“Do you know who owns that old barn over the hill?” Griff inquired, as Mrs. Butler carried another laundry basket through the kitchen. “It looks abandoned.”

“It is abandoned. That’s the old Jensen place. The bank foreclosed on them about five years ago. They’ve never been able to sell the property.”

In other words, anyone in the area—or from the area—might know about the barn. Would know it was a handy place to stash someone or something. Griff was grateful that whoever had attacked him had not tied him up—or hit him harder. It was a warning. Not a friendly warning, but not as unfriendly as burying him in the meadow.

It was after eight when Pierce finally arrived, and Griff had never been happier to see anyone.

Pierce looked as unruffled as ever, as though driving halfway across the state to pick up his co-conspirator was business as usual. He wore jeans, a white T-shirt and a leather jacket, so maybe he didn’t work on Fridays. It was the first time Griff had seen him in casual clothes, and he liked the look of this more approachable, human-seeming Pierce.

“Whoa,” Pierce said, getting his first glimpse of Griff. “Didn’t you see the tank coming?”

“No, I sure didn’t.” Griff took his leave of the unflappable Mrs. Butler and followed Pierce out to his car, a silver Porsche Boxster. The beauty of the car almost, though not entirely, distracted him from all his aches and pains, both physical and mental.

“So what the hell happened to you?” Pierce asked as the Porsche purred into life like a well-fed cat waking from a pleasant nap. “Don’t tell me you got into a brawl. That would surprise me.”

“I was checking into Alvin’s last-known address. Someone came up from behind and clocked me.”

Pierce threw him a quick, disbelieving look. “You were knocked out?”

Griff cautiously felt the front of his head. “A little.”

“You were a little knocked out? What does that mean?”

“It means I have a very hard head.”

“That I don’t doubt. Did you see who hit you?”

“No. I have a pretty good idea though.”

Pierce looked away from the road again. “Who?”

“When I was checking out Alvin’s LKA, I crossed paths with a pal of his. I think there’s a chance he called Alvin after I left and Alvin told him to follow me.”

Pierce’s attention seemed to be on the dusty road. He said finally, “When you say ‘checking into’...?”

“Don’t ask. You don’t want to know.”

The Porsche’s headlights swept along the dirt road, picking out the occasional rock or shrub.

Pierce said without inflection, “You do realize we both have to be very careful? You can’t break the law. No matter how promising the lead, no matter how tempting the opportunity.”

“I know.”

“I have a professional responsibility to report a crime.”

“I know.”

“Please don’t put me in the position where I have to—”

“Pierce.”

Pierce fell silent. After a moment, he reached for the stick, and the Porsche thrummed its pleasure as the throttle opened wide and they merged onto the main highway. The starry night slid by in a blur.

Griff said wearily, “Anyway, it was a waste of time. That part of it. But I spoke to Alvin’s ex-girlfriend, and she had an interesting story to tell.”

“You found his ex-girlfriend? In one afternoon?”

“I did, yeah.”

“I have to say, I’m impressed.”

“Thanks, but that was mostly luck.” Griff filled Pierce in on everything Clotilde had shared about Alvin’s past. “So if it is a scam, it’s not one he’s been planning for a long time.”

“If?”

“I don’t know,” Griff said wearily. “Everything I learned today confirms for me that he’s not Brian. But at the same time, you have to admit there are some odd consistencies to his story.”

“Like what?”

“He was in foster care.”

“Lots of kids are in foster care, unfortunately.”

“True.” The unfortunately reminded Griff of something Diana had said, something he’d almost missed in the drama of the moment. “Diana said you do a lot of pro bono work for the elderly?”

“I don’t know if I do a lot of it. I do pro bono work, yes.” Pierce’s tone was wry. “Is that a shock? Will you be equally stunned to learn I also work with at-risk teens?”

“Doing what?”

“I’m on the advisory board of the Youth Court program and I’m active in the Mentoring Partnership of Long Island.”

When Griff didn’t answer at once, Pierce said, “Just because I’m not always a nice guy doesn’t mean I’m never a nice guy.”

* * *

They found Griff’s car on Fourth Avenue right where he had left it. His keys were in the ignition and his cell phone and wallet were on the seat.

“That was thoughtful,” Pierce remarked, when Griff returned to the Porsche to report his find.

“And a good way to make sure there’s no incentive for the police to follow up.”

“It would be hard for you to report this anyway.” Pierce added, “I assume.”

Griff grimaced. “No comment.”

“Are you sure you can drive?”

“I’m fine. Just tired.”

“I’ll follow you, so if you decide you don’t have the energy to make it all the way back to Long Island, just signal and pull over.”

Griff nodded. Pierce kept surprising him. Just when he had been sure Pierce was a completely ruthless bastard, Pierce had suddenly become human. Even likable.

“I think you should come back to my place tonight. Just in case you do have a concussion. We can talk over our next move.” Pierce’s words were practical, but his tone was just a little too casual. Griff tried and failed to read his face in the light cast by the street lamp.

“If you think it’s a good idea,” he said, trying to sound equally offhand.

“Yeah, I do.”

“Okay. See you there.”

It was a long drive, though, and it felt even longer given Griff’s pounding headache. By the time they reached Pierce’s, he was bone tired and wanting nothing as much as he wanted to lie down and close his eyes.

Pierce took a good look at him and seemed to recognize that fact. He tossed his keys on a small table in the long empty entrance hall and clamped one hand on Griff’s shoulder, steering him toward the staircase. “Come on. We’ll figure out our strategy in the morning.”

Griff preceded Pierce upstairs. They reached the bedroom, Pierce snapped on the light. Griff took a good look at the room and laughed.

The first night he’d been too preoccupied to notice the room. Now that he had a good look at it, it was enormous, with all the warmth and ambiance of a football field. Positioned against one wall was a king-sized bed and, across from the bed, seeming about a mile away, a fireplace. There was a large flat screen TV over the fireplace. At the far end of the room was a chest of drawers. That was it. Minimal furniture and no art.

“What?” Pierce asked.

“Do you play handball in here?” Griff moved past him, walking down the long, gleaming stretch of oak flooring.

Pierce looked around the room. “How much furniture do you need in a bedroom?”

“How much acreage do you need for a bedroom?” He’d seen men’s shops that weren’t as large as Pierce’s walk-in closet. He peered inside. “How many suits do you own?”

“Fourteen.”

“Fourteen suits?” Griff stared. “You don’t think that’s extreme?”

Pierce seemed to consider. “Not for my line of work, no. If I spent my days running around breaking into people’s houses, then I might not need so many suits. But my job is to try and make sure the people who break into other people’s property don’t go to jail. So I wear suits.”

Griff sat on the foot of the bed. “You’re not a criminal lawyer.”

“I’m not. That’s true.”

The last burst of adrenaline that had kept Griff up and moving trickled away. He closed his eyes, wondering what Pierce would do if he just fell back on the mattress and began to snore.

The mattress sank as Pierce sat down next to him. “Here. Let me see.”