Gerard started toward the farmhouse. Again he noticed the green shades. There was a barn to his right. The dog—yep, it was definitely a chocolate Lab—sat in front of it, patiently watching. Behind the dog, Gerard could see the corner of what looked like a gray buggy for a horse. Hmm. Gerard also spotted a windmill. That made sense. These were clues. He didn’t know what they added up to—or maybe he did and that just made the situation even more confusing—but for now, he just let the clues sink in.

He walked up the two porch steps and hesitated by the open door. He took a deep breath and stepped into the front foyer. The living room was to his left. The man with the long hair sat in a big chair. His sunglasses were off now. His eyes were brown and bloodshot. Tattoos covered his forearms. Gerard studied them, trying to form a mental photograph, hoping for a hint as to who the man might be. But the tattoos were simple designs. They told him nothing.

“My name is Titus.” There was a lilt in the man’s voice. Something silvery and soft and almost fragile. “Please sit down.”

Gerard moved into the room. The man named Titus pinned him down with his eyes. Gerard sat. Another man, what one might call a hippie, entered the room. He wore a colorful dashiki, a knit cap, and pink-tinted glasses. He sat at the desk in a corner and opened a MacBook Air. All MacBook Airs look alike, of course, which was why Gerard had put a small piece of black tape on the top of his.

The black tape was there.

Gerard frowned. “What’s going on? Where’s Vanessa—”

“Shh,” Titus said.

The sound sliced through the air like a reaper’s scythe.

Titus turned to the hippie with the laptop. The hippie nodded at him and said, “Ready.”

Gerard almost asked, “Ready for what?” but the sound of that shush still kept him silent.

Titus turned back to Gerard and smiled. It was the single most frightening sight Gerard Remington had ever seen.

“We have some questions for you, Gerard.”

Chapter 6

Fishkill Correctional Facility’s original name was the Matteawan State Hospitial for the Criminally Insane. That was in the 1890s. It remained, in one capacity or another, a state hospital for the mentally ill until the 1970s, when courts made it harder to arbitrarily commit those deemed insane. Now Fishkill was labeled a medium-security prison, though it had everything from minimum-security work-release prisoners to a maximum-security S Block.

Located in Beacon, New York, nestled somewhat picturesquely between the Hudson River and the Fishkill Ridge, the original brick building still greeted you upon arrival. With the razor wire and the disrepair, the place looked like an Ivy League campus by way of Auschwitz.

Kat used professional courtesy and her gold badge to get past most of the security. In the NYPD, cops on the street had a silver badge. Detectives had the gold. Her badge number, 8115, had belonged to her father.

An elderly nurse, dressed completely in white with a vintage nurse’s cap, stopped her at the hospital wing. Her makeup was garish—deep blue eye shadow, neon-red lipstick—and looked as though someone had melted crayons onto her face. She smiled too sweetly, the lipstick on her teeth. “Mr. Leburne has requested no visitors.”

Kat flashed the badge again. “I just want to see him”—she spotted a name tag reading SYLVIA STEINER, RN—“Nurse Steiner.”

Nurse Steiner grabbed the gold badge, took her time reading it, then looked up to study Kat’s face. Kat kept her expression neutral.

“I don’t understand. Why are you here?”

“He killed my father.”

“I see. And you want to see him suffer?”

There was no judgment in Nurse Steiner’s voice. It was as if this would be the most natural thing in the world.

“Uh, no. I’m here to ask him some questions.”

Nurse Steiner took one more look at the badge and handed it back. “This way, my dear.”

The voice was melodic and angelic and downright creepy. Nurse Steiner led her into a room with four beds. Three were empty. In the fourth, the one in the far right corner, Monte Leburne lay with his eyes closed. In his day, Leburne had been a big, beefy bruiser of a man. If a crime involved a need for physical violence or intimidation, Monte Leburne had been the meathead to call. An ex-heavyweight boxer who’d definitely taken a few too many shots to the head, Leburne had used his fists (and more) in loan-sharking, extortion, turf wars, union busting, you name it. After a rival family gave him a particularly brutal beating, his mob bosses—who respected Leburne’s brand of loyalty because it was so akin to stupidity—had given him a gun and let him work the physically less demanding task of shooting their enemies.

In short, Monte Leburne had become a mid-level hit man. He wasn’t bright or clever, but really, when you stopped and thought about it, how smart did you have to be to shoot a man with a gun?

“He’s in and out,” Nurse Steiner explained.

Kat moved toward the bed. Nurse Steiner stayed a few paces behind her. “Could you give us some privacy?” Kat asked.

The sweet smile. The creepy, melodic voice: “No, dear, I can’t.”

Kat looked down at Leburne, and for a moment, she searched herself for some sign of compassion for the man who killed her father. If it was there, it was pretty well hidden. Most days, her hatred for this man was red-hot, but some days, she realized that it was like hating a gun. He was the weapon. Nothing more.

Of course, weapons should be destroyed too, right?

Kat put her hand on Leburne’s shoulder and gave him a gentle shake. Leburne’s eyes blinked open.

“Hello, Monte.”

It took a moment for his eyes to focus in on Kat’s face. When they did—when he recognized her—his body went stiff. “You’re not supposed to be here, Kat.”

Kat reached into her pocket and took out a photograph. “He was my father.”

Leburne had seen the photograph plenty of times before. Whenever she visited him, Kat brought it. She wasn’t sure why. Part of her hoped to reach him, but men who execute people are rarely subjected to bouts of regret. Maybe she brought it for herself somehow, to steel her own resolve, to have, in some odd way, her own father as backup.

“Who wanted him dead? It was Cozone, wasn’t it?”

Leburne kept the back of his head flat on the pillow. “Why do you keep asking me the same questions?”

“Because you never answer them.”

Monte Leburne smiled up at her with peglike teeth. Even at this distance, she could smell the decay on his breath. “And what, are you hoping for a deathbed confession?”

“There’s no reason not to tell the truth now, Monte.”

“Sure there is.”

He meant his family. That was his price, of course. Stay quiet and we will take care of your family. Open your mouth and we will hack them into small pieces.

The ultimate carrot and stick.

This had always been the problem for her. She had nothing to offer him.

You didn’t have to be a doctor to realize that Monte Leburne didn’t have much time left. Death had already nestled into a cozy spot and started clawing its way to inevitable victory. Monte’s entire being was sunken, as though he’d eventually disappear into the bed and then the floor and then, poof, completely vanish. She stared now at his right hand—his gun hand—loaded up with fat, loose veins that looked like old garden hoses. The IV was attached near his wrist.

He gritted his teeth as a fresh wave of pain coursed through. “Go,” he managed to say.

“No.” Kat could feel her last chance slipping away. “Please,” she said, trying to keep the pleading from her voice. “I need to know.”

“Go away.”

Kat leaned closer. “Listen, okay? This is just for me. Do you understand? It’s been eighteen years. I have to know the truth. That’s all. For closure. Why did he order the hit on my father?”