“You’re a relative, but you’ve never seen him, you’re not sure of his name, and you believe he was somewhere in Dutchess County about thirteen years ago.”

“You’re on top of the situation already.”

A heavily swathed man Colby assumed was Symian walked in from the reception area and gave Dorn a nod. “Just them,” he said, in a raspy whisper. He wore gloves, his hat was too big and his raincoat collar and a scarf hid much of his face. Colby noticed that under the brim’s shadow, where the whites of the man’s eyes should be, they were egg-yolk yellow.

“The file,” Dorn ordered.

Symian placed a portable flash drive on the desk.

“Is this kid in witness protection?” Colby asked. “Those FBI guys are hard to crack.”

“Why would they be involved?” Dorn asked.

“Well, I assume… the mother took off with the kid because she didn’t want him raised in a ‘connected’ family.”

Dorn laughed. “A compliment, Mr. Dretch. Alas, I do not bear the honor of belonging to that distinguished group.”

Colby was amused. After years on the job, he knew a thug when he saw one. If Dorn hired him for his scruples as he claimed, then he’d also know working for organized crime posed no problem.

“I guess that’s not important, as long as your money is good,” Colby said.

“Shall we secure his commitment, my lord?” Symian asked.

“And your loyalty, Colby, how do we ensure that?” Dorn’s tone changed, making the previous conversation until now seem almost jovial. “Are we to trust you with our secrets?” Dorn’s voice exuded a deep severity.

For the first time, the detective wondered if he was in over his head. He wished he’d replaced the clip in the Beretta sitting in his bottom drawer.

Colby took a deep breath and convinced himself he had the upper hand. After all, if other detectives had failed before him, and they went out of their way to hire an indicted, unlicensed detective, he must be exactly what they need.