Captain Stanley Carmichael’s home was a Cape Cod, set way back on a lot that could have handled a much bigger structure. As José eased to a halt on the back left-hand corner of the property behind the house, he put his unmarked in park.
Stan had pulled up to his garage, turned off his car, and gotten out. He was now walking down the long asphalt driveway to the mailbox—like he’d been so distracted as he’d driven in that he’d forgotten to grab the day’s allotment of bills, flyers, and bullshit.
José glanced around to make sure there was nobody nosy checking out where he was. That was a nope. The other houses were separated by equally large parcels of land, the neighborhood being more farm country than suburban, regardless of its proximity to the Northway.
As Stan started the return trek up the drive, José thought back to when the guy had moved all the way out to the edge of the city limits. It had seemed like an impulse move after the divorce, and not a bright choice for a guy who had never been a cook or a cleaner, and was no doubt going to settle down with someone else right afterward.
Or at least try to.
Stan had cleared up the mystery about a year later. The place was apparently the spitting image of the house he’d grown up in. So that was the drill. Emotions and real estate were frequently linked together.
As José watched the man walk along, he had a realization that he was waiting for his mind to change its conclusions: Surely there was another explanation to all this, one that reconciled the man he knew with the kind of monster who could murder an innocent civil servant for the purpose of one of two things.
It was either extortion because Stan knew that Stephan Fontaine was a fucking drug dealer crook . . . or because Stan was on the take and delivering on a deal he’d brokered.
Either way, Stan had been the one to compromise Rio’s cover.
And perhaps she’d had something to do with that murder scene under that dealer Mickie’s apartment. Fortunately, it appeared she was still alive, so she could give her own testimony about that.
As soon as it was safe for her to do so.
Stan stopped next to his car and looked at the sky. Like he was searching for some grace or something.
Or for possibilities of where the wallet and the cell phone might have gone.
“Time to go to work,” José muttered to himself as he turned the lights of the unmarked on and put the car back in gear.
Hitting the gas, he went around Stan’s acreage, and then he pulled into the driveway. As his lights swung around, they picked his old friend out of the darkness, spotlighting him. The guy looked old, with his graying hair, and exhausted, with his wrinkled suit, as he lifted his arm to shield his eyes from the glare.
José put the unmarked in park and opened his door. As he got out from behind the wheel, he said, “Hey, Stan.”
There was a pause. And then the chief of the Caldwell Police Department slowly lowered that arm of his.
“José. What are you doing here?”
“I think you know, Stan. I think you know exactly why I’m here.”
Downtown Caldie was hopping, people all over the streets, going in and out of bars and clubs, eating and drinking indoors because it was too cold to be in the open air. As Rio stared out of the Monte Carlo’s smudged-up window, she still wasn’t sure this wasn’t all a dream. And yet it seemed so real.
Down to Luke’s cologne. Or . . . scent.
“Where are we going?”
As Luke put the question out there, she directed him over another three or four blocks. She wasn’t sure exactly where—
“There.” She sat up. “There he is. That’s the guy.”
Luke didn’t vary their speed and didn’t look over at the tall, well-built man who stood in the inset doorway of an office building that was shut down for the night. He just kept them right on going, smoothing his way around the block.
“His street name’s Chins.” She glanced across the interior of the crappy car. “The rumor is he’s Mozart’s eyes on the street. Mickie was jealous of him. I tried to get close to him, but he’s a totally separate operator. He just watches, and does deals to make it look like he is one of the rank-and-file others. He’s our best bet at a connection who might actually know Mozart.”
With a nod, Luke went around the block a second time—and then rolled up in front of the guy.
“Wait!” Rio said. “He’s going to see me. Drop me off—”
“It’s not going to matter. Trust me.”
As she ducked anyway, Luke cranked his window down. “Hey, you got something for sale?”