Finally he said, “You know the part you said about the three of us knowing the situation with your brother?”

“Yes.”

“Make it the two of you,” he said.

“Did I say three? I meant two.”

Barone nodded his approval. “So listen carefully. I am authorizing that you investigate the Brennan murder; I feel it’s important that we dot every ‘i.’ I am unaware of any secondary motives that you and Emmit might have.”

“You’re a profile in courage,” I said.

He nodded. “It comes naturally.”

He was still doing me a big favor, and he and I both knew it. “Thanks, Captain.”

“Keep me posted,” he said. “Unofficially.”

Were Richard Carlton to describe the citizens of Brayton in one word, it would be “ungrateful.”

The Carlton family, through their auto parts manufacturing plant, had been employing almost a third of the town for close to sixty years. Without it, it was fair to say that Brayton would have ceased to exist, at least in its present form, a long time ago.

Yes, there had been some layoffs in recent years; that’s what struggling businesses do. But for the most part Carlton took care of its employees, and did as much as it could for them.

Richard Carlton, in his five years since inheriting the leadership role from his father, had continued the tradition. His was an open door, though one had to get through quite a few other doors to reach it. But he was going to do what was best for his company, and that in turn would benefit Brayton.

A win-win all around.

But now there was the opportunity for a huge win, a game changer. Carlton had purchased enormous tracts of land from the town of Brayton, for the purpose of someday building housing units. Since the town had not been thriving in recent years, there would have been no one to live in new housing, so it hadn’t yet been built.

Not long after, it was discovered that the land contained enormous shale deposits. Carlton had contacted Hanson Oil and Gas, a company that had become a leader in natural gas in the US by taking a preeminent position in the fracking industry. It was the wave of the energy future, seen by many as our key to independence from the Middle East.

Hanson’s chief engineer, Michael Oliver, conducted a study that confirmed the shale was porous enough, plentiful enough, and configured in such a way as to be a prime candidate for fracking. It was one of the largest and most promising finds ever, and Hanson immediately made a preemptive offer of three hundred and fifty million dollars for the land, contingent on legal approvals.

But outside environmental groups came in and spread fear within the Brayton community of water contamination and air pollution. The Mayor, Edward Holland, took up the fight, and as a lawyer actually handled the lawsuit himself. He chose to file in Federal rather than state court, on the assumption that it would be a more favorable venue for Brayton.

Not many legal analysts agreed with that decision, and Brayton lost in District Court. They then filed their appeal, and the results would be known soon. Holland had already privately indicated that a loss there would unfortunately be the end, that the town simply did not have the resources to pursue it further.

So for Carlton it was a waiting game, but he looked at the big picture. And the big picture contained a lot of money.

I was not looking forward to my conversation with Julie.

She was in the reception area waiting for me when I got off the elevator. I could see the tension on her face, but I couldn’t hear it in her voice, because she didn’t say a word. She just turned and started walking back to her office, a silent invitation for me to follow. It was as if she didn’t want to delay hearing whatever news I was about to deliver by engaging in idle chitchat, like saying “hello.”

We went into her office, and she closed the door behind us. “How did it go?” she asked.

“How did what go?”

“Didn’t you speak to Bryan?”

“No.”

She seemed confused. “You never heard from him? Then why are you here?”

“Julie, I’ve got something important to tell you; this goes way beyond the level of marital spat.”

“It was more than a spat, Luke.”

“Then this goes way beyond the level of marital earthquake.”

“What is it?” She took a deep breath, as if bracing herself for the news.

“Bryan has been kidnapped by the brother of the kid I shot.”

I watched as her mind tried to compute what I was saying. It was so unlike what she expected that it took her a few moments to process it, and even then it didn’t make sense. “What the hell are you talking about?”

I went on to tell her the story, exactly as I related it to Emmit. I watched her intently as I spoke; Julie watching is something I’ve spent a lot of time doing over the years. She seemed to go back and forth between horror-stricken wife and law enforcement professional. It was the latter I needed to help me.

Her first words when I finished were not the ones I wanted to hear. “We need to go to the FBI with this.”

“I’ve thought about that, Julie, but I don’t see the upside, at least now.”

“The upside is that maybe they’ll catch him; maybe they’ll save Bryan. How can you not see that?”

“Catching him doesn’t save Bryan; it probably does exactly the opposite.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Maybe you’re right, and we need to get as much information as we can about Chris Gallagher so we can make that judgment. But for now Bryan is alive, and our doing what Gallagher asks keeps him alive.”

“Maybe he’ll kill him…,” she said, as her voice cracked and I thought she was going to break down. But she pulled it together. “… No matter what we do.”

“If that’s the case, then Bryan is probably dead already.” When she reacted, I added, “I’m sorry, Julie, but that’s the truth.”

She nodded her understanding, but said, “We have knowledge of a crime, Luke. It needs to be reported.”

“I’m a cop; consider it reported.”

We talked about it some more, and she reluctantly agreed to go along with my approach. I was relieved, but not as much as I expected. I was not confident that I was right; I just couldn’t think of a better way to go. With my brother’s life on the line, I would have liked to have greater conviction.

“So what can I do?” she asked, the professional in her kicking into gear.

“Can you start gathering information on Chris Gallagher?”

“Of course,” she said. “And I know a judge advocate at Quantico. We worked on a case together last year; a Marine got into a fight at a rest stop off the Jersey Turnpike and killed a guy. I let the military handle it, so he owes me a favor.”

“Great; call it in,” I said. “We need to know who we’re dealing with.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to investigate a murder and pretend it’s not already solved.”

The door opened and I was looking straight ahead at a man’s chest.

I was at the late Judge Daniel Brennan’s house in Alpine, and I expected to be greeted by his wife, not a man who looked to be seven feet tall. But he obviously expected me, because the voice from up there asked, “Lieutenant Somers?”

I looked up. Way up. “Yes,” I said, to a face I recognized but in the moment couldn’t place.

He held out his hand. “Nate Davenport. Friends call me Ice.”

I shook his hand. We were just meeting for the first time, but I knew all about Nate “Ice Water” Davenport. He was the center for the Detroit Pistons in the late seventies and early eighties. He was one of the early big men who was also a great athlete; he could grab a defensive rebound and lead a fast break up court.

The “Ice Water” nickname came from the coolness that was said to run through his veins when it came time to take the key shot at the end of a game. He was a great clutch player, and though I wasn’t sure if he was in the Hall of Fame, he was certainly a candidate for it.