

The Brothers   
by   
Michael Bronte

Copyright ©: Michael Bronte 2016

All Rights Reserved

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

To the brothers of Alpha Pi of Chi Psi, class of '74. You know who you are.
Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1... The Reunion

Chapter 2... The Mercedes

Chapter 3... The Investigator

Chapter 4... The Visit

Chapter 5... Natural Causes

Chapter 6... Back To The Old Grind

Chapter 7... The Wake

Chapter 8... I-95

Chapter 9... Who's Listening?

Chapter 10... Point Pleasant

Chapter 11... The Hospital

Chapter 12... Tinted Windows

Chapter 13... i Quattro Fratelli

Chapter 14... Paranoia

Chapter 15... Leaving Slick's

Chapter 16... Brother Bapple

Chapter 17... Death At The TipTop Lounge

Chapter 18... Saugus

Chapter 19... The Travel Plaza

Chapter 20... Bob's Barbeque

Chapter 21... Waiting It Out

Chapter 22... The Brothers Assemble

Chapter 23... Use Precaution

Chapter 24... Convergence In Cambridge

Chapter 25... The Thirty-First Reunion

PROLOGUE

"Party! Party!"

"Yo, Dirty Harry, you want a beer?"

"I can't believe this might be the last time we're going to see this place."

"Is that a yes?" the Inevitable Doctor Eisenberg asked as he pulled a plastic cup off the stack next to the tap.

"Yeah Doc, absofuckinglutely... I guess."

"You guess? Now don't go getting all _morose_ on me. It's time to celebrate. Four good years here, then onward and upward, I say. That's the way I'm thinking about it. And besides, you'll get to see the old Lodge plenty. They have these things called reunions, you know."

The Inevitable Doctor Eisenberg put his arm around his girlfriend who was still dressed in commencement attire. She looked a little sauced. Harry took a sip of his beer as he pulled up a barstool inside the Zeta Chi fraternity house. Across the way, a couple of young guys he didn't recognize were clumsily tossing darts toward the dilapidated dart board. They too were still dressed in fancy clothes, probably family members of one or more of the other brothers, many of whom were packing up cars for their final trip home, now as graduates of John Adams College, class of '84.

Doc said, "Are your folks still here?"

Harry answered, "Naw, they left a few minutes ago. We did the celebration dinner thing and I kind of ditched 'em because I thought a bunch of us were gonna get together and get all stinky, but clearly that's not happening. Where the hell is everybody?"

Doc just shrugged. "You know how it is. For some guys it's a real big family deal, for others graduation and commencement are just formalities and they can't wait to get it over with; you know: splitsville. I think a lot of guys have already scattered. Maybe some others will be along later."

Harry just nodded. "What are you still doing here?"

Doc replied, "My folks flew in last night and turned right around and flew out after the ceremony for a few days in the Bahamas. They're using this as a little excuse to get away."

"Aren't you going with them?"

"No way. I'm packing up the old Docmobile in the morning and heading out then; should be home in Chicago in a couple of days for some hurry-up-and-do-nothing time. Med school will be here soon enough."

"That's right," said Harry. "Congratulations, Doc. Tufts, right?"

"Go Jumbos," said Doc, pumping a fist into the air. "What about you? When are you leaving?"

"Same as you. I've got my mom's station wagon to pack up in the morning and I'll be home a couple of hours after that."

"Then what? Did you take that offer from Prudential?"

"Nope. Turned it down. Didn't feel right to me. Figured I'd take my time and go after something I was really interested in and not take a job for the sake of taking a job. I've got a little time... you know?"

"If you say so big guy, but speaking of time, I'm out of it. I've got to get Sara back to Mount Holyoke tonight before it gets too late." Doc put his arm around his sweetie and added, "They've got another week of classes down there, can you believe it?" She just smiled.

Harry said, "Be careful out there, Doc."

"Always am, brother man." They shook hands.

As the Inevitable Doctor Eisenberg and Sara were leaving, and anticipating that Doc might stay in South Hadley for the night, Harry called after him, "Say Doc, if I don't see you in the morning, have a good one, okay? As in, _life_."

Doc turned back toward him. "Yeah, Harry. You too, man. I guess I'll see you in twenty years or so."

"Yeah," Harry responded. "Or so."

Chapter 1... The Reunion

"Do you remember the time Stokes was making his famous bubble gum punch and he dropped that bottle of grain alcohol on the cement steps leading up to the porch?"

"Sure do. Someone flicked a cigarette and the whole thing went _whoooosh!_ Went up like a volcano and singed the eyebrows right off my face."

Another round of Genny Cream Ales materialized out of nowhere. "Whoa there, princess. This ain't like the old days." The young female bartender wrinkled her pierced nose as she thumbed to the other end of the bar. "I was told that if I got any protest from you two pantywaists that you need to take it up with Fighting Al."

"Aw come on, Bones," Fighting Al called out through the crowd. "One more won't kill you. I remember when we used to drink six of those before we even broke the seal."

"Yeah, well, now my bladder feels like it's the size of a walnut," Bones called back.

All around, the brothers were laughing and slapping backs. Nearby, another pair were talking. "Thirty fucking years, can you believe it? I gotta tell ya, Spike, you look like hell."

Harry just chuckled and walked away. He could see where this was going. Thirty years was a long time, and it was sad to admit but there were more than a handful of Zeta Chi brothers, class of '84, that he hadn't seen in that entire time. He was looking forward to this reunion.

"Well if it isn't Dirty Harry. Last I heard you were still living in Jersey and back to running the family practice. You still playing that gig, or what?"

"I am," said Harry. "My dad left the practice a few years ago and we've really expanded since then. I should have gone out on my own years ago but I couldn't see the forest for the trees."

"Ah, _perspective_ I believe that's called," said brother Zen, short for Zen Master, short for Zen Master of Motorcycle Maintenance. It was a long story.

"You're right about that," Harry agreed. "It's something I'm trying to provide for my kids now that I've got the gray hair to pull it off."

"Speaking of kids, how's your boy doing? I remember seeing him when he was still in diapers and you had already put a baseball glove in his crib."

