Cullen and Luna dashed outside. Luna phoned Chris immediately, but the call went to voice mail. She was disappointed she couldn’t tell Chris the news directly, but she left a message. “Chris. On April 2, 2003, Chad Pierce Jr. authorized Longmire to pick up some old furniture from a back building at Briarcliff. Coincidence? Ha!”

  Luna and Cullen took a car back to the rental office and then were driven to the train station. She could hardly wait to meet up with the marshal later that day.

  On the train ride back, Luna couldn’t help but ask Cullen about Chi-Chi. She knew he was falling for her big-time.

  “So, tell me, bro, how was your date?” She had already heard Chi-Chi’s version; now she wanted to hear his.

  “Spectacular.” He smiled. “Elle’s idea was spot-on.”

  “And?” Luna was pulling taffy now.

  “And what?” Cullen refused to continue.

  “You know I am not going to stop until you spill it.”

  “Okay. So here’s the big thing.” Cullen took a deep breath. “Chi-Chi is from Nigeria. I am from North Carolina. Some people would not think much of our relationship.”

  “Why should you care what people think?” Luna was quite serious.

  “I suppose I really don’t, but society . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “Oh, bugger society. People will judge you no matter what if they want to. It makes them feel better about themselves. You cannot live your life fearing what people might think because they are going to think what they will no matter what you do.” She took a beat. “Look at me. I’m kooky, spooky. But I don’t let it bother me anymore.” She nudged Cullen. “Of course, I have my big brother to protect me, but you have your Lunatic sister to protect you.” She patted his arm. “People will feel what they feel, think what they think and do what they do. You cannot live your life wondering and worrying about other people. It’s a waste of time worrying about things you have no control over.” She sat back and let him digest her words of wisdom. For now, she needed a nap.

  * * *

  Marshal Gaines rented a car and drove to Colts Neck, New Jersey. He was meeting one of the county commissioners at the local municipal office, where he would be able to look at a plot plan of the area in question.

  Commissioner Licitra greeted him with a warm welcome and a handshake. “We don’t usually get US Marshals visiting here. At least not in the past century.”

  Chris gave him an odd look. “What changed?”

  “The repeal of Prohibition.”

  “Really?” Chris was intrigued. “I thought that was the realm of the FBI and the IRS.”

  “Some kind of task force. This was the wilderness during the 1920s.” He motioned for Chris to follow him into a small conference room with too much fluorescent lighting. A large map of the area was pinned on the wall. “What were you particularly interested in?”

  Chris gave him the rough location. Licitra pointed to an area that looked as if it had been subdivided.

  “What is all this?” Chris asked.

  “The property you are asking about used to be an old farm. Hadn’t been in use for maybe twenty-five years. But the buildings date back to the early part of the twentieth century. They recently demolished the original farmhouse and are about to begin excavating the rest of the property. If you want, we can take a ride over there.”

  “That would be great. I appreciate it.”

  The two men got into the commissioner’s SUV and rode out to the construction site. There were bulldozers on one side of the property. A group of men were standing together having a heated conversation. Licitra and Gaines approached the men. “What’s going on?” Licitra asked.

  “When we tore down the old concrete shed, we found a tunnel,” one of the men said. “It looks like it leads to where the old barn used to be.”

  Another chimed in, “So now we have to get a different permit to dig up the pieces of the tunnel.”

  Licitra grinned. “You guys dug up a bootleg operation.”

  “Say what?” one of them asked in disbelief.

  “Back in the days of Prohibition, the moonshiners would build stills in sheds in the middle of nowhere. The bootleggers would build tunnels and underground passageways that ran from one part of the property to the shed. It was often under the barn or the house itself. It depended on how much money and property they had,” Licitra continued. “There were interconnected passageways with trapdoors that enabled them to check on their still without being seen. If the authorities thought there was something going on, they would try to burn down the sheds, so many of them were built with concrete. In New Jersey alone, there are over a thousand records of court cases about gin stills”

  Chris’s mind was racing. “Is it possible to get the name of the people who owned this land prior to 2003?”

