Up until his arrest, Vince Kinnamon had been a dangerous man. A killer with a weakness for hard drugs, a penchant for violence, and no conscience to keep him from acting on the most primal of urges. The Cleveland PD suspected him in a plethora of crimes ranging from heroin distribution to murder. Kinnamon’s luck ran out three months ago, when he’d been busted by the feds for laundering money through his Downtown Cleveland bar, The Red Monkey. He’d been put before a federal grand jury, which had quickly handed down an indictment. He’d been incarcerated and, deemed a flight risk, denied bail while he awaited trial. Rumor had it that even in prison, Kinnamon was still connected. Still powerful. Tomasetti was counting on both those things.

McCaskill gestured toward the chair on the opposite side of the table from where Tomasetti was sitting. “Kinnamon. Sit down. There.” He turned his attention to Tomasetti. “How much time you need?”

“Ten minutes max.”

The corrections officer pointed at a button that resembled a doorbell set into the wall. “Just hit the buzzer when you’re through, and we’ll come get him.”

“Thanks again.”

The door clicked shut. Without looking at Kinnamon, Tomasetti opened the file and looked down at the blur of black and white that had nothing to do with the purpose of his visit today.

“You don’t look like a fed,” Kinnamon said.

“They treating you okay here at County?” Tomasetti asked the question without looking up.

“Fucking hacks. They treat all the inmates like shit. What’s it to you?”

“When’s your trial?” Tomasetti flipped a paper. “May?”

“June.”

He looked away from the file, made eye contact with Kinnamon. “Looks like the feds have you by the balls this time, Vince. Money laundering. They take that shit seriously.”

Kinnamon regarded him across the table, saying nothing.

“How did they get you, anyway?” he asked.

“Some fucking rat.” Kinnamon waved off the question. “I still don’t know who you are.”

“Let’s just say I’m the bearer of interesting news.”

Kinnamon stared at him, saying nothing at first, but he wasn’t doing a very good job of concealing his interest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You heard Joey Ferguson’s conviction was overturned, didn’t you?”

“I heard. Good for him. What does that have to do with me?”

“How do you think he managed that?”

“The Cleveland cops are a bunch of fuckups.”

For the span of a full minute, neither man spoke. The only sound came from the jiggle of Kinnamon’s foot against the chair. Tomasetti could feel the other man’s curiosity, his misery, his desperation.