EPILOGUE
“WE THINK THIS IS THE man you’re after,” the man across from Noah Wilson explained as he shifted a picture across the table at the old man.
They were in one of the cabins of his large yacht in Sydney Harbor. The only other person in attendance was his daughter Grete, who served both as an executive at the top of the family business and sign language interpreter in sensitive matters like this. She was the one who had gotten this particular private investigator to look into the man who’d killed her brother.
The words ‘John Deeh / Jon Dee’ had been inked onto the photo the man slid over. Wilson recognized the face, almost. Neat haircut, a pair of thick rimmed glasses on the face. Faintly handsome, the man looked rather unremarkable. Boring even.
The British investigator flipped a
