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I slide my chair closer. “DeMarco told Garrett that you have information about the location of a murder victim from seventeen years ago. And the identity of her killer.”
“That information would come from him, not me,” says Washington. “I’m merely a conduit.”
“But you have it,” says Garrett.
Washington folds his hands under his chin. “I have half of it.”
Garrett looks confused. “What do you mean?”
“I have the supposed location of the body. A good-faith offering. Mr. DeMarco is withholding the name of the alleged killer until he sees evidence of progress in his appeal.”
I look over at Garrett, then ask the obvious question. “If John DeMarco has information about a murder he didn’t commit, why wouldn’t he trade on that information? Make a deal with the DA and get his sentence reduced?”
“Because,” says Washington, “that would make him a snitch.”
Garrett nods. “And snitches get stitches.”
“Or worse,” says Washington. “Mr. DeMarco prefers alternative channels.”
I shake my head. “We’re heading down a very dark tunnel here.”
Washington stares at me. “Do you want the information or not?”
I glance at Garrett. He looks at Washington. “We do.”
“I want to be clear,” says Washington, “that this information was provided to me in confidence and comes with no guarantee. I cannot vouch for its accuracy.”
“Understood,” says Garrett.
Washington swivels around in his chair and opens a panel in the floor. Inside is a safe. He shields the lock dial with his left hand as he works the combination with his right. In a few seconds, he brings out a gray legal-size envelope.
“Do you know what’s in that?” Garrett asks.
Washington shakes his head as he hands the envelope to Garrett. “Came to me taped shut. I never looked.”
“As your attorney,” I tell him, “I’d say you made the right decision.”
“Why don’t I give you two a minute,” says Washington. He rises from his desk, walks into a small bathroom attached to his office, closes the door, and turns on the faucet. Primitive white noise.
I pull my chair closer to Garrett’s. He grabs a slim letter opener from Washington’s desk and slices through the tape on the envelope. He pulls out a single sheet of paper and unfolds it, then stares at it. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I lean over to see what’s on the page.
It looks like a treasure map drawn by a mental patient.
CHAPTER
45
Seabrook, New Hampshire
After we deciphered the map, we thought about driving directly to the police station in Seabrook to turn it over. But then we realized they would ask where we got it. Garrett said he wasn’t ready to unravel that knot.
Not yet.
“Let’s see where the map leads us,” he said. “Then we can decide.”
The big fat arrow pointing to a location in Seabrook was the obvious part. It was only an hour’s drive from Boston. The map was very specific about a particular landmark, but Garrett insisted on waiting until most people would be asleep, then taking a roundabout route to the spot.