"Well, he's out of school and doing some work for me, but I don't think going to law school and being a small town lawyer is his thing. He's thinking about going after his CFA and seeing where that leads him."

"Another investment analyst," said Zen Master. "Just what this country needs."

"I know," said Harry, holding up a hand. "But he's out there searching. Better he should figure it out now than get trapped into something and piss away twenty years doing the wrong thing. I learned that lesson the hard way."

"A lot of us went through that," said Zen Master. "Things are different now." He paused as his eyes shifted toward the entrance to the dumpy little neighborhood bar called Slick's that the Zeta Chi brothers had virtually taken over. "Speaking of things being different, check this out."

Harry turned. "No way. Is that Ducky?"

Zen Master chugged on his beer. "Look like he's put on a few l-bs. And, oh, _hello_ , who do you think _she_ is?"

Another brother they called Fish sidled up and whispered, "That's the new squeeze. Number three, I think. She gives new meaning to the term trophy wife, don't you think?"

"I'll say," said Zen Master. "Looks like she's got a couple of 'em. I'm guessing she gets on top most of the time."

Harry said, "She's definitely different from that UMass girl Ducky used to date back in the day. Remember her?"

"Oh yeah," Fish said wistfully. "Dirty Debbie. I think a few of the guys remember her."

They all snickered as Ducky made his way through the crowd. When they were within range Zen Master gave him a bear hug and called out obnoxiously, "Well look what the cat dragged in. Hello Ducky, nice of you to bring your daughter."

Ducky took it right in stride. It looked like he was used to them—or, more accurately _her_ —being the center of attention. "Hello Zen. I see you still have your sense of humor. I guess those activities down at the home have kept the dementia in check. Guys, this is Monica. Monica, say hello to the perverts."

"Pleasure," said Fish, shaking her hand and giving her an inadvertent once over.

"I'm up here," Monica quipped as she forced him to raise his eyes. "That's it, you can do it."

Ducky chuckled and said, "What's the matter, Fish? Something stuck in your throat?"

"How about a drink?" Fish said quickly as his face turned pink.

"I'll buy," said Ducky.

"For real?" said Zen Master. "Are you really gonna pick up a tab?"

"Go big or go home," Ducky shot back mockingly. "But you'd understand if you paid as much alimony as I do.... What's everyone drinking?"

The drinks came and they all laughed and traded more verbal jabs until Harry called for quiet. "Okay guys, I think almost all of us are here. The college reunion dinner starts in half an hour and we've got a big charter van coming at five o'clock to take us to the dinner and wherever we want to go for the rest of the night, including our hotels. No need to worry about driving, okay? By my count, there are eighteen of us here in case we need to track someone down at the end of the night or something. Let's have a great thirtieth reunion, guys—and ladies," he added with a smile. "This is our opportunity to renew old friendships, and I hope you're all looking forward to this as much as I am. We'll be leaving in about fifteen minutes."

"Nineteen," Ducky called out. "There's nineteen of us here."

Harry said, "I counted three times, Ducky. Who am I missing?"

"Hutch," Ducky answered. "I saw him as we were coming in."

Harry looked around. "Is Hutch here?" No one answered and a questioning look hung on Harry's face as he turned back toward Ducky. "Where—"

"He's up the street. We walked right past him as he was sitting in his car and talking on his cell phone. I'd recognize that hound dog face of his anywhere."

"Well let's go get him," Bones called out. "We can't have this celebration without old Hutch. Harry, do you want to lead the way? He was your roommate, wasn't he?"

"You guys go ahead," Harry replied. "I've got to make sure everything is squared up with the tab and check on our transportation. Tell the old dog face I'll be out in a couple of minutes."

"Will do," said Ducky as he put his beer down and turned to Monica. "Be right back, sweetheart, and stay away from the one at the end of the bar."

Bones and Ducky left, leaving Monica to make small talk with the boys. "So," said Fish as Harry motioned for the bartender to come over so he could settle up, "how long have you and Ducky been married?"

Smirking, "What makes you think we're married?" Monica teased. "Personally, I'm just in it for the sex."

Fish almost coughed up his beer. "You mean...." Then, breaking into a huge grin, "Go on. Ducky told you to say that, right?"

"Not at all," Monica said as she flipped a handful of dark, glossy hair over her shoulder. "Both of us have already seen that movie. Why would we want to do that again? No, we've both agreed to let it go this way for as long as it lasts, no strings." She paused, her eyes glinting. "He's really quite good in bed."

Standing there with his mouth open, Fish finally said, "So, ah, do you... ah, how do I say this...."

"Work?"

"Yeah, that's good. Do you work?"

"Yeah, I work."

"Oh. So what kind of work.... I mean, what kind of profession are you.... I mean...."

"What do you do?" Harry interjected, seeing Fish step all over his tongue.

"I'm an assistant district attorney."

"Assistant district attorney," Harry repeated.

"Right, Assistant District Attorney for the Northwestern District of Hampshire and Franklin counties."

"Hampshire County.... Wait, that's this county."

"That's right," said Monica, enjoying herself immensely. "So, are you boys having fun so far?" She suddenly reached into her purse as she heard her cell phone go off. The little sneer she was wearing faded quickly, and the fun she was having with Fish and Harry was suddenly over. "That was Ducky," she said, stuffing the phone back into her purse.

"Is something wrong?" Harry asked, seeing her change in demeanor.

"I think so. He wants all of you to go outside right away. It's about your friend Hutch."

Harry looked at Fish, who was staring back at him, then at the rest of the brothers strung out along the bar. "Hey guys," he called out, "Ducky just called and asked us to come outside."

"I thought you said we were leaving in fifteen minutes," one of the other brothers called back.

"I have a feeling we're gonna be delayed," said Harry.

Chapter 2... The Mercedes

"Is he dead?"

Most of the brothers were standing around the car while their spouses stood off to the side. "He's not moving," said Ducky. A couple of the guys pounded on the passenger side windows, but the big Mercedes was impenetrable.

