“Yes, your work at the BCI—that’s what I was hoping to pick your brain about.”

“Sure thing. Have a seat. Can I buy you a drink?”

Avery sat on the stool next to him and pointed at his drink. “What is that, bourbon?”

“Rum.”

“Rum?”

“The place is called the Rum House.”

“On the rocks?”

“It’s how good rum is meant to be enjoyed. Not ruined by mixing it with soda or Red Bull or whatever the hell the kids are doing these days. Can I entice you?”

“I’m a Tito’s and soda gal, if they even serve vodka at a rum bar.”

Avery waved down the bartender, who mixed the drink in record time and set it in front of her.

“So what’s your background?” Avery asked. “You made detective at twenty-eight and retired early?”

“Not exactly. After my stint with the BCI I actually moved on to the FBI.”

Avery had lifted her glass to take a sip but paused, with the rim of the glass an inch from her lips, at the mention of the FBI. Finally, she took a long swallow of vodka, shaking her head as she replaced her drink on the bar.

“How did I not know that?”

“You tell me. You’re the investigative journalist.”

Avery tried to process the idea that she was sitting in a bar with a member of the FBI, an agency that had a vested interest in her family.

“In your defense,” Walt said, breaking the silence, “my Bureau career was not what you’d call distinguished. It’s easy to miss. I basically pushed papers for a few years after 9/11 and I’m still not sure any of my efforts advanced the war on terror. Then I transferred to surveillance where I spent the remainder of my career.”

Surveillance, Avery thought. Not white-collar.

“So how did you manage to retire in your forties? Put your twenty in, and live happily ever after?”

“Not quite. I was injured on the job and was politely asked to step aside. I politely did.”

“Really. And now what?”

“I’m renting a house in Jamaica where I’ve spent the last few years. I try to come back to New York only when necessary. This city holds some tough memories and coming back always stirs them up.”