BRODY ROYAL IS still wearing the suit pants he had on at the hospital, but he’s stripped down to his shirtsleeves. Randall Regan has a notebook computer on his lap and a cigarette in his mouth. The bruise marking his throat looks even darker, and he stares at me with barely contained rage.

Turning to one of the guards, Brody says, “Give Randall their phones, then wait upstairs. Let me know immediately if you hear from Chalmers.”

“Yes, sir.” Crew Cut hands Regan a paper sack. Then the pair move back to the staircase. As the door slams, I look past Royal and Regan. Unlike the other walls, which are lined with glass-fronted gun cabinets, the far wall has six recesses like library carrels set in it. Suddenly, I realize what I’m looking at: an indoor firing range—a wealthy sportsman’s toy. I’ve seen less lavish versions in several homes. Five of the “doors” are actually shooting stations. Only the portal on the far right is a true door. Beyond those shooting stations will be long lanes with human silhouette targets hanging from automated tracks.

Looking back at the luxurious seating area, I catch Brody appraising Caitlin’s lithe body while Regan extracts the SIM card from my cell phone and slips it into a USB device connected to his computer. With the smoldering cigarette dangling from his lower lip, he taps the keys with surprising speed and dexterity. I’ve always thought of Randall Regan as a killer, but I suppose he learned some other skills during decades of running an insurance company.

“I apologize for the circumstances of your transport, Ms. Masters,” Brody says in a congenial voice. “I hope you can forgive the—abruptness of the journey. Randall, cut her wrists loose.”

Regan obviously doesn’t agree with this gesture, but he sets aside his laptop long enough to get up and cut the duct tape binding Caitlin’s wrists. From the expression on her face, I sense that Caitlin is thinking about the dead cop. I only pray she doesn’t say anything. If Brody wants to pretend he’s civilized, I’m perfectly willing to let him do it all night.

“You’re here, my dear,” he goes on, “because your fiancé and I made a business arrangement earlier this evening. And before I fulfill my half of the bargain, I need to be sure he’s going to do the same.”

“I can understand that,” Caitlin says carefully, glancing at me to check my reaction.

“Excellent.” Brody gives her an expansive smile. “Well, it so happens, you’re part of that arrangement. The mayor here has promised that my name will never appear in your newspaper—or any of your father’s papers—in connection with any crimes. Are you aware of those terms?”

Again I feel the sting of her gaze. “I am.”

“And do you intend to abide by them?”

She hesitates, then nods. “I do.”