“My brother’s a lawyer in Jonesboro.”

“We know. He specializes in bankruptcy and doesn’t know beans about criminal law.”

She stared at Rumke, then she stared at Ritter. Both were about thirty, cocky, smug, and they knew everything and she knew nothing. They had the power to slap the cuffs on her wrists and march her out the front door, on display for all her patients and coworkers to see. She also had four kids at home, the oldest being eleven, and the idea of their mother sitting in jail was overwhelming. She began to cry.

The following day, Laurie went to the pharmacy during lunch and lifted a bottle of E3 capsules. She chatted with the pharmacist and learned that the vitamins and supplements arrived by overnight shipment once a week from a company warehouse in Texas. The controlled substances were hand-delivered each Wednesday morning by a courier from Little Rock.

Rumke and Ritter alternated their visits to collect the evidence. They were working eleven other nursing homes in northeastern Arkansas. The task force was targeting a hundred Grattin facilities in fifteen states, and after the first month not a word had leaked up to the headquarters in Houston.

2.

The burner rattled for the first time in a week, and Bruce stepped into his office to chat with Dane. She was in Houston, skipping a yoga class and waiting on a friend for lunch. The big news was that she had seen a divorce lawyer the day before and the first visit went well. She was in no hurry to file, though she was sick of living in the same house with Ken Reed, who was seldom at home. The daunting issue was strategy. Did she have the guts to allege adultery and go through the nightmare of trying to prove it, and risk a long ugly court case? She wasn’t sure. If the plans fell into place, Mr. Reed and his company would soon be drowning in all manner of litigation, both civil and criminal.

Bruce knew little about the FBI’s investigation and had no idea about when to expect big news. An agent in Washington called once a week with a five-minute update that was a waste of time.

“I really worry about you, Bruce,” Dane said. “You’re just so vulnerable, just sitting there in your little store where anyone can find you.”

“And do what? Gun me down in the streets? What would Reed and his boys gain by coming after me? They can’t stop the publication. They tried that with Nelson, which, the more you think about it the dumber it gets. The guy was writing a novel that was complete fiction. Reed finds out about it and assumes that when people read the book they’re going to automatically assume he based it on Grattin and their Medicare scam gets uncovered. Kind of a stretch, right?”

“No. Reed didn’t know the book was fiction. He thought Nelson was writing an exposé, a real story about his company.”

“Still, killing him scored no points for the bad guys. The book was finished.”

“They’re nasty people, Bruce. And they are desperate. I think Ken sees it all slipping away.”

“I don’t care, Dane. I’ve changed phones and email addresses and I’m still being careful, which by the way is tiresome. We’re leaving Saturday for a month on Martha’s Vineyard. Noelle wants a change of scenery and there’s nothing happening here at the store. The island’s dead. I’ll be okay. And you?”

“I’m fine. Just keep in touch.”

Bruce ended the call and stared at the phone. If not for his latest wedding vows, he would really like to see Dane again.

Go, Nelson.

3.

Sooner or later, as they say in the trade, luck swings your way.

The sniper hiked a quarter of a mile uphill, through thick woods and without the benefit of a trail. The perfect spot was deep in the trees. He and his partner had walked it four hours earlier and now knew the terrain. He found his perch, a thick white oak with low branches, and he climbed up forty feet and rose above the tops of the other trees. Down below, three hundred and eighty yards away, was the rear patio door of a sprawling and gaudy country home owned by Mr. Higginbotham, the largest asphalt paving contractor in western Ohio.

Higgs was off to Vegas with the boys, a gambling trip he made several times a year. He was now certain that his younger second wife was seeing one of her ex-boyfriends while he was away. The sniper had never met Higgs and wouldn’t know him by sight. Their contract had been arranged by a trusted broker. Higgs had hired some good investigators who had hacked phones and passed along the terrible news that a rendezvous was planned for this afternoon around 4:30, after the housekeeper left.

Once secure and wedged between the trunk and a limb, the sniper slowly opened his case and began assembling his rifle, a military-grade beauty that cost twenty grand. In his business, one could never have enough weaponry. He had never used it before in a live situation, though after hours at the range he was confident he could hit anything at five hundred yards or less. He adjusted the scope, took a close look at the patio door, and shoved in three cartridges. Hopefully he would use only two. Each could be worth a million dollars.

The house was isolated on a paved country road without a neighbor in sight. All the toys were down there: a large, odd-shaped blue pool, a tennis court, a separate garage where Higgs stored his vintage cars, and a small barn where the missus kept her horses. His kids were with the first wife on the other side of the county.

At 4:40, a black Porsche Carrera appeared and slowed and turned into the drive. The sniper embraced his weapon. The driver parked at the rear of the house in such a way that his car could not be seen from the road. Perfect for the sniper, who followed it closely through the scope. Romeo got out—thirty-five years old, plenty of thick blond hair, thin, dressed in jeans. He strode across the patio like a lucky man, stopped at the door for a truly needless but nonetheless nervous glance around, then went inside.