“Hi. I’m Colby Dretch. Take a chair, please.”

“Dorn,” the blond man said, waiting a moment before accepting the detective’s hand and taking the seat on the other side of the desk. He failed to introduce his silent colleagues.

Colby noticed a trace of an accent, but couldn’t place it. Dorn exuded confidence, like someone raised in an exclusive Northeastern boarding school; the kind with crested jackets and ties, where teachers lived in fear of their students. He took his seat behind the desk. The others in the room chose to remain standing. Colby lit a cigarette and offered one to Dorn. Dorn politely declined.

“What does someone with your kind of money want with a broken-down detective like me?” Colby asked. “Did Pinkerton go under?”

Dorn studied the autographed celebrity photos around the room; Colby knew they looked impressive, even through the dust. Dorn picked up a framed photo of the detective and his boy. “Your son?” he asked.

In happier days, Colby thought. He was unimpressed with Dorn’s forward style. “His name’s Tory.” He waited for Dorn to put the photo down before continuing. “I should tell you, I’m suspended from practicing for the time being. A small disagreement with the district attorney’s office.”

“Your abilities are still intact?” Dorn inquired.

“Yeah. As long as we keep things on the down low, keep it strictly cash, it shouldn’t be a problem.” Carla was right. These guys were oddballs. Anyone with common sense would have walked out already.

Dorn pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to Colby. It was a long list of names with short descriptions of age and race, some of them various versions of the same name spelled different ways: Cal MacDonnell/McDonnell, Callum MacDonnell/McDonnell… et cetera.