Page 53 of The Murder Inn

Nick zipped up the bag and took out his phone. His thumb hovered over the green dial button below the name of his latest therapist. He put the phone down, bit his fist to try to stop the tears. He googled the tip line for theNew York Times,tapped through to the blue-highlighted phone numbers, and again let his thumb tremble over the screen without dialing, playing thetape through to the end in his mind and trying to find something positive to latch on to.

But there was only darkness ahead.

And shame. Terrible, terrible shame.

He swiped the search page away and opened the phone’s camera, turned it on himself. The phone gave a little musical sigh as he began recording.

“My name is Nick Jones,” he said. “I’m a specialist E-4 veteran with the United States Army. I have something to report.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

DRIVER STOOD OVER the dead kid in the forest and felt old. Maybe it was the vision of the young construction worker lying twisted in the leaves, the gaping hole in his chest and his surprised expression, that was making Driver feel the years he had under his belt that this kid would never have. Maybe it was the adrenaline draining from his system after a night spent madly organizing the stealthy shutdown and evacuation of four of his drug labs, a stash house, and a distribution center from inside properties being stripped and reclad.

Moving a drug lab was a lot of work. He couldn’t risk just having his guys load up the packages and drive them off. Not now, while the heat was on. He’d had to arrange for other members of his crew to get into road accidents, pub brawls, violent domestic arguments to tie up the local cops and sheriffs, keep the roads clear of curious patrols. Then there was the decision he had to make about where to stash his operation until thisShauna Bulger woman could be found. Driver had just been thinking he’d get a good breakfast in and catch a twenty-minute nap in his truck when the gimp in the wheelchair and the washed-up ex-cop had killed two of his men and ruined his morning.

Now this.

Driver’s head hurt and his bones ached. Maynard and Doller, his guys from the dock, were standing nearby awaiting orders, cigarettes cupped in their palms against the wind.

“I don’t even know this kid’s name,” Driver said.

“Spitts,” Maynard said. He gestured to the corpse with his cigarette. “Regi Spitts’s brother. Regi started him a couple of weeks ago, just watching over a couple of corner boys over in Georgetown. Must have come over when he heard you was looking for the Bulger woman.”

“Well,” Driver sighed, pulling out his own cigarette. “He found her.”

Driver’s phone dinged. He looked at the screen, which was still full of unanswered call notifications. Driver vaguely remembered the phone going off while his men collapsed from the drugs in their saltshaker. He opened the message. It was from a guy manning one of his houses in west Gloucester.

5-0, the message read.

Cops had arrived.

Driver sent a thumbs-up. Let the sheriff search the house. Sheriff Clay Spears was a resident of the inn where Bill Robinson lived. Driver imagined the sheriff would be hitting all of his properties that day, looking for drugs or paraphernalia. News would filter soon enough to the residents who had hired Driver’s crews to reclad their houses. If Driver thought his phonewas blowing up now, he dreaded the calls that were to come from concerned citizens hearing rumors that their homes were being used for criminal activity.

“This Bulger woman,” Driver said, “is the biggest pain in my ass I’ve had in decades.”

The men nearby listened, nodding, wanting to smirk but unsure if it was safe to. Driver bent and searched the Spitts boy’s pockets for his belongings. He found a wallet in his back pocket, but nothing else.

A footstep in the woods behind them made all three men turn. Driver didn’t pull his gun. He didn’t need to. Both his men had the woman in the sights of their pistols far quicker than he ever could. He didn’t recognize the good-looking Hispanic woman approaching with her hands up, palms out. But the buzzcut and the fact that she’d managed to get within ten feet of them without being heard said to Driver she was either military or a cop.

“I come in peace,” she called out, offering a pained smile.

“Who the hell are you?” Driver asked.

“I’m a friend,” Karli Breecher said. “I want something from inside the inn just as badly as you do.”

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

CLAY SPEARS SEEMED filled with foreboding even before I’d explained my and Susan’s plan to lure Shauna Bulger into the boathouse on the bay. The sheriff leaned against a pillar by a red kayak with his huge arms folded, watching me skeptically, trying to find an out. Susan perched on a workbench near him, chewing her nails. The silence while Clay contemplated our proposition was punctuated by small waves that whispered through the creaking boards at our feet. It was a beautiful night out there in Gloucester, the water calm and black and the stars peppering the wide skies. Susan and I had called Clay, and we’d all arrived at the marina almost simultaneously, slipped into the boathouse silently to talk about our plan.

Clay had heard what we wanted to do. He did not look enthused.

“You know,” Clay said, “I’m busy. It took me just about all day to track down the phone number you wanted.” He sighedand looked through the windows at the setting sun. “I was managing my team and some guys I borrowed from Ipswich, searching all of Driver’s properties one by one. And here I am, at the same time, asking every scumbag in a Driver Construction uniform that I come across what phone number they were using to contact Marris.”

“We’re really grateful, Clay,” Susan said.

“Marris was a sometime prostitute,” Clay went on. “A drug cook’s girlfriend. She was also a known thief, in and out of jail all the time for hocking stolen goods. You know how many phone numbers she’s had in the last month? At least five. All burners. All untraceable.”

“You’re a saint, Clayton Spears.” I nodded.

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