The gate began to open.
“Follow the drive,” the bald man said.“Don’t wander.”
Connor put the cruiser in gear.“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
The road beyond the gate climbed through woodland, then opened into a wide slope of cut grass.A large white house sat at the top, clapboard sides bright against the trees.Wide porches wrapped around two levels.Green shutters framed tall windows.From a distance, it could have belonged to an old judge, a tobacco baron, or a family that liked to pretend money had come to them politely.
The walls around the property had already hidden the world.Out here, the town did not exist unless Mr.Morimer allowed it to.
Connor parked at the foot of the front steps.
Two men came down before he had closed the driver’s door.One was older, with silver hair trimmed close and a linen shirt that looked too clean for the job.The other was younger, heavier through the arms, his expression set in a way that suggested patience was not among his gifts.
The older one nodded.“Afternoon, Sheriff.”
Connor nodded back.“Afternoon.”
“You’ll understand Mr.Morimer wants me to search you.”
“I figured.”
“Hands on the hood, please.”
Connor placed both hands on the cruiser’s hood and looked out across the lawn while they worked.The younger man patted him down with professional speed.Wallet.Keys.Radio.Phone.The cash came out last.
The man paused when the bundle appeared.
Six thousand dollars looked even worse in someone else’s hand.
The older man glanced at it, then at Connor.No smile.No question.He returned the money to Connor’s pocket as if it were expected.
“Your gun,” he said.
Connor straightened slowly and removed his sidearm.The weapon felt heavier leaving his hand than it should have.He passed it over grip first.
The younger man took it and stepped back.
“Anything else?”the older man asked.
“No.”
“We’ll keep the gun safe.”
“I’ll hold you to that.”
No one smiled.
They led him up the steps and through the front door.
Inside, the house smelled of polished wood, cut flowers, and money old enough to have learned manners.The entry hall held framed landscapes, a long table with a silver bowl, and a staircase that curved up to a balcony.Connor heard no television, no music, no raised voices.Only the soft pad of shoes and the low hum of an air-conditioning system hidden somewhere expensive.
They walked him through to the rear of the house and out onto a shaded porch.
Beyond the railing, the land dropped into woodland.The river shone in pieces between trees below.A ceiling fan moved overhead, stirring warm air without improving it much.
An elderly man sat in a wicker chair near the far end of the porch, reading a newspaper folded in half.A glass of lemonade rested on the side table beside him.He wore a pale seersucker suit, a white shirt, and no tie.His skin had the delicate thinness of age, but nothing else about him looked frail.
Mr.Morimer lowered the paper.
