“I know Miles, who works the day shift at the bar,” Edwards said. “I texted him a photo of Leeds. He said he hasn’t been in there today and Miles would know. The place is pretty much dead until happy hour.”

“Did Leeds mention the reporter’s name?” asked Grant. “Monte Ferguson?”

He had tried Ferguson’s cell the second Edwards had mentioned the phone call Leeds had received. It had gone directly to voice mail.

“Nope. I just told him how to get there, then wished him good luck. Figure he had it coming after doing his thirty in Sing Sing.”

Frankel’s expression tightened. “The man murdered his folks in cold blood.”

“And served his time,” said Chet. The ex-con’s voice had turned serious. “Everyone deserves a second chance,” said the thrice-convicted thief. “Hell. I’m working on my fourth.”

Timothy opened his eyes, then immediately shut them again.

Sand was pouring inside his eyeballs.

He tried to open his mouth to scream but it was covered in duct tape. Trying to move his arms produced a similar result—they had been pulled behind his back and tied together with a tightly-knotted rope.

He was being dragged across a stretch of white sand. Ironically, it might have been the same piece of shoreline he’d been admiring just a short time before.

“Ah, you’re back with us,” came the now-familiar British voice that Timothy finally understood he never should have trusted.

The man pulled Timothy to his feet. Totally immobilized and still hurting from the sucker punch to the face, Timothy had no choice but to yield to his captor.

The man was a whole lot stronger than he looked.

Not that Timothy had gotten a good bead on him. His brain was really scrambled.

As the sand blew away and his eyes cleared, Timothy saw the massive building he was being shoved toward. It resembled a beached gray whale crossbred with one of those alien ships in that movie Independence Day someone with a warped sense of humor showed every Fourth of July back in the joint.

As if the broken-out widows and dead landscaping surrounding a structure that looked ready to topple any second weren’t enough, a sign near the rickety building entrance sealed the deal.

Condemned! Stay Out! This Means You!

It might as well have read “Abandon All Hope Ye Who Enter Here.”

Though Timothy’s screams were muffled by the duct tape, it didn’t stop him from continuing to try and be heard.

Until his captor punched him in the head again.

Miles, the thirtyish bartender at Connolly’s, was blond and looked like he belonged permanently atop the surfboard he took out at dawn and dusk. There had only been three customers that morning—a young couple looking to wet their whistles shortly before noon that Miles carded and sent thirstily on their way, and an older woman who had gotten lost looking for Coney Island.