  “Sure. Let’s go back to the office. Meanwhile, guys, stop working. We need to pull more permits.”

  The foreman did not look happy. “I’m going to have to call the bank and the developer to let them know there is going to be a delay. We don’t want to run out of time before our financing expires.”

  Chris stopped in his tracks. “What bank is it?”

  “Metropolitan Savings and Loan.”

  * * *

  J.R. almost had a stroke when he got the call. “What do you mean, they have to halt demolition?”

  The foreman explained. “The commissioner was here with someone looking at the property, and the commissioner said we had to get another permit on account of the tunnels. Something about the EPA. They gotta test the soil again.”

  “But we already had a soil analysis!” J.R. was livid and panicked.

  “Yeah, but we didn’t have a tunnel at the time.” The foreman was used to being yelled at by clients and bankers.

  “Cripes. Well, get it done, and fast. Does Davidson Contracting know?”

  “I’m calling them now. Thought I’d give you a heads-up since you guys are footing the bill. For now.”

  J.R. slammed down the phone and dropped his head in his hands. He’d thought he’d successfully buried his past—or was about to. He had been meticulous about rooting out the owners of the farmland and partnering with Davidson. For several years, the farm’s owners used it as a tax write-off, selling just enough pumpkins to qualify. But the several million dollars they were being offered represented a far better deal than the few thousand dollars they got to recover on their tax bill.

  J.R.’s phone rang again. “What?”

  “A Mr. Henry Johnson is on the phone.”

  “Tell him I’m in a meeting.” He slammed the phone down again.

  Things were not going well for J.R. The last thing he needed was that nuisance bothering him again. He got up and began to pace. About fifteen minutes later, his phone rang again. “Yeah?”

  “Mr. Johnson is here to see you.”

  J.R. thought his head was going to explode. Before he could say another word, Johnson brazenly walked into his office. J.R.’s assistant was vehemently trying to stop him from behind.

  “Hey there, J.R.,” said Hank. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by to say hello.”

  “What do you want?” J.R. demanded, shooing his assistant out of the room. The niceties were out the window now.

  “Aw, is that any way to talk to an old friend?” Hank was really pressing his luck.

  “We are not friends. Never were. You did me a favor once and I repaid you—twice. Now get the hell out of my office before I call security.” J.R. was livid as he flung his arm in the direction of the door.

  “Okay. Okay. Don’t blow a gasket. I’ll just come back later when you’re in a better mood.”

  “Don’t even think about it.” J.R. was at the crossroads of violence. He considered choking the hell out of the guy.

  Hank Johnson saw the rage in J.R.’s eyes. He knew he had stepped way over the line and quickly retreated to the outer office. He moved faster than he had in years and dashed to the elevator. When the doors opened, two very large security guards greeted him. “May we escort you to the door?” one of them asked. It wasn’t really a question.

  Back in his office, J.R. was pacing furiously. Gregory stood in the doorway and asked, “Can I do anything for you?”

  J.R. stopped and looked up. “No.” He took a deep breath. “Thanks. Just shut the door, please.” Gregory slowly and quietly pulled it closed. J.R. moved to the credenza and poured a Scotch. His watch said 11:00 a.m. Too bad. He had to calm his nerves. He had to think of what do to next. Of course he would extend the option. What other choice did he have? The bank stood to make over a million dollars in interest over the next five years. A million dollars. The magic number. Or so he thought.

  * * *

  Chris noticed there was a voice mail waiting for him. He dialed and heard Luna’s message. Bingo! He pressed her speed dial number. “You were right again, Luna.”

  “I am so relieved.” Luna truly was. She would hate herself if she was wrong about J.R. and had all those suspicious thoughts about him. Guilty until proven innocent. She really didn’t like approaching things that way. But that was the nature of her gift, such as it was. She continued, “I mean, I’m relieved my intuition was right. It’s just kinda bad that it was.”

