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“WHAT ELSE CAN WE DO HERE?” asked Sean, as they sat in the small apartment.
“Not clear,” said Paul.
“Bunting had no incentive to frame your brother.”
“No. But that’s not the same for Bergin or Dukes,” she replied. “Bergin’s death delays the trial. Dukes might’ve screwed up somehow and made the wrong people nervous.”
“Granted, those are motives to kill. Although with your brother unfit to stand trial, killing his defense lawyer probably wasn’t absolutely necessary.”
“If it was even fifty percent necessary they would do it. And they might have been afraid Bergin would find something out.”
“Bergin was my friend,” said Sean.
“He was my friend, too. I’m sorry I ever got him involved in this.”
Sean’s phone rang. He answered. “Michelle. What? What’s wrong? Slow down. Okay, okay. Murdock?” He listened in silence for about sixty seconds. “I’m on my way. Be there as soon as I can.”
He clicked off and looked at Paul.
She said, “Murdock’s dead, isn’t he?”
“How did you know?”
“I wondered who Bunting was talking to so animatedly back there.”
“You think he ordered the hit on Murdock while we were watching him? While he was out walking with his wife and kids?”
“I didn’t say that. But Bunting is never off the clock, Sean. So you’re going back to Maine?”
“I have to. And Michelle told me something else.”
“What?”
“She went to do a recon on Cutter’s.”
“And?”
“And she swears someone else was watching the place too, just like she was.”
Paul’s nostrils flared. She seemed to be searching the air for a scent to go after. “I think I’ll join you up in Maine. Just give me a few minutes to pack.”
Five minutes later she was ready to go.
They cabbed to a car-rental place, got a four-door Chevy, and headed north out of Manhattan. At this time of night the traffic was fairly light, even for the city that never sleeps. They reached Boston in the wee hours and checked into a motel on the outskirts of the city because neither one of them could keep their eyes open. They got up at eight the next morning after four hours of sleep. That afternoon, several cups of coffee and two fast-food meals later, they pulled into Machias.
They had phoned when they got close and Michelle met them outside of the inn.
When Sean saw the bandage around her arm he gaped. “Did you get shot too?”
“Not really.”
“How could you not really be shot?”
“It was the slug that killed Murdock. It’s a scratch.”
Sean hugged her and Michelle felt his arms trembling.
She said softly, “I’m okay, Sean, really.” But she squeezed him tightly back.
