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“Noble thought.”
“I agree,” says Pope. “Just don’t let them fall on me.”
CHAPTER
76
Everett, Massachusetts
In the parking lot of the Encore casino, the man still calling himself Jack Doohan is getting some fresh air when his phone vibrates.
Not his iPhone. The other one. “Yeah?”
“Good job in Brattleboro.” It’s the same electronically masked voice with the same Jersey-mobster vibe.
“No problem,” says Doohan. “Appreciate the bonus.”
Which was well earned. This time, he’d done more than observe and report.
Up at the Vermont hideaway, he’d watched from the trees as two men entered cabin 19. He heard the soft pop that told him their job was done. Watched them take off into the woods. As soon as they disappeared, he put on his paper booties and disposable gloves and slipped through the half-open door. Subject on the floor; laptop on the table. Just as he’d expected.
He’d taken the laptop and replaced it with a kilo of his finest cocaine, some pharmaceutical utensils, and a bag of baking soda.A poor man’s drug lab. Actually, not so poor. The coke was worth at least twenty-five grand on the street.
The cost was covered, of course, along with his other expenses.
“We might need you again,” the voice says. “What do you think about killing women?”
Doohan shrugs. “I think about it all the time.”
CHAPTER
77
Hanover, New Hampshire
Igo to gas up Garrett’s Subaru at a Circle K. I guess it’s my Subaru now, but in my mind, this car will always be his. It’s as much a part of him as his ratty sweatshirts and beat-up tennis shoes. And that precious Martin guitar.
I wish to hell Garrett could talk to me right now. Garrett said that he met with Cole Wright at an airport near Hanover. You’d think it would be easy to find the right one in a state with fewer than thirty airports, but it’s not.
My first stop was Lebanon. The manager checked the records but found nothing. She said she’d been there six years and had never seen an incoming flight from DC.
Next I’d checked out a private airport in Canaan, but it was little more than a grassy field. I couldn’t imagine anything bigger than a Cessna landing there, and I doubted the Secret Service would let the president’s husband travel in a plane that small.
When I get to the pump, I notice the handwritten sign:Please Pay Inside.
Pain in the ass. That’s how my day is going.
I lock up the car and head inside to pre-pay at the register.
I grab a bottle of Pepsi from a cooler and put it on the counter. “I’ll take this, and forty bucks’ worth of gas,” I tell the gray-haired cashier who rings me up. I hand her a ten and a couple of twenties. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Questions and answers still free around here,” she says.
“I’m a writer and I’m looking for some background on the area. I need to talk to somebody who knows the local history, especially the kind that doesn’t get into the history books.”
“Local history? You mean like Revolutionary War stuff? They’ve got a historical society over at the library.”
“I’m thinking more recent history. This century or last.”