A brother they called Bapple asked, "Why the hell are the doors locked? In my car, when you put the thing in park the doors unlock automatically."

"Unless you push the lock button from inside," another responded.

Harry came up behind the crowd, and, seeing him, the brothers stepped aside. No one said a word. He stood there for some seconds, his face drained of all color. "Is he...."

"He hasn't moved since we got here," said Ducky. "We've already called 9-1-1."

Inside, Hutch was sitting upright but leaning to one side, the only discernable detail visible through the reflection of the street lamp being that his cell phone was lying on the passenger seat. The silence among the brothers was deafening, so much so that the simultaneous arrival of a police car, an ambulance, and the passenger van that was to transport them for the evening sounded like an invasion. The van passed and pulled up in front of Slick's about two blocks down Newberry Street. Harry stayed where he was, looking like he'd turned into a statue. Ducky took a spot beside him while a police officer and two EMTs stepped up to the Mercedes as red blips of light from the ambulance peppered them mercilessly.

"Step aside, please," the officer said firmly. "What do we have here?" His nametag read E.J. Nekel.

Harry's mouth didn't move—or maybe it couldn't—and Ducky said, "We're all here for the college reunion weekend and we were waiting for our friend to show up." He pointed at the car. "We found him out here like this. The car is locked."

Just then, Monica stepped up beside Ducky and the officer did a double take. "ADA Brimton, are you part of this gathering?"

"I am," she replied. She took Ducky's arm and said, "This is my husband, Richard." She glanced at Fish, but a smile for her earlier ruse didn't quite make it. "Can you get in there?" she asked, indicating the car.

Officer Nekel took a look at the car and said, "These things are not easy to get into." He went around to the passenger side and flipped on a flashlight while the EMTs unloaded a stretcher bed. "I think this car has a keyless entry system. We probably need to call a locksmith to get in." Nekel shined his light on Hutch's body. "Does anyone know if he—"

"Break the damned window," Harry called loudly from the other side of the car. "We don't know if he's alive or dead, okay, and he's our friend. We may not have time to wait for any damned locksmith." The other brothers piled on, raising their voices at Officer Nekel.

Nekel glanced at ADA Brimton as if he was looking for permission.

"Well officer?" she questioned.

Guessing that was permission enough, Nekel took a stance next to the rear window on the passenger side. A moment later, glass was shattering into thousands of little crumbs and Nekel was inside and stretching across Hutch's body to unlock the driver's side door. An EMT moved in and it wasn't long before the look on his face confirmed what everyone feared.

Officer Nekel turned to ADA Brimton. "Ma'am, is this a crime scene?"

Monica looked at Ducky, and then squarely at Harry. "I don't know. Is it?"

Neither man spoke, and it was evident that Ducky expected Harry to answer the question as he stepped away from the car and moved to his wife's side. She was no longer Monica now, but ADA Brimton. Harry's eyes were frozen in their sockets as he tried to comprehend the reality of what just happened. He, Harold B. Curlander—nicknamed Dirty Harry—from Point Pleasant, New Jersey, and R. Todd Hutchinson from Boston, Massachusetts, had been roommates and best friends at John Adams College from the first day they'd pledged Zeta Chi in their sophomore year. That was thirty-three years ago. Hutch dead? It had to be a dream. The thought repeated over and over inside Harry's head and surely, he reasoned, he'd wake up soon and find that it was just a terrible prank that old Hutch had cooked up just to scare the shit out of him. Fucking Hutch; he'd probably been planning this for months. Harry refocused and examined the faces of the other brothers. Some of them were engrossed in hushed conversation; others were speaking in low tones with Officer Nekel. None of those worried visages gave the slightest indication that this was some sort of sick practical joke. As Harry's eyes settled once more on the slumped over body inside the Mercedes, it was obvious that it was not.

Monica and Ducky were both staring at him, and he remembered that she'd asked him a question. _Is this a crime scene?_ He tried to turn away from Hutch's body but found that he couldn't, his eyes jumping from spot to spot inside the Mercedes. "Maybe the old boy had a heart attack," someone said, but instinctively Harry knew that wasn't the case. Hutch had been an athlete at John Adams, that long hound dog face of his mirroring the long, coordinated body of a power forward on the basketball team, a body that Hutch had kept in shape twelve months a year by running and biking for miles when he wasn't on the hoop court. Now, as painful as it was, but looking at Hutch slumped over in the driver's seat, Harry could see that Hutch was still as trim and probably almost as strong at fifty-two as he was at twenty-two. Heart attack: no way.

Harry's eyes continued to move through the interior: Starbucks coffee cup sitting in the cup holder; cell phone charger cord dangling from the center console; cell phone sitting face up on the passenger seat along with a crumpled up bag which could have contained a snack from Starbucks or anyplace else. Nothing else seemed out of place; the car was spotless, inside and out. Hutch was wearing black trousers which even from a distance looked to be quite expensive, along with a black knit sports shirt under a grey and black tweed blazer, simple and classy attire. Like his own hair and most of the brothers surrounding the car, Hutch's hair was peppered with grey. It was well-manicured, and it looked like he hadn't lost a single strand of it.

Then, Harry heard the word: _suicide_. Who dared to utter it he did not know, and he purposely did not turn to find out for fear that he'd punch someone. His blood boiled as the word echoed in his head and it almost made him sick. He was sick, and his mouth had a vile, sour taste that carried all the way to his stomach. Harry wondered where Hutch's wife was, and how Hutch's three kids would react to the news. Who was going to tell them? It shouldn't come from the cops, he determined instantly. It should come from one of them, the brothers, himself probably, and already the words were lining up in his head.

Harry turned toward Monica Brimton. While being a small town attorney didn't qualify him as an expert on crime scene procedure, he did know two things. First, if there was any suspicion whatsoever that the victim—what a cold word that was; his spine shivered by merely thinking it—did not die in a completely obvious accidental manner, the scene needed to be secured. Second, along with a crime scene investigator, it could be important to get the district attorney on the scene in case search warrants were needed. No investigator wanted evidence to be determined inadmissible in court if the situation led to that. In this case, the DA had already arrived.

