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“I don’t know,” she said. “We just got here.”
“We’re back at the house now,” he said. “I’ll be here when you get home."
The thought brought her comfort. They would talk about Delaney’s death and what it meant — if anything — for their plans to expose the dirty investigation into Alexa’s accident and all of Leland’s other hidden crimes.
“I’ll text when we’re on our way,” she said.
“See you soon.”
She disconnected the call and looked around, watching as people hurried in every direction in front of the coffee shop. Richard Delaney — the man who’d let Frederick Walker shepherd his career in the Boston Police Department, who’d accepted the trade of his own upward mobility for not holding accountable the man who’d killed Samantha, who had almost killed Alexa — was dead.
Nick hadn’t given her the details, but she tried to imagine them anyway. She saw Richard Delaney stopping for coffee or a pack of cigarettes or a gallonof milk, saw another man enter the shop, pull a gun, shoot Delaney, leave him to die the way Leland had left Alexa and Samantha to die.
Was that how it had happened?
She didn’t know. She didn’t know anything, except now, no matter what happened, no matter how much evidence they were able to amass against the Walkers and the people they’d enlisted to help them cover up Leland's crimes, Richard Delaney — like his partner who’d died of cancer shortly after her accident — would never be held accountable.
She wondered if that was how it was going to be. If all the people involved in the coverup would slowly disappear until there was no one left to answer for Leland’s crimes.
Until the only two people standing were her and Leland — or Frederick — face-to-face at last.
6
Nick pulled up outside the warehouse and got out of the car. He had no idea what Clay wanted to tell him, but it had been too long since they’d had a break on the Leland Walker case. These days when Clay called with news, Nick came running.
He started across the cracked concrete, rocks crunching under his feet as he made his way toward the warehouse door. The harbor was only a block away, and the air was thick with the scent of salt and seaweed, gulls circling overhead, their cries carrying across the industrial neighborhood.
He stepped to the door and pressed the buzzer, then turned his face toward the camera mounted on the side of the building.
“What’s the secret word?” Clay’s voice was tinny through the intercom.
“Fuck you,” Nick said. “Let me in.”
An electronic buzz sounded from inside the door. Nick pulled it open and stepped into a cavernous, high-ceilinged room. It was empty except for a handful of tables set up at the far end, eerie light glowing from the computer monitors arranged haphazardly across their surface.
He started toward them, a technological oasis in the sea of concrete and metal. Nick knew Clay had a staff, an assortment of data analysts and hackers who worked for him with various clients, only one of whom was MIS, but none of them appeared to be present.
Clay came into view a few seconds later. “I almost didn’t let you in. You have to know the secret word.”
“What’s the secret word?” Nick asked. He’d never needed a secret word before.
“Coincidence,” Clay said, dropping into one of the chairs in front of the monitors.
“Coincidence,” Nick repeated.
Clay nodded. “As in, can it really be a coincidence when two people tied to Leland Walker die within a week of each other?”
Nick leaned against one of the worktables, his heart beating faster, instinct telling him they were finally on the verge of discovery. “I think you better tell me what you’re talking about.”
In spite of his diminutive size, Clay’s chair creaked as he leaned back. “Remember Karen LaGarde?”
“Of course.” Nick had driven to Haverhill, a suburb north of the city, earlier in the year after Clay uncovered the restraining order Karen had filed against Leland years before, a restraining order that had been the result of an assault charge, later dropped.
“She’s dead,” Clay said.
The words hit Nick like a sledgehammer. He had a flash of Karen’s smile as she’d exchanged banter with her customers at Raff’s Cafe, the way her hazel eyes had sparkled with mischief when she’d told Nick about the money she’d gotten out of Frederick Walker in exchange for dropping the charges against Leland, money she’d invested in an apartment building in Haverhill.
She’d been nice, honest, down-to-earth. Their conversation had been short, but Nick had been happy that she’d turned a shitty situation to heradvantage, that she’d made Frederick pay, that she’d gotten out.
