The blare of a horn jerked him back to the present. Not giving himself time to debate, Tomasetti turned into the sleek blacktop driveway, pulled up to the call box, and pressed the button.

“Name?” came a youngish male voice.

“John Tomasetti,” he said.

“I don’t see you on the invitation list.”

“Ferguson will see me.”

They made him wait nearly ten minutes. Two cars crowded against his bumper—a vintage Jaguar and a Viper—the drivers looking put out and anxious to get at all the swag awaiting them inside. Tomasetti was considering turning around and leaving when the gate slid open.

The asphalt curved right, snaking through a forest of tall, winter-dead trees. The Viper swept past, the passenger sticking her hand out the window and flipping him off. Tomasetti caught a glimpse of long blond hair an instant before the sports car skidded around a rococo fountain, swept through a brick archway, and disappeared from view.

He parked behind a black Escalade with darkly tinted glass and got out. He barely noticed the rain as he started toward the tall double doors. He could smell the cold, wet air of the lake now. The earthy scent of rotting foliage and the bark nuggets surrounding the boxwoods and blue point junipers growing on either side of the front door. He’d just stepped onto the Italian tile of the porch when the door opened.

“I’ve got to hand it to you, Tomasetti. You’ve got balls showing up unannounced.”

“I like to keep things spontaneous.”

Joey Ferguson was thinner than he remembered. Tomasetti knew he was forty-six years old, but Ferguson looked closer to fifty.

“What do you want?” Ferguson asked.

“Just a quick chat.”

After a too-long hesitation, he opened the door wider and ushered Tomasetti inside. “Is this an official visit?”

“Personal.” Tomasetti stepped into a foyer with twenty-foot-high ceilings, a crystal chandelier, and fieldstone floor. A curved mahogany staircase, its far wall adorned with oil paintings framed in gold leaf, beckoned the eyes to a railed balcony. Through a wide doorway, he could see into a living room, where a dozen or so people milled about, martini glasses held in elegant hands, curious eyes cast his way. Beyond, a wall of glass looked out over a brooding Lake Erie.

“Hell of a view,” Tomasetti said.

“My lawyer owns it now.”

“I guess he earned it.” He pretended to enjoy the vista. “I bet Vince Kinnamon is wishing he had as good a lawyer as you did.”

Ferguson stiffened at the mention of Kinnamon’s name. Word on the street was the men had once been partners. Tomasetti didn’t know that to be fact, but judging from the other man’s reaction, it was damn close. Ferguson motioned toward the hall. “We can talk in my study.”

Tomasetti didn’t turn his back to him. Ferguson got the message and started down the hall first. They passed framed photographs of women and children in a sick parody of the all-American family. He was aware of the din of voices behind him. Ferguson walked a few feet ahead, and Tomasetti wondered if he could pull his weapon and shoot Ferguson in the back of the head before someone pulled out their piece and cut him down.

At the end of the hall, Ferguson opened a set of double doors that took them into a paneled study. The scent of woodsmoke and pipe tobacco met Tomasetti when he stepped inside. Mahogany hardwood shelves filled with thousands of books comprised three walls. The fourth offered another stunning view of the lake. A corner hearth crackled merrily, giving the room a warm glow. Despite his hatred for the man, Tomasetti was impressed.

Ferguson seemed completely at ease as he crossed to a bar, where crystal decanters sat atop gleaming mahogany. “Can I get you anything? Scotch? Or maybe you’re a bourbon man?”

Instead of taking one of the two visitor chairs, Tomasetti strode to the window and looked out at the lake, placing himself between Ferguson and the desk. “I don’t need anything from you.”

Ferguson tossed ice into a tumbler and poured amber liquid from a decanter. “You’re not going to do something you’ll regret later, are you?”

“I haven’t decided.”

Ferguson must have seen something in Tomasetti’s eyes because suddenly, he didn’t look quite so sure of himself. “A hasty decision at this point would be unfortunate for you.”

“It would be unfortunate for one of us.”

Making a sound of annoyance, Ferguson picked up the tumbler and threw back the alcohol in a single gulp. “So talk. I don’t have all night.”

“So, how is it that you get the six-thousand-square-foot mansion on the lake,” Tomasetti said breezily, “and Vince Kinnamon gets a trial with the possibility of life in prison?”

Ferguson smirked. “Don’t you love the criminal justice system?”

Tomasetti was across the room before the other man could set the glass down. Vaguely, he was aware of Ferguson’s eyes going wide. He took a step back, opened his mouth as if he couldn’t believe Tomasetti was actually going to cross the invisible line that had been drawn. Tomasetti slapped the glass from his hand. The tumbler thudded dully on the floor. He clamped his other hand around Ferguson’s throat, digging his fingers into the flesh, and shoved him against the bar.

“You cut a deal, Joey?” Tomasetti ground out. “Is that what you did?”

Ferguson clawed at Tomasetti’s hand. “Can’t … do … this,” he choked out. “You’re … cop.”

Crushing the other man’s throat with his fingers, Tomasetti leaned so close, he could smell the whiskey on his breath, the stink of fear coming off his skin. He could feel Ferguson’s pulse raging beneath his fingertips and he marveled at how easy it would be to kill him. He squeezed harder, long-buried rage driving him toward a precipice and inevitable drop.

Tomasetti put his mouth an inch from the other man’s ear. “I haven’t forgotten what you did.”

Ferguson made a strangled sound, his mouth gaping, tongue protruding. His face turned purple. Veins throbbed at his temples. He slapped at Tomasetti, but his blows were ineffective.

All Tomasetti could think was that he wanted him dead. Gone. In hell, where he belonged. It would be so easy to cross that line.

But this wasn’t like before. Far from it, because for the first time since the deaths of his wife and children, Tomasetti had something to lose. Thoughts of Kate and the life they’d built flashed in his mind. He knew if he took this any further, he would lose her and destroy everything he’d worked so hard to build.

Ferguson went slack. Tomasetti released him. The other man went to his knees, leaned forward, sucking in great gulps of air. “You son of a bitch,” he croaked.

Giving himself a hard mental shake, Tomasetti stepped back. He watched impassively as the other man got to his feet. He saw the imprint of his fingers on his throat, but there was no satisfaction. No sense of justice.

“You fuck.” Ferguson’s hands fluttered at his throat. His face was red. He was breathing hard, glaring at Tomasetti, murder in his eyes. “You’re a cop. You can’t come in here and assault me.”

“You’re right.” Tomasetti let his mouth twist into a smile. “I can’t.” He started toward the door.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ferguson snarled.

Tomasetti twisted the knob, let the door roll open. “Enjoy the rest of your party.”

CHAPTER 8

By the time I reach the station, the rain is pouring down so hard, I drive past my designated parking spot and have to back up to turn into it. Flipping up the hood of my jacket, I hightail it to the door. The interior is dry and smells of heated air and paper dust laced with nail polish. It’s after 5 P.M.; Despite my fatigue, I’d been entertaining thoughts of heading back to the farm, if only for a shower and to check on Tomasetti, but there are a few more things I need to tie up before I can call it a day.