I drive up to the imposing metal gate. On the video callbox is a single button labeled BEAUDETTE in fancy cursive. I press it. I smile into the camera. I wait.

After a moment, the gate automatically opens inward.

As I pull up to the magnificent house, I see a handsome middle-aged woman with long brown hair standing by the front door, hands on her hips. Her fair skin has that glow that fabulously rich peoples’ skin tends to have. And she’s dressed in full equestrian getup: white blouse, navy riding jacket with tails, leather boots. The whole scene looks like something out of a high-end catalog spread.

Her name is Emily Beaudette. She’s Billy Needham’s half-sister. David Needham’s cousin. Fellow family investor.

And she may be my last hope for learning the truth about her messed-up family.

“You’re early, Detective,” she snaps as I get out of my car.

“How can I be early, Ms. Beaudette?” I cheerily answer. “You told me not to come at all.”

I give her a friendly grin. Not surprisingly, it doesn’t change the pinched expression on her face.

“Exactly,” she says, voice determined. “My lawyer said I shouldn’t say one word to you people. That I have nothing to gain and everything to lose. Not that I have anything to hide, of course. It’s just that—”

“Hang on,” I say, stepping up onto her wraparound front porch. “Us people? You mean the cops already tried to talk to you?”

“It wasn’t the police,” she says. “It was the FBI. They drove their parade of black SUVs right up to my front gate yesterday, just like you did. I turned them away.”

“And yet,” I say with another wry smile, “you buzzed me through. Why?”

She seems to stand a bit taller and answers, “You asked for my help. They showed up unannounced and demanded it. Then started making threats. If I didn’t turn over my corporation’s complete financial records, I could expect a lifetime of audits. Or worse.”

Interesting. So the feds have been sniffing around the Needham family properties and finances, just like I thought. I’m dying to know what they were looking for. And what Emily—and her company ledgers—might reveal.

My hundred-mile road trip looks like it just might pay off.

“I’m really sorry they came after you like that,” I say.

Then I step closer to this woman and speak more firmly.

“But I’m not asking for your help anymore, Ms. Beaudette,” I say. “I’m begging for it. There are lives at stake here. More than you can imagine. I don’t give a damn about catching tax evaders. I’m trying to stop another kind of bad guy—one that starts with a ‘T.’”

Her eyes subtly widen, in either concern or defiance. I can’t tell.

“Oh, please,” she whispers. “But … I’m just a hospitality industry financier.”