Turner, here in his office at nearly ten o’clock on a Saturday night, wore a light blue shirt and golden tie. His salt-and-pepper hair complemented a frankly handsome face of regular features, a strong jaw, an aristocratic nose. His voice, speaking on the phone, was businesslike and yet somehow soothing as he wound up the conversation. Now hanging up, he raised the wattage of his smile as he stood and came around the desk, extending his hand. “Mr. Hunt. Sorry to keep you waiting. Len Turner. Can I interest you in a good cup of espresso? I’m having some. Or water? Tea? A soft drink? Something stronger?”

“Espresso would be good,” Hunt said. “I was a little surprised to find you still working at this time of night.”

Turner nodded with a self-deprecating air. “A man who loves what he does never works a day in his life.”

“That’s a good way to look at it,” Hunt said.

“Have a seat,” Turner said, “and let me get this coffee going.” He put two demitasse cups under a double-spigot on the high-tech machine and pressed a button. In thirty seconds, he placed one of the cups in front of Hunt and took a seat with the other one across the table from him. “Now,” he said, holding his cup up in a toasting fashion, his face suddenly sober. “To Dominic.”

Hunt raised his own cup, nodded, and sipped.

“A terrible thing,” Turner said. “Terrible.”

“Did you know him well?”

“He was my closest friend.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Turner lifted his shoulders. “So when you mentioned what you wanted to talk about, naturally I thought it would be worthwhile to meet with you as soon as possible. I’ve been racking my brain to come up with some way to try to not only honor Dominic’s legacy and memory, but actually to help bring some closure to this horrible situation. When you mentioned a reward, it struck me as a singularly right gesture.”

“I’m glad to hear that. We thought it might be helpful to get more of the community involved if we could.”