"There's no way in a million years Hutch would commit _suicide_ ," Harry said in a voice loud enough to register with whoever had uttered the word earlier. His eyes darted toward the group of brothers, but no one admitted to it. Ducky had his arm around Monica, holding her close in a similar pose to the other couples gathered around, but it was obvious that Harry was talking to her.

"I know what it looks like," Monica began, immediately regretting the words as Ducky gave her glare. "I mean, I know you guys were close and all, but you hadn't seen each other in years. How do you know what was going on with him, his health, his life? When was the last time either of you saw him?"

"What does that have to do with anything?" Harry answered indignantly. "I knew this man like I know my own brother. He was the best man at my wedding. But to answer your question, the last time I saw him was a couple of years ago, in Boston. This was no suicide, and this was no heart attack. I'd bet my life on it."

"So would I," Fish called out from the crowd of brothers.

"Yeah, no way," said Fighting Al, piling on.

Monica shot a glance at Officer Nekel who was clearly deferring to her. She nodded at him and pulled her cell phone from her purse.

"Everyone stay where they are and don't move your feet," Officer Nekel called out. "We need to establish a core area where any possible evidence might be located. I will instruct you on how to move away. ADA Brimton, would you mind calling for an investigator while I secure the scene?"

"I'm already on it," she responded and she stepped away from Ducky to make her calls.

Officer Nekel cleared the area and backed up his squad car, lights flashing, to create a barrier to the Mercedes. He strung some yellow tape between a couple of parking meters, and Harry and the rest of the brothers gathered in a tight circle across the street. The early evening air was cooling quickly as a late spring breeze carried the smell of frying onion rings past their noses; Harry thought he was going to be sick.

Fidgeting, he shuffled his feet while the other brothers went through various nervous gesticulations of their own. The half dozen wives present took the hint and gathered by the passenger van that sat waiting a few doors down the street. Harry looked at the faces of the Zeta Chi brothers that surrounded him. Even without speaking they seemed to shed their politeness and the raw personalities that he'd known thirty years earlier bubbled to the surface. There was Ducky, real name Richard Swan, soft and amiable on the outside, fiercely competitive and uncompromising on the inside, probably why he'd gone through two marriages before Monica. Fish was Donald Fischer, smart and analytical, one of the best to ever come out of Brooklyn Technical High School in Fort Greene. Fish had made a nice living as a mechanical engineer since their years together at John Adams. Fighting Al was just that, also an attorney, a litigation guy Harry remembered, his personality perfectly suited to what he did for a living; real name Albert Fiorello. Bones was Crawford Koch, ran his own company manufacturing fiber optic cable. Zen Master was Dave Zacek, owned half a dozen Papa Pete's pizza franchises in Philly. Stokes was Steve Sergeant. Harry knew he lived in Providence but wasn't sure what he did for a living. He did know, however, that there wasn't anyone more loyal to Zeta Chi than Stokes, who'd been the fraternity Number One during their senior year. Spike had been their social chairman, crazy fucker, real name Jimmy Wurfel. Harry wondered if he'd changed at all. Didn't look like it. In addition, off in the distance there was the Inevitable Doctor Stuart Eisenberg, inevitable because Doc's father was a doctor, his uncle was a doctor, his grandfather was a doctor, what else was he was going to be, Doc always said. Billy Apple, or Bapple, was present, as was Eddie Benton, also known as the Bambino.

Harry noted that some of the other brothers had already begun walking back toward Slick's, most of them shaking their heads. It was signal enough that they'd determined that there was nothing they could do. Wondering if he should make an attempt to assemble everyone, he decided they were all big boys and girls, they were all perfectly capable of deciding for themselves what they wanted to do from this point on. Indeed someone called back that it was time to head to the alumni reunion dinner for all those who were still going to go to it; they were already late.

Fish came over and put a hand on his shoulder. "I think most everyone's decided there's nothing they can do here except go to this reunion thing and have a couple of hundred drinks."

Zen Master came up as well. "You coming, Harry?"

Harry glanced at Ducky and Monica, figuring that as the ADA she would wait along with Officer Nekel for a CSI to show up, and that Ducky would wait with her. "I think I'll wait here for a while and catch up with you later, okay? Let me have your cell phone number."

"Sure, no problem," said Fish, then he and Zen Master turned and made their way to the van.

Harry looked away from the big Mercedes and said to Monica, "You wouldn't mind if I hung around for a while, would you?"

"Of course she wouldn't mind," Ducky answered for her.

"Officer?" he questioned to Officer Nekel.

"As long as you don't go past the yellow tape, I guess you're free to do whatever you'd like," Nekel confirmed.

"Good, then," said Harry as he eyed Ducky and Monica. He really didn't care if they minded or not, and he needed to find out what happened to Hutch.

Chapter 3... The Investigator

"So how long is it going to be before a CSI arrives? Hutch is just sitting there, for Christ's sake." Harry looked at his watch for the umpteenth time. It was going on nine o'clock.

"Well...." Monica began, seeing that he was getting more upset as the evening wore on. "Can I not call you Harry right now? Somehow the connotation with Dirty Harry doesn't feel right at the moment."

"My real name is Harold, Harold B. Curlander. My wife calls me that when she's ticked off at me."

"Okay then, Harold it is."

"O... o... kay."

"We don't exactly have CSIs in the local police departments in Hampshire County. We usually make do with one of the local officers who've been trained to process run-of-the-mill crime scenes when the need arises. For the more serious stuff we need to call in the state police."

Harry tried to hold himself back from using the word Mayberry, but he still wasn't doing a very good job of hiding his impatience. "Look, Monica—"

"Yes... _Harold?_ "

"We can't just sit here all night. Surely there's something you can do—"

"Listen, I've already called someone so just try and relax, okay? Rest assured that we'll get to the bottom of this."

