Doohan had been testing his scope and sighting his rifle when some crazy bird-watcher popped up out of the bushes and started giving him shit. A kid. Early twenties. And he would not let up: “Who are you? What are you doing here? This is a conservation area. No weapons allowed. I’ve got sensitive birdcall recording equipment set up all over. I’m working on my master’s project here.” Then he’d pulled out his iPhone. “I’m getting your face and plate number, buddy.”

Wrong time. Wrong place. Too bad. It happens.

Doohan walks to the dark corner of the garage just out of range of the nearest security camera where he’d parked his black Lexus.

He sets his equipment down on the garage floor and opens the trunk. The interior light is disabled, but there’s still enough ambient light to see what’s taking up most of the trunk—the body of a bearded young man with an unnatural twist to his neck.

Doohan tosses in his equipment and slams the trunk shut.

“Okay, birdman,” he mutters. “Let’s find you a nest.”

CHAPTER
19

I wake up in our room at the Marriott. It’s early. Still dark. I yawn. I stretch. I’m feeling warm, relaxed, loved. I reach over to snuggle with Garrett, but he’s not there.

I roll over and see him sitting at a desk near the window. His face looks ghostly blue from the dual reflections of his phone and laptop screens.

Garrett doesn’t look up. “Judd Peyton texted me. He remembered the full name of Suzanne’s old boyfriend, the one she dated before she hooked up with Cole.”

“And?”

“His name is Tony Romero. He’s from Cranston, Rhode Island.”

“What’d you find out about him?”

Garrett rotates in his chair. He’s wearing black briefs and nothing else. “He owns a used-car dealership, two gas stations, and a few laundromats around Providence.”

“Sounds industrious.”

“Yep. But other than the business websites, he’s totally dark on social media.”

I sit up in bed and hold the sheets over my bare chest. “Got a picture?”

Garrett turns the laptop toward me and clicks to enlarge a photo from the car dealership home page. Rough-looking guy in his forties. Big nose. Small eyes. He turns the laptop back.

“Tony’s got a record,” Garrett says, typing. “Assault. Loan-sharking. Illegal gambling. Did a couple years in Rhode Island Maximum Security Prison in Cranston.”

“At least it was right near home. Was this before or after Suzanne?”

“After,” says Garrett. He keeps typing until I tap the bedside clock.

“Hey. Check the time. It’s not even five a.m. and they don’t serve breakfast until six.”

“So?”

I flip the covers down. “So come on back to bed and I’ll sing you one of my favorite blues songs.”

“Which is?”

I wiggle my eyebrows at him. “‘Sixty-Minute Man.’”