Page 127 of The Instruments of Darkness

He killed the connection. To my right, Louis cocked an eyebrow.

“So what are we doing?” he asked. “Because right now it sounds as though we’re looking for four different people—Reggio, Maynard Vaughn, Mara Teller, and Henry Clark—which counts as a lot of looking.”

I started the car. There was no point in sitting in a mall parking lot while it was still daylight and we had roads to travel. It was about ninety miles from Topsham to Dexter, most of it along I-95. I could cover it in an hour fifteen, less if I really put my foot down.

“Dexter isn’t a big place,” I said, “so Vaughn shouldn’t be hard to find. Let’s just hope that whatever Southwood comes up with doesn’t lead us back the way we came.”

Southwood was as good as his word. He called precisely five minutes after he’d ended our last conversation.

“It’s a landline, registered to an Adio Pirato,” he said. “I have an address in Roxbury, New Hampshire. It’s on its way to your new private email.”

“You don’t have my new private email.”

“Actually, I do.”

Of course he did. He probably knew more about me than I knew about myself.

“Because you opted for the gold plan,” he continued, “I’ve also given you his car registration, contacts for his immediate family, and his rap sheet plus ancillaries. If you want financial records, that’s platinum level.”

“If I need them, I’ll get back to you.”

But Southwood had already hung up.

“Adio Pirato,” said Angel. “I thought we might renew acquaintance with that fucking crook before too long.”

Pirato was the Northeast point man for the Office, responsible for the smooth running of the syndicate’s operations beyond its main base in Providence, Rhode Island. When I’d needed to make contact with the Office during a previous investigation, Mattia Reggio had acted as the intermediary, and Pirato was among those with whom I’d been forced to negotiate.

I opened up Southwood’s anonymized email on my phone. The “ancillaries” included a confidential report from the Organized Crime and Gang Unit of the U.S. Attorney’s Office of the District of Massachusetts, outlining Pirato’s suspected involvement in racketeering—specifically loan sharking, extortion, grand theft auto, and insurance fraud—as recently as 2020. No mention of anything dirtier, like murder, but only because Pirato was too wily a fox to leave a trail. It was a long time since he’d pulled a trigger, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t induced others to do so on his behalf.

I showed the email to Louis, who read it before passing it on to Angel.

“I could have told you all that,” said Louis. “You should haggle on Southwood’s fee.”

“Old-school rap sheet, too,” said Angel, “though not any school you’d like to have attended.”

I dialed Pirato’s number and got an answering machine. I left a message before contacting Amara Reggio, putting her on speaker so Angel and Louis could listen.

“That number you gave me, the one Mattia called the other night, is Adio Pirato’s,” I said.

“Let’s assume I know who that is.” Old habits died hard, meaning she wasn’t about to discuss Pirato’s character or professional interests over a phone line.

“I’ve left a message for him,” I said, “but it might be useful if you left another. I’m not someone he’ll be eager to hear from, so he may not be in a hurry to return my call.”

She assured me that she’d find a way to speed things up. I didn’t doubt it.

We drove on.

CHAPTER LXXX

Dexter lay in a valley by Lake Wassookeag, where my grandfather and his buddies used to fish for trout. It was a vibrant small town by any standards, with a nineteenth-century library, a municipal golf course, and a small airport on its outskirts. The Dexter Police Department, which numbered perhaps six full-time personnel and assorted reservists, was housed in a whitewashed building on Main Street. I’d rarely had cause to deal with the Dexter PD directly, but it had a good reputation, which wasn’t always the case with small-town law enforcement. It even had a K-9 division, and who doesn’t like a dog?

We arrived at the station house just as a uniformed officer was locking up. The department was open for official business only from 9:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m., so either he was running late or had forgotten his hat. Outside those hours, officers were available by calling the dispatcher, so we’d struck it lucky. I saw the brass on his collar as I got out of the car. Here was the chief of police himself, Lyle Drummond. He was built for blocking doorways, but looked friendly enough, even after I’d identified myself, meaning he didn’t immediately try to run me out of town.

“Well, well,” he said, as he handed back my ID, “Portland’s own Sherlock Holmes. Should I be getting ready to lose sleep?”

“I wanted to speak with one of your local residents, Maynard Vaughn,” I said.

“Huh.”

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