Harry took a breath. He shot a glance at Officer Nekel who was sitting patiently in his squad car a few feet away. This must be the highlight of the guy's week, Harry speculated, getting to tape off a real crime scene. Then, that wasn't fair, he thought further. Outside of the college, Wallingham, Massachusetts wasn't much of a town from a crime perspective. It hadn't changed much in the thirty years since he'd graduated, a typical picture-postcard New England town with four high-steepled churches surrounding the central town square. Back in the day, John Adams was an all-male institution, and its hundred-acre campus was set apart from the rest of the town by a sharp-tipped wrought iron fence that over the years had gored any number of drunken fools who tried to leap its upturned spears after a night of attempted debauchery at one of the nearby women's schools such as Smith or Mount Holyoke, or certain debauchery at the UMass campus in Amherst.

"When was the last time there was a murder in Wallingham?" Harry asked Monica.

It was Ducky who answered. "Moving kind of fast, aren't you Harry? Let's not jump to conclusions." Ducky glanced at Monica to be sure he'd said the right thing, then at the shiny Mercedes inside the crime scene tape.

Harry wasn't buying any of it. "C'mon Ducky, you knew Hutch as well as I did. We were all inseparable back in the day, and I know you saw each other occasionally over the years. Were you aware of anything in his life that indicated suicide?" Ducky didn't answer right away. "Well?"

Once again, Ducky glanced at Monica. "Listen, I don't know everything that went on in Hutch's life...." He let the words hang there.

Seeing him squirm, Harry said, "But?"

"But, as far as I know, no, you're right, Hutch would be the last guy who I think would've committed suicide." Monica's scowl couldn't have been more obvious. "Sorry honey, but Hutch had it together, great family, great job... I'm afraid I'm with Harry on this one. But maybe things changed for him, Harry. I just don't know."

"And what about that crap about a heart attack?" Harry shot back.

"A heart attack was impossible, not with Hutch."

"That's what I said," Harry proclaimed.

Monica said, "You guys need to stop speculating and chill out. Any of that is for the medical examiner to determine. We'll find out soon enough what happened here."

Harry sneered and said, "Soon enough my ass. This is taking for fucking ever."

Monica was a big girl and she took it right in stride, but Harry was right. "Let me make a call," she said as she whipped out her cell phone. Fifteen minutes later a Massachusetts State Police car took the turn onto Newberry Street and crawled toward them with all the urgency of a drifting glacier.

Harry watched as the dome light came on, illuminating the lone figure hunched to one side punching something into the onboard computer. "I take it this is our investigator. What's he doing in there, writing a novel?"

Neither Monica nor Ducky said anything as it was obvious that Harry was determined to be a dick about things. Some minutes later, their investigator came out and poked his head into the window of Officer Nekel's car. The red and blue lights that had been flashing the entire time stopped abruptly and it suddenly seemed quieter for some reason. Harry kept his eye on the investigator, and it wasn't until he was within a few feet that Harry noticed that it wasn't a he, but a she, and she wasn't exactly young.

"ADA Brimton," the investigator greeted. "I understand you're the one who called in to the detective unit." She carried a long flashlight in one hand.

"Hello, Catherine. It's been a while, and, yeah, that was me. The scene has been secure for over two hours now."

"Has anyone from the local department had a chance to check things out?"

"Not yet. I called for you directly."

Catherine glanced at Ducky and Harry. Even in the muted light of the street lamp it was easy to see her eyes darting from their faces, to the Mercedes, to the surroundings, all of it happening in milliseconds. "Bypassing the local investigators is not the best way to insure cooperation," she said. "You should know that by now."

"I do know that," Monica shot back tersely. "I wanted you." A moment passed. "And only you."

Catherine's eyes resettled on Ducky and Harry, drilling into them. She said nothing. Neither did they. "You never were good at politics," she noted. "Who do we have here?" She aimed her words at Monica as if they didn't understand English.

"This is my husband, Richard Swan," said Monica.

Ducky extended his hand and Catherine took it like she didn't want it. "And you?" she shot at Harry.

"Harry Curlander," he said, keeping his hand in the pocket of his blazer. "Are you a _murder_ investigator?" He fired a look at Monica that said: _A sixty-year-old overweight female detective is the best we can do?_

Catherine produced her ID and said, "I'm Detective Catherine Pruitt from the Massachusetts State Police Detective Unit for Franklin and Hampshire Counties." She fixed a gaze on the Mercedes. "ADA Brimton, what makes you suspect there's been foul play here?"

"Things don't add up," Harry replied as he cut Monica off. There was no stopping him.

"Harry...." Monica warned.

Pruitt nailed him with a look. "Oh," she said. "And what doesn't add up, Mister Curlander?" She clicked on the flashlight and jabbed the beam into the broken out rear window of the Mercedes, making no move toward the car. Methodically, she swept the beam across the pavement, then traced a light path on which she proceeded to walk gingerly.

"Two things," said Harry. "First, Hutch—" He pointed toward the Mercedes. "That's Hutch; his name is R. Todd Hutchinson—"

"What's the R stand for?"

"Huh?"

"The R. What's the R stand for?"

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"Humor me."

Harry shot a look at Ducky. "Ranier... I think."

"You think?"

"Well, actually I'm sure of it. It's just that no one ever called him that. Everyone called him Hutch, even his family—or Todd. Formally, he used Todd as his first name, not Ranier."

"Ranier. What is that, French?

"I think it's Belgian, actually." Once more, Harry took a sidelong look at Ducky that said _help me_. "Again, what's that got to do with anything?"

"What is it that doesn't add up for you?" Pruitt asked, ignoring his question.

"There's no way Hutch died of a heart attack or committed suicide. No way in a thousand years."

"Why would anyone come to either of those conclusions?" Pruitt inquired further.

"I don't know, exactly," Harry admitted. "I think maybe people were speculating. You know how that goes."

"What people?" Pruitt asked, looking around.

Ducky jumped in and explained that they were part of a larger group of fraternity brothers who were back in Wallingham for a reunion and how they found Hutch slumped over in the car with the doors locked.

Detective Pruitt nodded patiently and turned back to Harry. "What's your relationship to the deceased?"

Harry hesitated, wondering why he seemed to be the center of attention. "Hutch and I were roommates and best friends throughout college," he replied. "Hutch was the best man at my wedding."

