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“About what subject?” she asked.
“BIC, stands for Bunting International Corporation. Peter Bunting is the president of it. Heard of him?”
“Should I?”
“That’s why I’m asking you.”
“What did you find?” Paul wanted to know.
“BIC is based in New York, but it has facilities in the D.C. area because it’s a government contractor. Sells intelligence services. Talked to some of my buddies on the inside. They say the BIC government contract is worth a gazillion dollars but they don’t know exactly what the company does for it. Apparently no one who will talk to me does. Highly classified.”
“Some do know what he does. Otherwise Uncle Sam wouldn’t cut that check.”
“So you do know about him?”
“I’d say it’s time we met.”
“Where?”
“I’m in New York.”
“I can come up there.”
Paul said, “Up? So you’re in D.C.?”
“When?”
“As soon as possible.”
“Do you have anything to tell me?” Sean asked.
“I wouldn’t waste your time otherwise. How did you get onto BIC?”
He said, “Just good old-fashioned detective work.”
“I think you rolled Dukes, somehow she got scared, and she led you to them. And the price she paid for being weak and stupid was her life.”
“Do you really think that’s why she was killed?” he asked.
“Not really, no. But I don’t want to speculate right now. Can you be in New York by this evening?”
“I can catch the next Acela. Be there by six.”
“There’s a little French restaurant on Eighty-Fifth.” She gave him the address. “Say seven o’clock?”
“See you then.”
She clicked off and set the phone back down on the desk. She rose and went to the window, pulled back the heavy drapes, and eyed Central Park across the street. The leaves were turning, the crowds were thinning, and the overcoats were getting heavier. The rain had started, just a drizzle, but the darkening skies promised more foul weather later. It was in this sort of weather that the city was at its most grimy. The black and dirt and filth were revealed in all their abundance.
But that’s my world too. Black, grimy, and full of filth.
Paul slipped on her raincoat, put up her hood, and set out on a stroll. She crossed Fifty-Ninth Street and passed down the line of horse-drawn carriages. She patted one horse on the snout and eyed the driver. They were all Irishmen. It was an old law, or an older tradition, Paul couldn’t exactly remember which.
“Hello, Shaunnie.” The man’s full name was Tom O’Shaunnessy, but she had always called him Shaunnie.
He continued to clean out some trash from his carriage and didn’t look at her. “Haven’t seen you for a while.”
“Haven’t been around for a while.”
