Larry claimed that he did not use his real name with Kimberly. The site did a fairly good job of keeping the men’s identities a secret. Sure, Kimberly might recognize him if his picture ended up in the paper, but they’d already decided to now make Larry the shy CEO and let the president do all the press when the IPO officially came out. And if she did make trouble later on, well, Kuntz would figure a way to handle it then.

Larry stood and started doing a drunk-stagger pace. “How did these people know about me?” he whined. “The site is anonymous.”

“You had to pay for the services, right?”

“Yes, sure, with a credit card.”

“Someone has to run the card, Larry. That’s how they knew.”

“And someone told Kimberly’s mom about this?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think, Larry?”

“Blackmail?”

“Bingo.”

“So let’s just pay them.”

Kuntz had considered that, but one, they hadn’t yet approached them for anything, and two, it left too many loose ends. Blackmailers, especially ones who had a certain brand of fanaticism, were not reliable or trustworthy. He hadn’t known enough about the threat when he first arrived in Ohio. What he did know was that Heidi Dann had been devastated by the news that her daughter had taken up something akin to prostitution. She knew the aliases of the johns, but luckily, she hadn’t discussed that with her daughter. After some persuasion, Heidi had told Kuntz about the young couple approaching her outside Red Lobster. Kuntz had flashed his credentials at some kid who worked in the restaurant’s security office, gotten the video of the young couple talking to Heidi, written down the license plate.

From there, it’d been easy. He got the name Lauren Barna from the rental car agency and connected it to Ingrid Prisby. Then he ran a trace on her credit card and found her staying at a motel near the Delaware Water Gap.

“So is that it?” Larry asked. “It’s over, right?”

“Not yet.”

“No more bloodshed. Please? I don’t care if we lose the IPO. You can’t hurt anyone else.”

“You hurt your wife.”

“What?”

“Cheating on her. You hurt her, right?”

Larry opened his mouth, closed it, tried again. “But . . . I mean, she’s not dead. You can’t compare the two.”

“Sure I can. You hurt someone you love, yet you worry about strangers who are out to harm you.”

“You’re talking murder, John.”

“I’m not talking anything, Larry. You are. I heard that Kimberly’s mom died from a breaking and entering. That’s a good thing, because if someone did her harm—say, someone who worked for you—that person could easily cut a deal and say he was just a hired hand. Are you following me?”

Larry said nothing.

“You got any other messes I need to clean up, Larry?”

“No,” he said softly. “Nothing.”

“Good. Because nothing is going to stop this IPO from coming together. You understand that?”

He nodded.

“Now stop drinking, Larry. Pull yourself together.”

Chapter 41

With the two cops still standing at their door, Thomas and Ryan surprised Adam. They didn’t protest or offer any resistance. They just quickly grabbed their stuff and got ready to go. They made a production of hugging and kissing their father good-bye. When Len Gilman smiled, slapped Ryan on the back, and said, “Your dad is just helping us with something,” Adam managed not to roll his eyes. He told his boys not to worry and that he’d contact them the moment he knew what was up.

When the boys were gone, Adam walked down the path to the police cruiser. He wondered what the neighbors would think, but he really didn’t give a crap. He tapped Len Gilman on the shoulder and said, “If this is about that stupid lacrosse money—”

“It’s not,” Len said, his voice a door slamming shut.

They didn’t talk during the drive. Adam sat in the back. The other cop—young guy, hadn’t introduced himself—drove, while Len Gilman sat in the passenger seat. Adam had figured they were headed to the Cedarfield police station on Godwin Road, but when they hit the highway, he realized that they were heading into Newark. They took Interstate 280 and pulled up to the county sheriff’s office on West Market Street.

The car stopped. Len Gilman stepped out. Adam reached for the door handle, but there weren’t any in the backseat of cop cars. He waited and let Len open the door for him. He stepped out. The car drove off.

“Since when do you work for the county?” Adam asked.

“They asked for a favor.”

“What’s going on, Len?”

“Just some questions, Adam. More than that, I can’t tell you.”

Len led him through the door and down a corridor. They entered an interrogation room.

“Have a seat.”

“Len?”

“What?”

“I’ve been on the other side of this, so do me a favor. Don’t make me wait too long, okay? It won’t make me cooperative.”

“Duly noted,” Len said, closing the door behind him.

But he didn’t listen. After Adam had sat there alone for an hour, he got up and pounded on the door. Len Gilman opened it. Adam spread his arms and said, “Really?”

“We aren’t playing with you,” Len said. “We’re just waiting for someone.”

“Who?”

“Give us fifteen minutes.”

“Fine, but let me take a piss.”

“No problem. I’ll escort—”

“No, Len, I’m here voluntarily. I’ll go to the bathroom by myself like a big boy.”

He did his business, came back, sat in the chair, played with his smartphone. He checked his texts again. Andy Gribbel had taken care of clearing his morning schedule. Adam looked at the address for Gabrielle Dunbar. She lived right near the center of Fair Lawn.

Would she be able to lead him to the stranger?

The interrogation room door finally opened. Len Gilman came in first, followed by a woman Adam would guess was in her early fifties. Her pantsuit was a hue that could best be described as institutional green. Her shirt collar was too long and pointy. Her hair was what they called wash-and-wear—a sort of brown shag-mullet that reminded Adam of hockey players in the seventies.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” the woman said.

Her accent was slight, maybe Midwestern—definitely not New Jersey. She had a rawboned face, the kind that reminded you of farmhands and square dances.

“My name is Johanna Griffin.”

She reached out with a big hand. He shook it.

“I’m Adam Price, but I assume you know that.”

“Please sit.”

They sat across the table from each other. Len Gilman leaned against a far corner, trying like all get-out to look casual.

“Thanks for coming in this morning,” Johanna Griffin said.

“Who are you?” Adam asked.

“Pardon me?”

“I assume you have a rank or . . .”

“I’m a police chief,” she said. Then, after giving it some thought, “From Beachwood.”

“I don’t know Beachwood.”

“It’s in Ohio. Near Cleveland.”

Adam hadn’t expected that. He sat and waited for her to continue.

Johanna Griffin put a briefcase on the desk and snapped it open. She reached inside, and as she pulled out a photograph, she asked, “Do you know this woman?”

She slid the photograph across the table. It was an unsmiling head shot against a plain backdrop, probably off a driver’s license. It took Adam a second, no more, to recognize the blond woman. He had seen her only once and it was dark and from a distance and she’d been driving a car. But he knew right away.

Still he hesitated.

“Mr. Price?”

“I might know who she is.”

“Might?”

“Yes.”

“And who might she be?”

He wasn’t sure what to say here. “Why are you asking me this?”

“It’s just a question.”

“Yeah, and I’m just an attorney. So tell me why you want to know.”

Johanna smiled. “So that’s how you want to play it.”