Roberta Rotker lived just outside the village of Peacock in a brick house that looked like a fortress. It was set squarely in the middle of a farm field. The field had been rough-mowed to resemble a lawn. There were no trees, no shrubs, no foundation plantings of any kind. The property was surrounded by a six-foot-high chain-link fence. Security cameras were mounted on posts at regular intervals inside the fence. The heavy-duty entrance gate was of the sliding variety on rollers, electrically operated from the house.

As they arrived in front of it, the gate opened. A straight macadam driveway led to a macadam parking area in front of a three-car brick garage. The place had an institutional aura, like some sort of safe house operated by a government agency. Gurney counted four additional security cameras: two on the front corners of the garage, two under the eaves of the house.

The woman who opened the front door looked as businesslike as the building. She wore a plaid work shirt and dark twill pants. The unflattering style of her short, sandy hair emphasized her apparent disinterest in her appearance. The gaze she fixed on Gurney was uninviting and unblinking. She reminded him of a cop—an impression reinforced by the nine-millimeter SIG Sauer pistol in a quick-draw holster affixed to her belt.

She shook hands with Kim in that determinedly firm way often adopted by women working in traditionally male professions. When Kim had introduced Gurney and explained his presence as an “adviser” on the project, Roberta Rotker gave him a short nod, stepped back, and waved them into the house.

Structurally, it was a traditional center-hall Colonial, but the center hall itself was completely bare—an empty passageway that led from the front door to the back door. On the left were two doors and a staircase; on the right were three doors, all closed. This was not a house that divulged information casually.

As Gurney and Kim were led through the first door on the right into a minimally furnished living room, he asked, “Are you in law enforcement?”

Roberta Rotker didn’t answer until she’d closed the door firmly behind them. “Very definitely,” she said.

It was an unusual response. “What I meant was, are you employed by a law-enforcement agency?”

“Why is my employment a matter of interest to you?”

Gurney smiled blandly. “Just curious whether the sidearm is a job requirement or a personal preference.”