It took over an hour to walk back to Midtown, but she needed the time and the solitude to clear her mind of the memories stirred up from her visit to North Cove Marina. It was almost six in the evening when she walked over to Seventh Avenue and turned on West Forty-Seventh Street. She found THE RUM HOUSE painted on the front window of the establishment, pulled open the door, and walked inside. Avery spotted him before he noticed her. Sitting on a stool, his right hand twisted a tumbler on the bar in front of him while his left hand rubbed a spot in the middle of his chest. Avery’s research told her that this man had been just twenty-eight years old when he ran the Cameron Young investigation. That put him in his forties today, but from this distance and with the shadowed lighting of the bar darkening his features, he looked younger. On second glance, as she approached, Avery thought she had the wrong man. But no, she was looking at detective Walt Jenkins. He just didn’t look much different than the photos she had seen of him from 2001, when his face appeared in the newspaper articles she had read and the archived footage of press conferences she had watched online. He could pass for his midthirties and had the sort of appearance that made Daniel Craig attractive—short-cropped hair blended into tight sideburns, smile lines that bracketed his lips, which were creased now as he considered his drink, and the early presence of crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. He looked up from his drink as Avery walked up. When they made eye contact, she saw that his irises were a sort of ice blue that on first glance could be mistaken for gray.

Avery sensed that he recognized her. Celebrity had never been something she sought, quite the contrary since she fled New York City. But fame had somehow found her. Millions tuned in to American Events each week, so it was inevitable that she was often recognized. Walt Jenkins lifted his chin, which Avery noticed was cleft in the middle, and offered a smile. His teeth were straight and white and contrasted against his tanned complexion. Avery reached out her hand.

“Detective Jenkins?” she said.

He raised an eyebrow as he shook her hand. “Now that sounds strange. I haven’t been called Detective for years. Walt Jenkins.”

“Hi, Walt. Avery Mason. I read that you’re retired, which is hard to believe. You don’t look old enough. I mean, you don’t come off as a retiree.”

“I’m not a card-carrying member of AARP just yet, but I am most definitely retired from detective work. For many, many years now.”

“With the NYPD?”

“No, I was never with NYPD. Back when I was a cop, I worked for New York State and the Bureau of Criminal Investigation.”