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Gretton had one motel, the Bide-A-While, with room rates so low we’d either traveled back in time or would be consumed alive by vermin in the night. Optimistically, if nothing else, the town also boasted two inns. Judging by the pictures on its website, the first promised prison mattresses and food to match, while the second screamed Gay Couple Heading for a Messy Divorce. We picked the latter.

“What now?” asked Angel, as we drove to the property.

“We find somewhere to eat,” I said, “then start making inquiries. If Reggio came here, he might have talked to someone. A stranger, especially one with questions, would have enough novelty value to be remembered. We may also be able to find out what Antoine Pinette and Bobby Ocean are up to, because it can’t be anything good.”

Which was when my cell phone received a call from a concealed number.

“Parker,” I said.

The voice that replied was old but firm, with the trace of an accent. Adio Pirato’s parents might have emigrated from the old country before he was born, but it had left its stamp on their son.

“The last time we spoke,” he said, “I hoped it would be the last time we spoke, if you know what I mean. You ought to make more friends, because I don’t have any vacancies right now—or potentially ever, in your case.”

“I’ll live with the loss.”

“It can’t be worth your while making new friends anyway,” said Pirato. “Your life choices mean you’ll be dead before you get to know them well enough, or vice versa. Is this a cell phone?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t like talking business on cell phones. Find a pay phone and call me back. You got a pen?”

I wrote down the number he gave me. We’d passed a gas station a block back, so I made a U-turn and pulled in. A pay phone—a rarity these days—stood beside piles of pre-packed logs and a rack of propane tanks secured with a chain. The gas station attendant made change for me, and Louis filled up the tank while I called Pirato back. I could hear conversation and music behind him.

“How much trouble is Mattia in?” asked Pirato.

“Maybe none,” I said. “Probably a lot.”

Pirato didn’t bother stalling. Amara Reggio had vouched for me, which was good enough.

“Mattia asked me to check on a license number. I still know people.”

“Did you come up with anything?”

“I got it here.” He read out the license plate number. “The vehicle is a blue 2016 Chrysler 200 Sedan, registered to an Ellar Michaud, Private Road Seven, Gretton, Maine.”

“Is that all Reggio wanted?”

“We shot the breeze, but he was only interested in the car. Will there be recoil?”

“Not from me,” I said. “If anyone asks, Amara found the imprint on a notepad in her husband’s office.”

“That works. When you find out about Mattia, let me know. You can use that first number. The machine will pick up, but someone will hear.”

“I’ll be in touch,” I said, “for better or worse.”

I was already re-dialing David Southwood’s number as I walked back to the car. Again, he picked up on the first ring.

“Yes?”

“I have a name and address for you,” I said. “Ellar Michaud, Private Road Seven, Gretton, Maine.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Find out if he has a sister.”