"So you were good friends?" Pruitt went on.

"Yes, of course," Harry answered. "I think I just said that."

"Of course," said Pruitt. "Sorry. What do you do for a living, Mister Curlander?"

Her eyes were unmoving, boring into him, almost glowing from deep inside sockets framed by a not-very-well managed head of shoulder-length grey-brown hair.

"I'm a lawyer," Harry replied tentatively. "Wills, estate planning, contracts, things like that. Why are you asking me these questions?"

"Oh, just curious, just curious," Pruitt replied. "One can learn a lot about a person by talking to their friends, that's all. However, being a lawyer and all, you're probably pretty well-trained to look at details and small bits of information that other normal non-lawyer type people would probably miss. Is that correct?"

Harry was getting the heebie-jeebies. "I don't know. I suppose so. Aren't you going to look inside the car?"

"In due time, Mister Curlander. What else doesn't make sense to you?" Harry hesitated and Pruitt drilled Ducky with another piercing stare. "And what about you, Mister Swan? You're here for the reunion as well?"

"That's correct."

"And what do you do for a living?"

"I'm a real estate developer."

"I see. Is there anything that doesn't make sense to you?" Ducky didn't answer right away, and Pruitt took a position next to the front passenger-side door of the Mercedes. She shined her flashlight into the interior of the car, making no move to touch the car in any way. Then, she shined the flashlight over the car's exterior and examined it closely. "What did Mister Hutchinson do for a living?" she asked.

Ducky said, "Hutch was an international banker. Did deals all over the world."

"Huh. Very interesting," said Pruitt. "But I'll tell you what doesn't make sense to me. There's a cell phone lying right in front of me on the front seat. I'm guessing it would be Mister Hutchinson's cell phone. Does that make sense to you?"

"What's so strange about that?" Harry asked.

"Big, expensive car like this, it probably has every gadget and feature you could imagine. Wouldn't you think?"

No one answered.

"And if that was the case, more than likely it would be equipped with Bluetooth, wouldn't you think? That's what I would think."

Again, no one answered.

"And if indeed this car was equipped with Bluetooth, and Mister Hutchinson had it hooked up—which I assume he did because a man in his profession probably had a lot of phone conversations while driving—then why would he be talking directly on the cell phone and not on the Bluetooth system, which is much easier and safer to operate than fumbling with the phone, even if the car wasn't moving?" Pruitt paused. "Nope, that just doesn't make sense to me."

She took a few moments around the car. "Listen, it's gonna take me a while to document the scene and collect any evidence that might indicate this is actually a crime scene. ADA Brimton, I'd appreciate it if you'd stick around in case the need arises for any search warrants, which I doubt, but one never knows and in my old age I've learned to be safe rather than sorry. Mister Curlander and Mister Swan, I think you two can go, but I'd appreciate it if you could leave your contact information with the Officer Nekel in case I have any further questions. Also, I'll need a list of all of the other fraternity members that were present at the scene before I arrived, along with their phone numbers."

"If you don't mind," said Ducky, putting on his best smile, "I'd like to stay with my wife until she's no longer needed here."

"I do mind, Mister Swan, and I'll be in touch. I'm sure Officer Nekel will be able to give ADA Brimton a lift when she's finished. Thank you for your cooperation." They were dismissed.

"Brothers," Harry called back to Pruitt before he turned to leave.

"Excuse me?" said Pruitt.

"Just now, when you said you needed a list of the other fraternity members; they're called _brothers_ , Detective Pruitt, not _members_. Hutch was one of us."

"Thank you for your cooperation, Mister Curlander. I appreciate it."

* * * * *

Harry and Ducky made their way down Newberry Street back to Slick's. Both of them were on cell phones by the time they reached the entrance where they dodged a couple patrons outside the bar catching a smoke. Their individual conversations lasted a few minutes, and they regrouped and went inside.

Ducky asked, "Did you get hold of your wife?"

"Yeah, filled her in on the whole thing and told her I might be here an extra day or two, depending on what turns up with this investigation. Speaking of which, what's with this Detective Pruitt broad?"

"Broad?"

"C'mon Ducky. Enough with the political correctness. You know what I mean."

"If you're asking if she's capable, I assume so. I don't think Monica would have called her in if she wasn't."

"I suppose," Harry admitted. "Just not what I expected. Did you talk to Fish?"

"Yeah, the alumni dinner is over and he and the other brothers are heading over to the field house."

"What's happening there?"

"Moody Blues concert, I think. I seem to have lost the reunion guide, but Fish said there are supposed to be some tents set up outside and I figured that was as good a place as any to regroup, so I told him we'd meet him and the rest of the gang there."

"Sounds good, Ducky. You can leave your car for Monica and we can take mine back to the campus. I'm parked across the street."

Ducky said, "Ten-four," and proceeded with Harry to the car. Harry eased out of the parking spot and proceeded back up Newberry Street past Officer Nekel's squad car, noting that a second squad car had arrived, its lights flashing, and they could see Officer Nekel and a second officer shooing away a few onlookers that happened to be walking by the scene. What Harry didn't notice was that a black BMW pulled out and lagged behind them as they passed the scene and took a left onto Prince Street back toward campus. The fact that an ambulance passed them going in the opposite direction, also with its lights flashing, made any notice of the BMW even less likely.

Inside the BMW, the driver punched a series of numbers into his cell phone. The call was an international call ending in the city of Doha in Qatar, where a Qatari expatriate from the city of Yabrud in Syria answered with the Arabic phone greeting, "Allo, As-salam alaykom." _Hello, peace be upon you._

"It's me."

"Is it done?"

"It is. All has gone according to plan."

"Are you sure?"

"As far as I can tell."

"What does that mean? I don't like the sound of that."

"The body was discovered just as we anticipated. I just don't like the feeling of uncertainty."

"Stay with the plan. We have researched this well. And the other one?"

"I am following him now, as we speak."

"Do you anticipate any problems?"

"I don't think so. It is night here, almost ten o'clock on Saturday evening, and I am quite certain that they are not aware of my presence."

