“Toby what?” Henry asked, grabbing a pencil and flipping over the photo of Tom and the men in the fishing boat.

“Toby Rambin. But don’t axe around about me. I don’t exist, hear? I call you back in a couple days. You jus’ get that cash ready.”

The connection went dead.

As Henry scrawled on the paper, he thanked God that Sherry hadn’t heard this conversation. He looked down at the phone shaking in his hand.

“Who was that?” Sherry asked from the doorway.

“Nobody, babe. Just another dead-end lead.”

CHAPTER 27

WALKING UP MY front steps for the second time in fifteen minutes, I pause before the door to gather myself. I was unable to catch up to Lincoln after he disappeared over the hill on Washington Street. I cruised the parking lots of the hotels on the bluff—the casino lots, too—but I saw no white pickup with Illinois plates. On my way back, I called Don Logan, the chief of police, and asked him to have his patrolmen keep an eye out for Lincoln’s truck. Not a legitimate use of power, exactly, but the office of mayor comes with some perks.

I feel a little odd hesitating before my own front door, but on the other hand, I feel like I’m bringing home a kilo of heroin that must be hidden from a drug addict. Caitlin would give almost anything to possess the information Henry confided in me tonight. Armed with that, she would begin a newspaper crusade that would blast open those cold cases, eventually solve the murders, and probably win her a second Pulitzer Prize. But that honor is reserved for Henry Sexton, who worked the cases when nobody else gave a damn, and who’s now living under the threat of harm to himself and his family. When Caitlin demands to know what I’m doing to help my father—as she will when she learns that he’s in danger—I will have to edit myself very carefully.

She’s been working south of town all day, but she may already have heard about Dad’s trouble. On the other hand, if she had heard something, she probably would have texted me. I’m only thankful that neither she nor Annie noticed Lincoln Turner’s truck rumbling outside the house.

Taking out my key, I let myself into the foyer and bolt the door behind me. The laughter of my eleven-year-old daughter rings down the hallway from the kitchen. “Annie?” I call. “I’m home!”