  “You were right on the money. No pun intended.” Chris chuckled.

  “So now what happens?”

  “I am going to run those prints, so don’t let anyone touch the armoire until I get there. When are you guys heading back to Asheville?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Good. So am I. Do you know what flight you’re on?”

  Luna opened her bag and checked the paper ticket. She always liked a backup. Technology could mess you up if it wasn’t working. “Flight leaves Newark at one.”

  “Good. We’re on the same flight. What time do you think you’ll be back in the city?”

  “We are on the train now, so we should be back at the hotel by five.”

  “Okay. Good. I’ll catch up with you guys there.”

  “Cool. See you soon.” Luna clicked off the phone.

  Eventually, the train pulled into the station. Luna and Cullen unfolded themselves from the wide, cushy seats and squeezed their way through the crowded corridor of the Acela, then through another crowd at Penn Station. “I don’t know how these people do this every day. I would lose my mind,” Cullen noted as the thousands of people scurried to catch their trains to get home.

  “I hear ya,” Luna concurred. “I wouldn’t be able to take all this anxiety. Mine or theirs!” She clung to the back of Cullen’s jacket. “This is just crazy. Why do people do this?” She knew it was a rhetorical question, but she couldn’t help but ponder, nonetheless. Why? Surely the money couldn’t be that good. She thought about some of her sociology studies. People tended to do what their parents did. It was called intragenerational mobility. A horizontal move within their social strata. They basically had similar jobs and similar lifestyles. But things like pandemics and war could upend that continuity and force people to make drastic moves. After WWII, many people who were raised in the cities moved to the burgeoning suburbs. The next generation tended to leave the suburbs and move back to more metropolitan areas. Then the pandemic came, and people were moving anywhere to get away from the throngs. So much had happened in the past fifty years, it was quite startling.

  Cullen could see his sister’s mind ticking. “You okay?”

  “Yes. Just pondering the socioeconomics of commuting.”

  “Deep.” Cullen saw an opening in the crowd and moved faster. Again, they were moving against the tide of commuters.

  “See? Even when I am trying to be serious, you mock me.” She gave him a helpful nudge.

  “There are so many reasons to mock you,” Cullen teased, ducking his head in anticipation of being clobbered.

  They exited the station on 7th Avenue, where a line of taxis were waiting. Most had dropped off passengers entering the station.

  Once Luna and Cullen had arrived back at the hotel, they went to their rooms. “I need a shower,” Luna said. “I feel gross.” She looked at her brother. “Don’t you dare say a word.”

  About an hour later, Chris also returned. He phoned Luna, and they made plans along with Cullen to meet for dinner at seven. Despite all the restaurants at their disposal, Chris wanted them to experience Odeon—the history, the food and its more casual atmosphere.

  They met in the lobby at six forty-five and walked the few blocks to the restaurant. When they were seated, they pulled out their phones, pads and notebooks. Cullen began with the authentication of the armoire. Chris then corroborated that the dates J.R. authorized the armoire for salvage matched with the alleged kidnapping. He went on to tell them about the farm, the tunnels, the shed for the still. “The way I see it, someone, most likely J.R. and perhaps an accomplice, knew about the tunnels.”

  “But how?” Luna asked.

  “I did a little more digging into J.R.’s checkered schooling. Evidently, he was either kicked out or dropped out of several private schools. One was Horace Mann.”

  “How do you know this?” Luna asked, wide-eyed.

  Chris gave her a look. “I know someone who knows someone.” Then he smiled. It was a phrase they used with each other frequently.

  “Aha.” Luna grinned. “Continue, s’il vous plaît.”

  “Merci.” He continued, “During spring break, several of the students went to New Jersey to spend some time in the fresh air. At an old farmhouse. In Colts Neck. It turned out the farmhouse was owned by a bootlegger during Prohibition.” He went on to reiterate what he had learned earlier that day. “They built interconnected tunnels from either the main house, a barn or a back building that led to the shack where they had their stills. There were well concealed trapdoors in the floors of the shacks.”

