“Tell me, Mr. Pearce, when did you steal Cole’s watch? I’ll bet Cole stopped wearing it when he started dating Maddy. Did you pluck it from his room when they went out? Did you keep it for years, just waiting for the right opportunity to frame him? Did you bury it yourself in Suzanne’s grave or did you give it to someone else?”

Pearce swallows hard. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about your time in grad school at Brown University in Providence. About your roommate Gino Ebano. And his cousin Tony.”

“Tony Romero? That little thug? That’s what this is about? Yes, I’ve had a few drinks at his bar once or twice—so what?”

“Right. Twice. Just before he went away to the Cranston pen for the second time for grand larceny. And just after he murdered Suzanne Bonanno.”

Pearce is quiet for a few seconds. Then: “Suzanne’s killer is behind bars, convicted by a jury of his peers.”

“But the jury didn’t know what you and I know. I have the case files you hid. I have them all. You played a very long game.”

Pearce shakes his head. “You should be writing novels, Ms. Cooke.”

“It was hard enough for you to handle it when Cole and Maddy dated in college. But you snapped when they got back together after Cole was released from the Patriots. You knew Romero had killed his ex-girlfriend Suzanne. You knew he had a vendetta against Cole. You saw a way for you both to get back at him: Planting the watch. Arranging for the hole on Cole’s property. Finding somebody to dig up Suzanne’s bones.”

Silence.

“And anybody who got in the way of your plan got removed. Amber. Garrett. You’re lucky Leo Amalfi died in his bed.”

Pearce stands up. “Enough. If this is all you’ve got, I’m going home now.”

“Don’t you want to give me a quote, Mr. Pearce? An ending for my book?”

He looks at me. “I’ll give you an ending, you bitch. Here it is: President Wright resigns. I become President Faulkner’s chief of staff. I preside over the biggest policy triumph in American history. Cole Wright gets shanked to death in prison. And you never write another goddamn word.”

Fifty yards away, the man still calling himself Jack Doohan eases his finger onto the trigger. The subject’s halo of black curls fills the circle of the night-vision sight. He sets the crosshairs on her temple.

Simple shot. Just waiting for Pearce to get clear of the spatter zone…

His thumb moves toward the safety.

Suddenly, the rifle gets ripped away. There’s a knee in his back, and his left arm is being twisted. Two people appear in his peripheral vision. A male and a female.

The woman leans down into his face.

“Kathy Schott, FBI. Don’t move.”

CHAPTER
137

Providence, Rhode Island