O’Halloran shakes his head. “Yeah. Damn it. Great player. Magic hands. I was hoping we’d get another season or two out of him.”

“You never talked to him yourself?”

O’Halloran polishes off his second glazed. “Nah. Like I said, we’d already kicked it over to Seabrook. They didn’t need my fat Irish ass interfering.”

“What happened then? Did they follow up?”

“You know how it is—burned hot for a few weeks, then died down. No sightings, no body, no new leads. Then a couple of suburbanites got gunned down at Downtown Crossing, and poor Suzanne went into the cold-case file.” O’Halloran folds his meaty hands together and leans toward Garrett. “And now you, my friend. After all this time. Why the sudden interest?”

“I’ve got some new information,” says Garrett.

“About what?”

“About Cole Wright,” Garrett says. “Some rumors from back in his college days have resurfaced. It’s making me want to look at the original case files.”

O’Halloran lets out a low whistle. “Good luck with that,” he says. “Wright’s come a long way since those days. Guy that close to power, you know he’s got people protecting him, covering for him.”

Garrett nods. “I know.”

O’Halloran leans back in the booth. “So you like being on your own, without those assholes at the Globe hassling you day and night?”

“I like choosing my own projects,” says Garrett. “But I’m not on my own. I’ve got a partner. She’s a lawyer.”

“That’s good,” says O’Halloran, smiling. “Considering the people you’re dealing with, you might need one.” He slides out of the booth. “Besides, you know what happens to lone wolves, right?”

“What?”

“They get hunted down. And skinned.”

CHAPTER
24

Providence, Rhode Island

It’s midafternoon when Garrett Wilson rolls into Providence. It takes him twenty minutes to track down the nondescript bar where Daryna told him he would find Tony Romero.

The bar is identified only by a sign near the metal door: RAYMOND’S TAVERN. Maybe the name is in honor of former Providence godfather Raymond L. S. Patriarca? A Mob bar named after a Mob boss. Bold choice. Poetic, even.

There are no neon beer signs in the windows because there are no windows. Only a peephole near a small plaque that reads PRIVATE CLUB. Garrett walks down a short flight of concrete stairs and pulls on the door handle. Locked.

He looks around and sees a rusted doorbell partly obscured by a trail of stringy vines. His fight-or-flight response kicks in, meaning he’s on his toes. He presses the button.

After a few seconds, he hears the click of a heavy bolt and a gravelly voice saying, “What?” The door opens about six inches, emitting a waft of stale cigarette smoke.

“I need to see Tony Romero,” Garrett tells a looming male figure.

“Who does?”