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“Right,” Romero snarls. “And now that prick is living in the White House, screwing the goddamn president. I guess he moved up in the world. Can you believe that shit? Only in America…”
“Did you and Suzanne keep in touch? Did she ever talk to youabout Cole Wright? Ever complain about the way he was treating her?”
“Treating her?”
“Like, was he ever rough with her?”
Romero is silent for a few seconds. Garrett can sense his mind working. “Jesus Christ! Is that what your book is about? You think Cole Wright offed Suzanne Bonanno?”
“So she never talked to you about him?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“So she did?”
A few more seconds of silence. Then: “She did call me once. She was crying and sniffling and shit. Said Cole had slapped her around. She wanted me to do something about it.”
“Like what?”
“What do you think, Mr. Writer? She wanted me to find a couple guys to teach him a lesson.”
“And did you?”
“Me? Send mugs after a Patriots player? Like that was ever gonna happen. I told her to break it off with the prick. That was my advice. That was the last time we talked. I swear on my kids.” Romero places both palms flat on his desk. Garrett senses impatience. “That it? You get what you want?”
Not by a long shot. But Garrett decides not to press his luck. He stands up. “Yes. Thanks, Tony. Appreciate the time.”
“You got balls coming in here,” says Romero, grinning. “Good way to get ’em cut off.” He stands up too. The door opens. The two thugs reappear.
Garrett feels sweat dripping under his shirt. “I can find my way out.” The two thugs move to block him, but a hand squeezes his shoulder from behind.
“No, no,” says Romero. “I’ll walk him out myself.” The two associates step aside.
Garrett starts to breathe easier. Romero hooks an arm through his as they walk out of the office and into the dank corridor. “It’s quicker through the back,” Romero says.
Garrett’s mind is humming. He’s trying to fix Romero’s quotes in his mind, word for word, in the right order, until he can get to his laptop. He sees a metal door just ahead, sunlight streaming through its wire-mesh security screen.
Tony pushes the door open, revealing a small concrete platform and two dumpsters. Garrett takes a breath. The air smells like garbage.
“Just one thing,” says Tony.
Out of the corner of his eye, Garrett sees the fist coming just before it connects with his temple. He collapses to his knees. A kick to his ribs flattens him. His face is on the concrete now. Fingers grab his hair and pull his head up. His brain is spinning with bright light.
“Listen, you Ivy League fuck! If I see one word about me in that book or anyplace else, I’ll find you and burn your house down with your girlfriend inside. Do you understand me?”
Even if Garrett wanted to answer, he couldn’t; his mouth is no longer working. His head is rammed onto the concrete.
And then everything goes black.
CHAPTER
25
The man occasionally known as Jack Doohan watches the whole thing through his spotting scope as he munches an energy bar. Impressive. He knows a professional tune-up when he sees one—it will cause severe pain and bruising but no permanent damage.
As Doohan zooms in, the guy whips out a cell phone. Jack reads his lips: “Yeah, it’s me,” he says. “That asshole writer was just here asking about Suzanne. I think it’s time our man confesses.” He ends the call and ducks back inside.
After about half a minute, the subject Wilson starts moving. Then crawling. Lucky man—looks like he kept all his teeth.