate to what we’re talking about?”

“Just another kind of pressure in your life, that’s all. Another complication.” He made a show of consulting his watch again. “We’re definitely out of time.” He stood up.

So did Gurney. So did Holdenfield.

Trout’s mouth widened into an empty smile. “Thank you for sharing your concerns with us, Mr. Gurney. Daker will get you back to your car.” He turned to Holdenfield. “Can you stay for a few minutes? I have a few items I need to discuss with you.”

“Certainly.” She stepped between Trout and Gurney and extended her hand. “Nice to see you again. Someday you’ll have to tell me more about your barn problem. First I’ve heard of it.”

When he took her hand, he felt a folded piece of paper being pressed against his palm. He accepted it, keeping it out of sight.

Daker was watching him but showed no sign of noticing the transfer. He pointed at the front door. “Time to go.”

Gurney didn’t take the paper out of his pocket until he was in his car, the engine was running, and Daker had disappeared back up the trail in the Kawasaki.

Unfolded, it was barely two inches across. There was one sentence on it: “Wait for me in Branville at the Eagle’s Nest.”

He’d never been to the Eagle’s Nest. He’d heard it was a new restaurant, part of Branville’s struggling renaissance from rural slum to quaint hamlet. It was convenient enough, located on a route he’d be taking anyway.