Since Regan shows no inclination to question my sudden appearance, I simply start talking. After all, my purpose is to rattle the man into panicking, not to have a conversation with him. I speak just below conversational volume, softly enough that the people at the nearest tables can’t hear exactly what I’m saying, but not whispering, either. I start out by describing the murder of the two Royal Insurance employees at the hunting camp in South Louisiana, using every vivid detail Glenn Morehouse provided to Henry. Then I give Regan a devastatingly accurate summary of Brody Royal’s involvement in the murders of Albert Norris, Pooky Wilson, Jimmy Revels, Luther Davis, and Leland Robb. To my surprise, the man doesn’t say a word during my monologue. Nor does he get up and walk away.

I’ve had conversations like this before, usually during interrogations of hardened criminals. They’d sit and smoke, or pick their noses, or just give me what they thought was a thousand-yard stare. Eventually most of them broke down, once I found the right psychological lever. But Randall Regan is different. He doesn’t try to intimidate me like most hardasses would. He tucks into his country-fried steak as though I’m some traveling salesman who happened to sit down in the last available seat, and he’s content to endure my patter, like a plowing farmer must endure the rain.

Despite his apparent nonchalance, the one or two times he does meet my gaze, I realize he’s got some of the coldest eyes I’ve ever come across. Recalling Morehouse’s tale of this man who forced one woman to kill her coworker, then raped her and ordered her death, I lose track of my words for a second. Into this gap rushes an image of my father and Walt Garrity running for their lives from men like Randall Regan. Banishing that nightmare, I push on, exercising my practiced prosecutor’s gift for detail. When I finally stop talking, Regan wipes his mouth with his napkin, takes out his wallet, leaves a ten-dollar bill on the table, then tosses his head once and walks out the front door.

I’ve seen that casual toss of the head countless times in my life, usually under friendly circumstances. It generally means “Be seein’ you.” Today it means the same thing, but the context isn’t friendly at all.

As Regan’s V-shaped back disappears through the door, the obvious reality finally breaks through the daze that Walker’s news knocked me into: Regan assumed I was wearing a wire. That’s why he didn’t speak to me. If I had been wearing one, anyone listening to the recording would have concluded that I’d sat in the diner and talked to myself for ten minutes. Still, I reflect, that doesn’t mean my plan didn’t work.

“Randy left already?” asks the waitress, startling me.

“Yes.”