Gutman’s jaw dropped at that last word, and Barrett felt the color leave his face like the tide going out.

“He’ll get a light sentence, though, in view of his cooperation with the investigation. Specifically”—Riley addressed this comment to Barrett—“the voice recordings he made of his conversations with you.”

“You’re lying,” Barrett bit out, but in his mind he could hear the uptick of a question at the end of his remark.

Riley tilted his head back as if reciting a poem. “‘George Washington owned slaves. Thomas Jefferson even fucked his. This whole damn country was founded on slavery.’”

Barrett felt the bottom of his stomach fall to the floor. Culligan. In the limo. With a lead pipe.

Gutman stared at Riley, then swung back to Barrett. “What’s he saying?”

“Bullshit. That’s what he’s saying. It’s all bullshit.”

“Same charges against you, Mr. Barrett,” Riley said. “Plus conspiracy to commit murder. See, the shooter named Tony Low, and Tony Low named you.”

Barrett lurched to his feet. “This meeting is over. Get the fuck out of my office.”

Riley hauled himself out of his chair, but he wasn’t done yet. “Two things happened that weekend, Mr. Gutman. The last weekend of your wife’s life. Dozens of women were rescued from sex slavers, and an entire fishing fleet was lost at sea.”

Gutman’s eyes opened wide at the last bit. Barrett could see him remembering the typhoon and Lucy’s reaction to the news.

“Remember her text message? I can’t do this anymore. The guilt must have been overwhelming. She couldn’t live with it any longer.”

Gutman blinked furiously. “I don’t— What did any of that have to do with Lucy?”

“Those men and women? She sold them to the slavers.”

“Marcia!” Barrett roared. “Call Security. I want this son of a bitch out of here!”

Riley held up his hands in mock surrender and headed out the door as Marcia’s voice came through the speakers. It sounded tinny and strained. “Umm, Mr. Barrett? Reception just called. There are people here? They say they have a warrant?”

“Oh, right.” Riley turned back in the doorway. “That’ll be FBI, with a warrant for your arrest.” With a parting grin, the detective shuffled away.

Barrett fell back into his chair. Gutman was staring at him. “Ma Belle,” Barrett said thickly. “Show me the camera feed in Reception.”

The image flickered onto his desktop screen. The receptionist was on her feet, and in front of her stood half a dozen men, some in suits, some in windbreakers. Riley came into the frame and shook hands with some of them. His lips moved. Then he laughed as something streaked across the screen. Then something else.

The doves were loose. They were swooping through Reception, and the men were ducking and laughing while the receptionist crouched under her desk. In the back of the screen the Mexican janitor could be seen tiptoeing around the knot of men and heading for the elevator. He probably thought they were from ICE, and he’d left the aviary door open as he made his escape.