What can I say? “You’ll know when we do.”

“Well, get busy,” says Teresa. “Now move!” I step aside. She puts the car in gear and pulls away.

I don’t trust Teresa enough to tell her that somebody else just confessed to murdering her sister. If O’Halloran’s lead pans out, Cole Wright might be in the clear—at least for that crime.

CHAPTER
38

Connecticut State Route 118

Icy rain pelts Garrett’s rental car. For long stretches of the drive from Rhode Island to Connecticut, he’s the only one on the road, which is good because the wipers are barely up to the task of keeping the windshield clear. It’s the middle of the afternoon, but as he passes through the farmland and woods on Route 118, visibility is so poor, it might as well be night.

Garrett is in a hurry to get home and talk to Brea. In this wintry mix, driving an unfamiliar car, he won’t call her and risk distracting himself with a conversation about his visit with DeMarco.

At Rhode Island Maximum Security Prison, he’d been hoping for something solid. Something provable. But all he got was an unpleasant blast from the past; it was like finding a rotten clam in a bowl of chowder.

Seymour Washington.

Garrett has known Washington a long time. The former Boston city council member, activist lawyer, and industrious private investigator whose bread and butter is insurance cases, work injuries, and slip-and-falls has never been averse to working on the dark side of the law. A lot of his clients are attorneys who advertise on late-night cable shows. But the PI is also wired in to the underbelly of Boston and beyond. He knows secrets and he has access. Through pathways unknown.

When Garrett was reporting for the Globe, Seymour Washington was often “a source close to the investigation.” Washington had even done some research for Garrett, but Brea’s distrust of the man had prompted Garrett to employ overseas hackers instead.

An oncoming pickup truck splashes slush against Garrett’s side door, then disappears in his rearview. He’s alone on the road again.

And then he’s not.

Behind him, a car with its high beams on is coming up fast. Too fast for this weather.

Fifty yards. Then thirty.

Garrett edges closer to the shoulder.

The big vehicle is not slowing down. It’s throwing off white plumes of water.

Garrett reduces his speed from fifty to forty.

The headlights are right behind him now.

“Go around, idiot!” he mutters. “Go around!”

Bam! He feels the hard jolt to his rear bumper. His car fishtails, then spins. His head bangs against the side window. He sees a blur of sky and trees, then he’s flying off the road. His car rams into the side of a ditch. Garrett feels something explode in front of him and hears the loud blare of the car horn.