Page 132 of The Instruments of Darkness

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.”

CHAPTER LXXXVI

We dumped our stuff at the inn. Contrary to expectations, it was run not by a pair of gay men, but by a tiny retired woman named Bella whose tastes began and ended with exposed woodwork and ersatz Native Americana. Whatever happened over the next few hours, we wouldn’t be leaving Gretton without causing a ruckus, and it made sense to have privacy to prepare for what was coming. We also needed somewhere for Sabine Drew to stay, because I didn’t want her with us at the Michaud place. Our issues were with the living, not the dead.

David Southwood had gotten back to me with the information I’d requested, and more. Ellar Michaud had not one but two sisters, both of whom lived with him on the family property. The older of the two was Aline, fifty-five. Ellar, at fifty-six, was the eldest child. The youngest by a distance, at thirty-eight, was Eliza. Both parents were dead, and the siblings were now the joint legal owners of a considerable acreage of land, one that had been in their family for generations.

Southwood emailed copies of three driver’s licenses. Ellar Michaud was over six feet tall, and heavy with it. His sisters were smaller, but not by much, and neither was exactly pretty; in the right light, Eliza might have passed for inoffensively plain, and in the wrong one, Aline could have made a few extra bucks scaring crows. I compared the picture of Eliza Michaud with the blurred image of Mara Teller. The resemblance wouldn’t have convinced a jury, but it was enough for me. I was looking at the same woman.

Three vehicles were registered to the address: a Buick truck, a white Nissan, and a blue Chrysler. None of the Michauds had a criminal record, though complaints of intimidation and trespass had been made against Ellar Michaud by his neighbor, Den Hickman. The Michauds had filed no similar counterclaims, but it evinced a territorial spat that was always running hot without ever boiling over.

I was still looking through the license photos, familiarizing myself with the faces, when my phone rang again, this time from a number I didn’t recognize. When I picked up, it was Beth Witham.

“I asked around about Stephen Clark and that girl from Gretton,” she said. “A mutual friend said he couldn’t be sure, because it was a long time ago, but he thought it might have been one of the Michauds.”

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