  “Wow,” Luna said in awe.

  Chris sat back and took a pull of his beer. “The shack where Pierce dropped the money had an underground tunnel.”

  “Oh my gosh!” Luna began to put it together.

  “Yes. Once the drop was complete, someone, maybe J.R., went through the tunnel and retrieved the money.”

  “So where did he keep the money?” Luna asked.

  “That much we don’t know yet. He must have stashed it somewhere and then gone back to get it at a later date,” Chris replied. “We have to trace his steps from the point where his father picked him up.”

  “But for how long?” Luna asked.

  “From what the professor told me, J.R. finished school and then left for Europe for several months. When he came back, he got a job in the loan office of a bank.” Chris had a devilish grin on his face. “The very same bank that is funding the construction project on the very same farmland.” He knew the next word was coming, so he beat her to it. “Coincidence? I don’t think so.”

  “So what do we do now?” Cullen asked.

  “We have a few options. One, I can confront J.R. and tell him we have a lot of evidence that is pointing in his direction and hope for a confession.”

  “Do you think that would work?” Cullen asked.

  “Hard to tell. However, he comes from a powerful family who could quash our attempts to reopen the case.”

  “Yes, but Camille and Chad seem like very upstanding people,” Luna said.

  “Yes, and he is their son. They did everything they could to protect him when this happened. They might do the same now,” Chris pointed out.

  “What’s the second option?” Cullen asked.

  “I could meet you in Asheville and dust the cabinet for prints.”

  Luna was overjoyed. “See! I told you!”

  “Easy, girl. I could tell him that is my intention, which may also spur a confession.” Chris knew they were on to something.

  Luna pursed her lips. “True. Kind of a threat.”

  “More like coaxing him.” Chris appreciated Luna’s enthusiasm. “Since we are already here, in New York, I think I am going to go for the first idea. He already seemed rattled when Cullen mentioned the armoire. And then there was that strange dude who got under J.R.’s skin. J.R. just might be ready to spill his guts. Get it over with.” Chris motioned for the waiter to take their order. “I’ve seen people on the brink before, and I think he just might be.” Chris made a few recommendations from the menu to the others and ordered a bottle of wine.

  “Very good, sir,” the waiter concurred. A few minutes later, he returned with a bottle of Whispering Angel, a light, dry rosé. After the server had poured their wine, Chris raised his glass. “To the best amateur detectives I know!” He knew the word “amateur” would gall Luna, and it did.

  “Amateur! I beg your pardon.” But she knew he was teasing and gave him a big smile in return. “But seriously, think about it.” Then she used one of her favorite expressions: “What are the odds?” She held up her thumb. “Cullen gets an armoire.” Then came her index finger. “We get invited to New York.” Up went the next finger. “To be with people who were involved in a kidnapping.” She continued to tick off the incidents on her hand. “You! You just happened to meet with a professor who remembered the case.” She stopped. “Okay. That’s four things. On their own they would not be of any consequence. But a convergence of related incidents? Again, I ask—what are the odds?”

  No one answered. “Well, do you want to know what I think?” she asked.

  “I am sure you will tell us.” Cullen dabbed his mouth with the linen napkin.

  “I think it was karma.” She sat back and let that sink in. After a few brief moments, she went on. “It was time J.R. had a reckoning. Look at his parents. They are kind. Generous beyond belief. The angst he put them through. The money he stole from them. No, it was time karma caught up with him.”

  Chris eyed Cullen. How could they disagree?

  “So what do you think, oh, great, wise woman?” Chris asked.

  “I think you’re right about confronting him. J.R. is about to snap, crackle and pop. I feel that he wants to purge his guilt.”

  “Cullen? Any thoughts?” Chris looked at him.

  “Me? I’m just another bozo on this bus. You’re the driver. I mean, the two of you take turns. I’m for whatever you guys decide.”