‘My information is that they were both seriously injured in the course of events. For now, they are incapable of saying anything at all.’

Spiridon stared at his hands and flexed his fingers. Radovan knew the uses to which Spiridon was putting those hands in his mind.

‘Perhaps they’ll die,’ said Spiridon.

Radovan stood to leave.

‘Death does not solve every problem,’ he said.

‘Actually,’ said his brother, ‘it does.’

Chapter LXIX

Detective Sharon Macy lounged at a table in the Great Lost Bear, sipping a diet soda. Seated around it with her were two detectives from the Portland PD’s Criminal Investigation Division, Tony and Paulie Fulci, Charlie Parker, and Dave Evans. The bomb technicians from the Hazardous Devices Unit had successfully dealt with the IED, the two injured men had been taken under escort to Maine Medical, and the Bear had reopened for business. A brief debate had taken place about whether the bear head used against one of the men should be seized as evidence before it was decided that it was probably just as easy to leave it at the bar. It was now back in its place on the wall, its fur damaged from the impact with either the ground or a Serbian skull. Macy had to concede that Paulie Fulci had quite the pair of throwing arms, because that bear head wasn’t light.

A couple of months had passed since last she’d visited the Great Lost Bear. Macy was trying to drink less as part of a new fitness regimen, which meant she was avoiding bars, most restaurants, and pretty much anywhere else she might have a little fun. It was playing hell with her socializing, not to mention her love life. She’d started going to bed earlier, too, because there wasn’t much else to do when one didn’t drink or go out. This, she decided, was how women ended up in nunneries.

While still a working detective for the Portland PD, Macy also functioned as the liaison between the department, the state police, federal agencies, and the governor’s office, particularly in matters relating to serious crimes. Trying to plant a bomb outside the Great Lost Bear counted as serious in anyone’s book, but it took on an added gravity when Charlie Parker was the target. Any number of people wouldn’t have minded seeing the private detective blown sky high, but even they would probably have preferred it not to happen in the parking lot of one of Portland’s best-loved drinking establishments. That Parker wasn’t already dead was a miracle, if not necessarily the kind that encouraged faith in divine judgment.