“Slightly,” said O’Halloran. DeMarco was a soldier in what was left of Boston’s Angiulo crime family. “Not really a family anymore,” O’Halloran said. “More like a few distant cousins trying to resurrect the good old days. They don’t scam a gift card without a nod from the Providence Mob.”

Garrett moves through security into the visitors’ room, where he’s surrounded by gray concrete walls and guards with guns. At octagonal orange tables, inmates in khaki pants and smock-like shirts sit across from wives, girlfriends, children, or social workers in street clothes.

A loud buzzer sounds, and a metal door on the far side of the room slides open. A uniformed corrections officer steps into the room, followed by a thickset inmate with tattooed arms. A second corrections officer points to Garrett. The inmate locks his eyes on him as he walks over. Even from a distance, he projects menace.

When he gets to the table, the inmate stands with legs spread. “You Wilson?”

Garrett nods. “John DeMarco?”

DeMarco sits down heavily across from Garrett, arms on the table. One of the corrections officers steps up and goes through the interview protocol until DeMarco waves him away.

The inmate angles his head for a better look at the right side of Garrett’s face. “The fuck happened to you?”

Garrett reflexively touches his stinging cheekbone. “Fell in my driveway.”

“Yeah, right,” says DeMarco. He smirks.

“Thanks for agreeing to talk to me,” says Garrett.

“I’m tired of talking to cops,” says DeMarco. “Thought this might be more interesting.”

Garrett digs right in. “Mr. DeMarco, I’m here because you talked to another inmate about murdering a young woman named Suzanne Bonanno seventeen years ago. A cheerleader for the Patriots.”

DeMarco blinks, then smiles. His teeth are big, blocky, and stained yellow. “I might have.”

“Might have said it? Or might have done it?”

DeMarco asks, “Ever move into a new neighborhood, Wilson?”

“Yeah, sure. Many times.”

DeMarco waves one inked-up forearm arm around the room. “Well, this is my new neighborhood. And sometimes in a new neighborhood, you say things to impress your new neighbors.”

Suddenly, this visit is looking like another wild-goose chase. “So this is all bullshit,” mutters Garrett. He starts to signal to one of the guards.

“Put your damn hand down,” growls DeMarco. “Lady who took two to the head last night in Southie was what made me think of it. I hear she used to be a Patriots cheerleader too.” A pause. “I did see Suzanne Bonanno once.”

Garrett leans across the table. “Where was that?”

“Gillette Stadium. Pats were playing the Jets. I had good seats. Great view of the cheerleaders. I noticed her. Suzanne. Fantastic body. Hotter than hell. Later, I got her name off a poster.”

“Ever meet her?”