Oh, baby, it fit nicely, satisfying motives of passion and greed simultaneously.

Puncturing that balloon? Logistically, the theory was sexy, and completely wrong. Sean Pruitt had prepared himself for the end. I couldn’t figure a way around his wedding band and the photo. Their existence was the ghostly arrow pointing toward confirmation of the police verdict; suicide and heaps of misery for his family, and for me, the dog chasing his own tail. The “why” of Sean Pruitt’s death, rather than the “how,” had usurped precedence in my theories.

The rest of the evidence was tantalizing, albeit inconclusive. Sean P’s security clearance would’ve permitted him unfettered access to a jeep and Shaft 40. According to an internal memo, the security camera at the main entrance had malfunctioned the evening of the incident and three of four evenings prior. A second memo further stated that the security system, including CCTV, hadn’t received an upgrade since it was installed and frequently ran dark. This raised the possibly uncharitable point that Sean Pruitt’s friend and fellow security officer definitely knew cameras well enough to sabotage one, or a string of them.

By now, second on my wish list to a heart-to-heart with Linda Flanagan, I’d become eager to meet the elusive Danny Buckhalter.

■■■

I flew to Northern California out of Albany. Business class, thank you, Mr. Adeyemi. Six and a half hours’ flight time was more than my back would happily tolerate in coach. They seated me next to an evangelical preacher with a dirty sense of humor and pristine white sneakers. I remarked that his shoes were Revelation shoes because they were so pale. He laughed and paid for my drink.

Somewhere over the Midwest I attended the lavatory, then stood for a few moments at the threshold between classes. A passenger in coach, aisle seat, five rows down, triggered my early-warning radar as he returned from a bathroom trip at the opposite end of the plane. His bearing and movement were different from a regular person’s—predators recognize their own kind. He’d made inadvertent eye contact, which caused him to glance away quickly. I chatted with the nearest hostess—who was contractually obligated to pretend an interest in kibitzing with upper-tier patrons—while assessing the man. Lantern-jawed. Long neck and hands. Pale gray long-sleeve dress shirt, chocolate brown tie, gray chinos, and brogues. Ichabod emulated my own ruse and struck up a patently phony conversation with a guy in a Hawaiian shirt in the center seat. Satisfied from Hawaiian Shirt’s body language that the men weren’t together, I palmed my phone and took a picture. Seated again, I ordered a scotch and soda and emailed the images to Lionel and explained I’d originally met Ichabod at the Redlick estate. Lionel replied almost an hour later that yeah, he might be the guy who’d driven the car chasing us in Horseheads. I downed my scotch and ordered another. That did the trick; I relaxed a notch or two beneath “spring-loaded” and dozed. While traveling, never forgo the opportunity to eat, drink, or sleep.