Once the media coverage dropped off, Tomasetti quietly resigned his position with the Cleveland Division of Police and, with the help of one of the few friends he had left, landed a job with BCI. In the following months, he worked hard to put that dark chapter of his past behind. But he didn’t forget. A man never forgot something like that. The only question that remained now was if he was going to do something about it.

The blare of a horn jerked him back to the present. Not giving himself time to debate, Tomasetti turned into the sleek blacktop driveway, pulled up to the call box, and pressed the button.

“Name?” came a youngish male voice.

“John Tomasetti,” he said.

“I don’t see you on the invitation list.”

“Ferguson will see me.”

They made him wait nearly ten minutes. Two cars crowded against his bumper—a vintage Jaguar and a Viper—the drivers looking put out and anxious to get at all the swag awaiting them inside. Tomasetti was considering turning around and leaving when the gate slid open.

The asphalt curved right, snaking through a forest of tall, winter-dead trees. The Viper swept past, the passenger sticking her hand out the window and flipping him off. Tomasetti caught a glimpse of long blond hair an instant before the sports car skidded around a rococo fountain, swept through a brick archway, and disappeared from view.

He parked behind a black Escalade with darkly tinted glass and got out. He barely noticed the rain as he started toward the tall double doors. He could smell the cold, wet air of the lake now. The earthy scent of rotting foliage and the bark nuggets surrounding the boxwoods and blue point junipers growing on either side of the front door. He’d just stepped onto the Italian tile of the porch when the door opened.

“I’ve got to hand it to you, Tomasetti. You’ve got balls showing up unannounced.”

“I like to keep things spontaneous.”

Joey Ferguson was thinner than he remembered. Tomasetti knew he was forty-six years old, but Ferguson looked closer to fifty.

“What do you want?” Ferguson asked.

“Just a quick chat.”

After a too-long hesitation, he opened the door wider and ushered Tomasetti inside. “Is this an official visit?”

“Personal.” Tomasetti stepped into a foyer with twenty-foot-high ceilings, a crystal chandelier, and fieldstone floor. A curved mahogany staircase, its far wall adorned with oil paintings framed in gold leaf, beckoned the eyes to a railed balcony. Through a wide doorway, he could see into a living room, where a dozen or so people milled about, martini glasses held in elegant hands, curious eyes cast his way. Beyond, a wall of glass looked out over a brooding Lake Erie.

“Hell of a view,” Tomasetti said.

“My lawyer owns it now.”

“I guess he earned it.” He pretended to enjoy the vista. “I bet Vince Kinnamon is wishing he had as good a lawyer as you did.”

Ferguson stiffened at the mention of Kinnamon’s name. Word on the street was the men had once been partners. Tomasetti didn’t know that to be fact, but judging from the other man’s reaction, it was damn close. Ferguson motioned toward the hall. “We can talk in my study.”