"Who is _they?_ There is not supposed to be any _they_."

"He is not alone. He is in the company of another. I cannot control that."

"Then use your best judgment and stay with him until you are in the right circumstances."

"I always use my best judgment, and I will stay with him as you instruct."

"See that you do."

Chapter 4... The Visit

The ride took longer than he expected, almost two hours, but the early Sunday morning scenery was pleasant along the Mass Pike, and the huge trees that lined the streets of North Cambridge were just sprouting their leaves so that everything looked like part of an impressionist painting. Indeed, all of the old houses along Clifton Street were symbols of American life personified, if only one imagined them as such.

"The house hasn't changed much since the last time I was here," Harry said as he took a cup of coffee. "That was a long time ago. I think your kids were still in high school."

Suzanne took a seat opposite him at the large dining room table, setting down her cup and saucer but paying no attention to it beyond that. Her eyes glazed and red, she looked through the bay window of the old house, focusing on nothing in particular. "It's the only home we've ever lived in after we were married," she sobbed. "Hutch loved this place. You wouldn't believe how much work we put into it to make sure it never changed." She swung her eyes toward Harry as tears tracked down her cheeks. "I can't believe he's gone," she said, and she broke down into huge, heaving sobs.

Feeling awkward, he got up and made a move toward her but she put up a hand, stopping him. He sat back down and waited until he thought it was appropriate to speak again. "I assume the kids all know."

Suzanne nodded as she put a soaked tissue to her eyes. "I spoke to them all last night after I got the call from that police detective."

"You mean Detective Pruitt?"

"Yes, that's her. I can't seem to remember her name for some reason. It's not that hard a name to remember, is it? Maybe I'm trying to block it out. Anyway, she seemed very nice." Her hands trembling, she looked at him and added, "It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do in my whole life, Harry, telling my children that their father was dead." Once again, she broke into heaving sobs.

"I'm sorry Suzanne, maybe me coming here today was a mistake; maybe I should go."

"No, stay... please. The kids aren't flying in until this afternoon and I don't think it's a good idea for me to be alone right now. I haven't told anyone else about this, not a soul, not until we find out what happened." She looked him straight in the eye. "What did happen, Harry? What the hell happened to my husband?"

He did move toward her now, scooting his chair over to her. An old floor board creaked as he reached over and took her hand. "Honestly, I don't really know. I mean, we were all there, the whole gang, just having a couple of drinks and waiting to go to this reunion thing, and we just found him out there, in his car, with the doors locked. It was the weirdest thing, Suzanne. Why would he be sitting there in his car like that with the doors locked from the inside? Does that make sense to you?"

She took a couple of moments and suddenly looked up at him. "What are you saying, Harry? Are you implying—"

"I'm not implying anything," he said, cutting her off quickly. "It was just weird, that's all. I mean, I've known Hutch for longer than I've known my wife and kids. Never in a million years would I ever have thought that he would... I mean, knowing Hutch, I know that he had to be in perfect health, wasn't he?"

Suzanne nodded. Looking down at her hands, she said, "He just had an annual physical—the folks down at the bank require it for all of their senior executives—and outside of a little high blood pressure, he was just fine. And I'm sure the high blood pressure was all his own doing—you know, taking work home and never, ever talking about it. He kept everything bottled up inside. No wonder his blood pressure was up."

"That's it?"

She nodded. "As far as I know."

"And everything at work was fine? He didn't have anyone who was on his bad side or anything, any enemies, politically speaking, I mean?"

Suzanne pulled her hands from his and suddenly stopped sobbing. "Where are you going with this, Harry? You _are_ implying something. I know you. What are you thinking?"

It was suddenly a hundred and fifty degrees in the room. "Listen, Suzanne, I'm not implying anything—really. I mean, you knew Hutch better than anyone. What possible explanation could there be for him dying like that?" Feeling he'd gone too far, Harry suddenly changed the subject. "Listen, I'm sorry I brought it up." He held up his hands and backed away. "Let's wait to see what this Detective Pruitt and the medical examiner have to say. Hopefully there will be some logical explanation for what happened. In the meantime, what can I do for you? Anything at all, you just let me know."

Suzanne hesitated, but he could tell something was on her mind. "Anything at all, Suzanne. I mean it."

"There is one thing," she said nervously as she took a sip of her now lukewarm coffee. "The kids' flights are all coming in late this afternoon and they won't be here probably until dinner time. Would you stay with me until then? Please?" Her eyes were begging him.

"I'd be glad to, but don't you have any relatives or close friends that—"

She waved the thought away. "I have both," she shot back. "But they're all busybodies and I don't relish the thought of me being the subject of their gossip on the phone and their Facebook pages. And besides, even though we haven't seen each other as often as we would have liked, you and Denise have been as close to us as over the years as any of our relatives."

"I'd be happy to stay, Suzanne. It would be my pleasure."

Suzanne tried to put on her best smile. "So, are you hungry? There's a great bagel place nearby."

* * * * *

Staying until the kids showed up turned into staying until dinner was over, which turned into staying until a late May thunderstorm had passed. Like the deluge outside, there wasn't a dry eye inside the house the entire time. Hutch's death had been devastating on all of them. Now, finishing his second cup of coffee with Hutch's oldest son—they called him Bobby—Harry was pleased to see that Bobby had inherited the best qualities of Hutch and Suzanne both. Suzanne and her two daughters were in the kitchen packing up leftovers and loading the dishwasher.

"How old are you now, Bobby?"

"Thirty-two, but I feel a lot older today."

"What do you have, two kids now?"

"With a third on the way. You should see Maggie. She's as big as a house."

"I remember Maggie from the wedding. Beautiful girl. When is she due?"

"Six weeks. She'll find out from the doctor if he'll let her fly out here or not. My guess is not."

Harry just nodded. "That might be a blessing in disguise. You've probably got enough on your mind. I hate to lay this on you, but your mom is going to need a lot of support. She's a strong woman, mind you, but this came out of left field for her."

