“Before I stick you in front of a grand jury,” Pope continues, “you need to convince me that you can place Cole Wright with Suzanne Bonanno after she left her mother’s trailer. Some indication that he was actually the last person to see her alive. And I need some direct connection between that night and what was in that grave. Until you have that, we’re wasting our time. And don’t forget,” says Pope, “I’m going to have to brief the governor on this.”

“What kind of pushback can we expect?”

“Lots of sound and fury, I’m sure,” says Pope. “The media will go apeshit, seeing how he supported Faulkner during the primaries.”

“Right, he did,” says Bastinelli. “All the way to the convention floor.”

“And I was part of the opposition. Look, I can claim I’m neutral until the cows come home, but a lot of the media and Wright’s supporters will think this is a hit job.”

“Okay,” says Bastinelli. “I’ll see what else Gagnon can find.”

He stands up to leave. Pope picks up a small commemorative medallion from her desk and points to an inscription. “See this? Fiat justitia ruat caelum.”

“Sorry,” says Bastinelli, “my Latin’s a little rusty.”

“It means ‘Let justice be done though the heavens fall.’”

“Noble thought.”

“I agree,” says Pope. “Just don’t let them fall on me.”

CHAPTER
76

Everett, Massachusetts

In the parking lot of the Encore casino, the man still calling himself Jack Doohan is getting some fresh air when his phone vibrates.

Not his iPhone. The other one. “Yeah?”

“Good job in Brattleboro.” It’s the same electronically masked voice with the same Jersey-mobster vibe.

“No problem,” says Doohan. “Appreciate the bonus.”

Which was well earned. This time, he’d done more than observe and report.

Up at the Vermont hideaway, he’d watched from the trees as two men entered cabin 19. He heard the soft pop that told him their job was done. Watched them take off into the woods. As soon as they disappeared, he put on his paper booties and disposable gloves and slipped through the half-open door. Subject on the floor; laptop on the table. Just as he’d expected.

He’d taken the laptop and replaced it with a kilo of his finest cocaine, some pharmaceutical utensils, and a bag of baking soda. A poor man’s drug lab. Actually, not so poor. The coke was worth at least twenty-five grand on the street.

The cost was covered, of course, along with his other expenses.

“We might need you again,” the voice says. “What do you think about killing women?”

Doohan shrugs. “I think about it all the time.”

CHAPTER
77

Hanover, New Hampshire