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Garrett follows his escort down a narrow cinder-block corridor stacked high with liquor cases to a simple wooden doormarkedPRIVATE. The hulk gives two sharp raps on it with his knuckles, then pushes the door open and motions Garrett into a wood-paneled office.
Behind the desk, a well-dressed middle-aged man is sitting in a high-backed leather chair. The face is a match to the photo Garrett saw online. It’s Tony Romero.
“Thanks, Donnie,” Romero says.
The hulk backs out and shuts the door. Romero looks closely at Garrett as if trying to place him.
Garrett senses movement behind him. He turns and sees that each of the room’s back corners is occupied by a man in a suit. One is smoking a cigarette. The other has his arms folded across his thick chest.
“Who the hell are you?” Romero asks, eyes narrowed.
“My name is Garrett Wilson. I’m an investigative reporter. An author. I write books.”
“Bullshit. You’re a cop. You look like a cop.”
Garrett feels his stomach drop. But he stands his ground. “No. Like I said, I’m a writer. Garrett Wilson. You can look me up online. I have a website.”
Romero nods to one of his associates, the smoker. The smoker pulls out his iPhone and starts tapping. After a few seconds, he walks over to the desk and holds the screen in front of Romero.
Romero glances at it, then looks up. “Two books. Good for you. They sell?”
“They did all right,” says Garrett.
“How does it pay?”
“Not great.”
Romero looks down again, scrolls for a minute. “Dartmouth, huh? That your girlfriend in the picture? It says here she’s your researcher. Nice.”
“We’re partners, yes.”
“And where is she this fine day?”
“Working on a different assignment.”
“I see.” Romero flicks his hand at his men. “We’re okay,” he says. They leave the room. Romero gestures toward an empty chair across from his desk. “Sit, Mr. Writer. Sit.”
Garrett perches on the edge of the chair. His mouth is dry. His feet tap against the floor.
Romero leans forward and stares at him. “So. What about Suzanne Bonanno?”
Garrett forces himself to stare right back. “Mr. Romero—”
“Tony.”
Garrett resets. “Tony, I’m told that you and Suzanne dated about twenty years ago. Is that true?”
Romero grins, leans back. “In my mid-twenties, man, I played the field as much as I could. Yeah, Suzanne. The Patriots cheerleader. Nice piece.” He leans forward and his expression turns earnest. “You have any idea what happened to her?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” Garrett says. “After you two broke up—”
Romero puts up a hand. “Hold on, hold on. It’s not like we were serious. We just hung out here and there, had some fun.”
“Okay,” Garrett says, “after you two stopped hanging out, she started dating Cole Wright. This was when he was still on the team.”
Romero drums his fingers on his desk. His face is grim. “Yeah. I knew that.”
“So maybe you know she was supposed to be on a date with him the night she disappeared.”