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He circled the development twice, looking for signs that there’d been blasting to prepare the foundations. He saw no evidence of this, though if the developer, Theo Gabris, was behind a plot to flood Hinowah, he would surely have used explosives from a source different from his own project.

No problem with directions to his destination. Dozens of signs in bold white type readSales Office, with helpful arrows acting as power-free GPS directions.

He slowed the Yamaha and drove carefully over the shiny rails of train tracks, before steering into the parking lot of the sales office.

Outside, under a porch roof, he brushed the rain off his jacket and slicker pants and shook his baseball hat. Stepping inside, he smiled at a young attractive receptionist. Her black hair was done up high on her head, the way a beauty pageant contestant’s might be—if there stillwerebeauty pageants. Shaw had no idea.

“Morning. I’m Carter Stone. I called earlier.”

“Yessir, Mr. Stone. One minute.” She hit an intercom. “Sir?”

A gruff voice asked, “What is it?”

She told him his appointment had arrived. Now the tone softened. “Ah good. Show him in.”

She had been given permission to enter, but still she knocked on the double door in the back of the office, and stood still, with a posture that radiated uncertainty.

“Come in!”

The young woman opened the door and nodded for Shaw to precede her.

Theo Gabris was larger than life. The two hundred and thirty- or forty-pound man rose, setting down a cigar he’d been chomping on. There was no smell of smoke in the air, so Shaw guessed the pacifier was a compromise to the state’s smoking ban, which he would surely resent.

He wore a well-tailored suit that had to be expensive, and a Rolex watch. The cuffs of his starched white shirt were affixed with—most likely—real gold links. The office, though, was modest—functional and cluttered with scores of files and thousands of sheets of paper. Shaw recalled the man’s main office was in San Francisco on Nob Hill.

The most elite ’hood in the City by the Bay.

He was, Shaw guessed, a man who enjoyed nice things in life but when it came to work, he wanted to stay focused. He’d known salespeople like him; closing the Deal was a sacred quest.

The receptionist recited, “Would you like something to drink, sir? Coffee? Water?”

“Nothing, thanks.”

She retreated and Shaw walked into the office. “Carter Stone,” he said, extending his hand, which was wholly enveloped by the developer’s huge meaty digits. He was balding and had a ruddy complexion. Shaw wondered how he’d come by a tan; June was a bit early for such a deep tone in Northern California, but then again he was a real estate developer with three-thousand-dollar cuffs. Baja was not that far away, and California had the second highest level of private jet traffic in the country, after Florida. He could be sipping margaritas under a hot sun in two hours.

And—to keep in mind—Baja and nearby Sonora were home to the Sinaloa Cartel, which was always eager to launder money through legitimate operations like real estate.

“Now, Mr. Stone, what can I do for you? Change your life, make you happy in a million ways, find a nest for you and—you’re of a particular age—you and your bride. Children too? I have six. Three boys and three girls. Ask me which I prefer? The ones that are under thirteen.”

“A wife, no children.” A smile. “Yet.”

“Ah, now don’t wait too long,” the man scolded. Then a glint in his eye. “But maybe she’s younger, maybe you robbed the cradle, did you? My wife is a younger woman.” He nodded gravely. “We were born in the same year and the same month…only she is one day younger than I am!” A braying laugh. “All right, to be serious…Let me do what I can to put you in your dream house.”

Colter found himself amused; Debi Starr had said much the same, about a dream house, though with a porcine companion.

“You just cruising by on that mini Harley of yours and were impressed by my properties.”

So he’d been observed.

He was glad he had intentionally parked with the plate unseen by the front door’s camera. A habit of his.

“Nope. I was at a party in San Francisco and someone recommended you. They had bought property in Silicon Valley.”

“Evershire. Named afterThe Hobbit. The Shire. You know the books?”

Shaw had read all the Tolkien Middle-earth books. He said, “I’ve heard of them.” A sentence that invariably means no. “I looked you up and found this.” He nodded out the window. “Windermere. Maddie and I are in a condo in Mountain View…” He closed his eyes, mindful not to overact. “The mortgage, the HOA fees, and the cost of living there? Forget it! So we decided, like taking a deep breath and cutting the cable cord, we’d get out of the Bay Area. Maybe come here.”

“A wise move, sir. You’ll get ten times the value for your money. You’ll be king of your own domain.”