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“But they cleared him, right?”
“Seabrook did. Yeah.”
Bastinelli hears a dull vibration.
Gagnon grabs her bag from under the chair, pulls the phone out, and looks at the screen. “Sorry,” she says, “do you mind if I—”
“Go ahead,” says Bastinelli.
“Gagnon here.” As Bastinelli watches, Gagnon’s face tightens. “Wait. Hold on,” she says. “I’m putting you on speaker.” She taps the screen and places the phone on the edge of Bastinelli’s desk.“Okay. Trooper Hess? You’re on speaker with the deputy attorney general.”
“Right. Like I was saying, myself and two officers from Troop E are here at the Lake Marie location at the edge of the property, secluded area. And we just found a freshly dug hole.”
Bastinelli asks, “How big a hole? Could it be for irrigation?”
“I’d say eight feet long, six feet deep.”
“Is the hole empty?” asks Gagnon.
“Looks clean,” says Hess. “Like there’s never been anything in it. Hold on, I’ll send a picture.”
A few seconds later, Gagnon gets the image. Bastinelli leans in close.That’s no irrigation ditch,he thinks.That’s a grave site. “Trooper Hess, who owns this property?”
“Caretaker says it’s an LLC with a conservation easement. Tight End…”
The connection is staticky. Gagnon shouts into the phone, “What’s that, Trooper?”
“Tight End Limited. That’s the name of the LLC.”
Gagnon picks up the phone, takes it off speaker. “Thanks, Trooper Hess. Good work.”
Bastinelli is already tapping away on his laptop. As soon as Gagnon hangs up, he has the listing on the New Hampshire Secretary of State website. He flips his screen around so Gagnon can see it too.
The registration for Tight End Limited LLC shows just one name.
Cole Wright.
CHAPTER
60
Outside Hanover, New Hampshire
Garrett Wilson is driving south on I-89, trembling with excitement.
He’s alone now in the rented Corolla. He left the agents and their guns and their Suburbans behind at the airport—the airport where he spoke for two hours with Cole Wright.
After the interview, he drove to a Starbucks and spent the rest of the day consolidating his notes from memory. No taping devices had been allowed. The laptop holding all his notes is on the seat beside him.
Pure gold.
The story is going in a direction Garrett never expected. Mind-blowing! When this manuscript is finished, there will be a bidding war for sure.Bite me, Reginald Hamilton!
Garrett glances at the speedometer. Eighty-five in a fifty-five zone. Careful. This is no time to get caught by a radar gun. He eases his foot off the gas, grabs his phone, and calls Brea.
After three rings, it goes to voicemail. Again. “Brea! Call me!” he shouts into the phone.
She’s going to be so disappointed to have missed out on a chance to be face to face with the First Gentleman himself. I could have used her intuition back there—and her legal brain.