Sitting in his truck he watched the male and female detectives climb out of their old car and begin walking up to a rather large house sitting quietly on a pleasant residential street corner lot. He had no idea who owned the house. And he didn’t care. As long as it had nothing to do with the death of their once colleague not too long ago. But he had to be sure. These two amateurs, in his opinion, were the current detectives in charge of the investigation while the other two—the two he worried about the most—were working the case from a different angle. A different angle which worried him the most because it possibly offered a more direct path to revealing everyone’s past histories to a number of different American authorities. A situation which could not—would not—happen.
But at least he
