“Right. But you know who finally put us out of business? The government. Used to be numbers were illegal. Then the government called it a lottery and gives shittier odds than we ever did and now, bam, it’s legit. Gambling was illegal too, and then some online assholes paid off a bunch of politicians and now, boom, you click online and your bets are in. Marijuana too, not that my old man ever sold that.”
“But you were booking five years ago?”
“That’s around when it all started to tank. Why?”
“Do you remember a client named Ellen Winslow?”
He frowned. “She wasn’t one of mine. Reggie on Shirley Avenue took her bets.”
“But you know the name?”
“She was in deep, yeah. But I can’t imagine why you’d care.”
Eddie still wears the white pharmacy smock. Like he’s a doctor or a cosmetics salesman at Filene’s.
“So she’d have owed the Fisher brothers?”
Eddie doesn’t love where this conversation is headed. “Yeah, I guess. Davey, why are you asking me all this?”
“I need to talk to Kyle.”
Silence.
“Kyle as in Skunk Kyle?”
“They still call him that?”
“He prefers it.”
That had been his nickname when we were kids. I don’t remember when Kyle moved to town. First grade, maybe second. He had the white forelock even then. With the white streak against the black hair and kids being kids, he immediately got the obvious nickname Skunk. Some kids would have hated that. Young Kyle seemed to revel in it.
“Let me get this straight,” Eddie says. “You want to talk to Skunk Kyle about an old debt?”
“Yes.”
Eddie whistled. “You remember him, right?”
“Yes.”
“Remember when he pushed Lisa Millstone off that roof when we were nine?”
“I do.”
“And Mrs. Bailey’s cats. The ones that kept disappearing when we were like, twelve?”
“Yes.”
“And the Pallone girl. What was her name again? Mary Anne—”
“I remember,” I say.
“Skunk hasn’t gotten better, Davey.”
“I know. I assume he still works for the Fishers?”
Eddie gives his face a vigorous rub with his right hand. “You going to tell me what this is about?”
I see no reason not to. “I think the Fishers kidnapped my son and set me up for murder.”
I give him the abridged version. Eddie doesn’t tell me I’m crazy, but he thinks it. I show him the amusement-park photo. He looks at it quickly, but his eyes stay mostly on me. He drops his cigarette butt to the cracked pavement and lights another one. He doesn’t interrupt.
When I finish, Eddie says, “I’m not going to try to talk you out of this. You’re a big boy.”
“I appreciate that. You can set it up?”
“I can make a call.”
“Thank you.”
“You know the old man retired, right?”
“Nicky Fisher retired?” I say.
“Yep, retired, moved someplace warm. I hear Nicky golfs every day now. Spent his life murdering, robbing, extorting, pillaging, maiming, but now he’s in his eighties enjoying golf and spa massages and dinners out in Florida. Karma, right?”
“So who’s the boss now?”
“His son NJ runs the show.”
“Do you think NJ will talk to me?”
“I can only ask. But if it’s what you think, it’s not like they’re going to confess.”
“I’m not interested in getting anyone in trouble.”
“Yeah, but it’s not just that. If they really wanted to set you up for killing your own kid—and I won’t go into the million reasons why that makes no sense—why wouldn’t they just call the cops on you now?”
“The Fishers calling the cops?”
“It wouldn’t be a good look, I admit. Of course, they might just kill you. That’s more their style than this Count of Monte Cristo tale you’re coming up with.”
“I don’t really have a choice, Eddie. This is my only lead.”
Eddie nods. “Okay. Let me make a call.”
Chapter
24
Rachel didn’t know whether she was being followed or not. Probably.
Didn’t matter. She had a plan.
She walked to the train station and took the Main/Bergen line. The train wasn’t crowded at this hour. She checked her surroundings, changed train cars twice. No one seemed to be following or watching her, but they could be good at their job.
She exited the train at Secaucus Junction and headed for the train into Penn Station in New York City. Pretty much everyone else on the train did the same. Again, she tried to keep an eye out, but no one seemed to be watching her.
Didn’t matter. She had a plan.
She walked the streets of Manhattan for the next forty-five minutes, winding her way through various midtown locations until she reached a high-rise on Park Avenue and Forty-Sixth Street where Hester Crimstein, her attorney, had told her to go. A young man was waiting for her. The young man didn’t ask Rachel her name. He just smiled and said, “Right this way.” The elevator door was already open. They went up to the fourth floor in silence. When the doors opened, the young man said, “It’s down the hall on the left.” He waited for her to exit and then led the way. She opened the door and went in. Another man stood by a sink.
“Have a seat,” the other man said.
She sat with her back to the sink. The man worked fast. He cut her hair short and dyed it a subtle red. No words were exchanged during the whole process. When he was done, the first man, the younger man, came back. He led Rachel back to the elevator. He pressed the button for G3, which, she assumed, was the third floor of the garage. In the elevator he handed her a car key and an envelope. The envelope had cash, a driver’s ID in the name of Rachel Anderson （her maiden name）， two credit cards, a phone. The phone was some kind of clone. She could get normal calls or texts, but the FBI wouldn’t be able to track where she was. At least, that was how the young man explained it to her.
When they reached G3, the elevator doors slid open. “Parking spot forty-seven,” the young man said. “Drive safely.”
The car was a Honda Accord. It wasn’t stolen or a rental, and Hester had assured her that there was no way it could be traced to either of them. She checked the phone as she slid behind the wheel. David had just sent the pin drop.
Whoa.
She was surprised to see he was in Revere, not far from his old home. She wondered about that. Going home had not been part of the plan. In fact, David had been careful to stress the dangers in going anywhere familiar.
That meant something Hilde Winslow had told him brought him back to Revere.
Rachel didn’t get why, but she didn’t have to yet. She started up the car and drove north.
*
When Eddie gets off the phone, he tells me it’s going to be a few hours before the meet.
“You want to stay in my back room until then?” Eddie asks.
I shake my head and give him the number of my burner phone. “Can you call me when you know a time?”
“Sure.”
I thank him and start across the street. I know this neighborhood like the proverbial back of my hand. Things may change, but in places like this, not much. By the water, sure. There are new high-rises overlooking Revere Beach. But here, where I grew up, the row houses may have fresh paint jobs or aluminum siding or the occasional addition, but it’s all pretty much the same. A big part of my childhood was about cutting through every yard to save a step or avoid being seen or maybe it was just about adventure.