"It came out of left field for all of us, but I know what you mean, and I've already thought about that. With me and my sisters all living a plane ride away, she's bound to feel all alone. I'm prepared to do what I need to do. I think we all are."

Watching him, Harry saw the same inviting attitude that made Hutch such a valuable friend. He and the brothers always teased Hutch back in the day that he was like an old hound dog, and it turned out that they were right. Hutch was fiercely loyal to a fault, and if Bobby had half the devotion and steadfastness that Hutch displayed, he knew that Suzanne's angst would be as minimal as it could be. "When was the last time you saw your dad?"

"Just a couple of months ago, actually. We did some big bass fishing at Lake Amistad in Texas. It was something he always wanted to do. Those were three of the best days I've ever spent with him. I think he really needed it."

Harry considered the last comment. "And he was okay, and all? I mean...."

"If you're asking if he was in good health, or did I see anything that would indicate he'd be dead in two months, no, absolutely not. We even did some running one morning when we had a late start due to some rain that come through, and he seemed perfectly fine. I was the one who was huffing and puffing after three miles, not him."

"I figured as much. Listen, I'm not trying to pry. It's just that your dad and I go way back and I just don't get how... well, you know the rest."

Bobby got up and said, "Harry, I know full well you're not trying to pry. I've heard the stories about you and dad." He smiled and pointed at Harry's coffee cup. "You want another shot of caffeine for the road? Looks like that rain is clearing up."

"No thanks, Bobby. Any more coffee and I won't be able to sleep for a week. I just want to say goodbye to your mom—and your sisters, of course, and I'll be heading back to Wallingham."

"You're not going back to Jersey tonight?"

"I was thinking about it, but I thought I'd spend one more day in Wallingham. Another of our old fraternity brothers lives near there and I think I can stay with him tonight."

"Ah. That would be Ducky."

"Oh, you know Ducky."

"Oh yeah. He'd come by once in a while and he and Dad would drink too many beers and act like they weren't buzzed. I never fell for it."

"You're a good son."

"I try to be."

"And speaking of being a good son, I assume you're going to make arrangements to get your dad back here as soon as the medical examiner is finished."

Bobby hesitated as if he hadn't given it much thought. "Well, yeah, we'd have to talk about it as a family, of course, but I would assume so. Do we know, or do you know, when the medical examiner is going to conduct the autopsy?"

Those words were ugly, and they hit Harry in the solar plexus like a low uppercut. Looking at Bobby's expression, he must have had the same feeling. "No, I don't know," Harry replied. "But seeing as I'm going to be in Wallingham tomorrow, I can check things out for the family and give you a call. That is, if you'd want me to do that."

Bobby took a moment and said, "I guess it would probably make things easier, but I'll call you in the morning and if it's too much of a hassle we'll just take care of it from here."

"Sure, no problem. Your mom has my cell number." Harry got up and headed to the kitchen to say his goodbyes, but turned back to Bobby just as he reached the doorway. "Listen, can I ask you a question?"

"Sure, anything. What's up?" Bobby asked curiously.

"During that fishing trip, or maybe even more recently, did your dad ever say anything about what he was working on at the bank?"

Bobby set his coffee cup back down. "You know, now that you mention it—"

"Does that mean he did?"

"Well, no. It was the exact opposite. Why do you ask?" Bobby's forehead was suddenly creased, his face questioning.

"Well, your mom said he had a touch of high blood pressure and she was sure it was because he kept everything bottled up inside. You said about the fishing trip, 'I think he really needed it.' Sounds to me like he was stressed out about something."

"You know, he must have asked me about my work a dozen times during that trip, but when I asked him about his, he kind of evaded me and changed the subject immediately."

"Your mom said that he never talked about work at home."

"Not to her, but once I got a little older he and I would talk about it once in a while. Usually it was when I was having some specific problem and he'd describe a similar situation and give me some insight as to how I might handle it, but lately he shut that conversation down cold. Do you think he'd gotten so stressed out that it had something to do with what happened?"

Harry put on his softest smile. "Oh, I don't know. Just speculating, that's all. I think I'd be better off letting the medical examiner do his job than running my yap. Listen, it's getting late. Let me go and say goodbye to your mom and your sisters."

* * * * *

On the Mass Pike approaching I-91 north, Harry glanced as the dashboard clock and noted the time. It was almost 11:00 p.m. and he wondered if Ducky was still up. He activated his Bluetooth and called into the atmosphere, "Call Ducky." Moments later, the ring tone sounded over the road noise and Ducky answered promptly.

"Ducky, Harry here."

"Yeah, I know. What's up?"

"I'm on my way back from seeing Hutch's wife and kids—"

"Yeah, how'd that go?"

"I'll tell you later."

"So why are you calling?"

"Listen, I think Hutch was definitely into some stressful shit at work, I mean real stressful, the kind of stressful where he didn't even want to share it with Suzanne or his kids."

"C'mon Harry, we're all like that. If I shared half the stuff I go through at work with Monica, she'd be nagging me to death. That's more stressful than the stress." Ducky was right. "And she does the same thing with me," Ducky added. "To tell you the truth, sometimes I don't want to know some of the things she deals with."

"This isn't about you, Ducky." Harry looked into his rearview and wondered why the guy behind him was being a jackass. The road was wide open and the guy was right on his bumper. He would have changed lanes, but he was already all the way to the right.

"I know what you're implying, Harry, but whatever it was that Hutch wasn't sharing.... Well, do you think it was enough to give him a heart attack? To kill him? And besides, I thought you were of the opinion that there was no way in a million years that Hutch could have died from a heart attack."

Harry suddenly realized that quite possibly he was seeing things in the conversations with Suzanne and Bobby that just weren't there. "Maybe you're right," he admitted. The guy behind him continued to be annoying and he let off the gas slightly. Maybe the jerk would get the hint and go around. "Dickhead," he said into the rearview mirror.

"I'm not being a dickhead," Ducky responded. "I just think you're trying too hard to disprove some theory that you don't even know if it exists. I'm with you on this Harry, but I think we need to stop playing Dirty Harry and let the medical examiner do his job and determine the cause of death."

"Funny," said Harry.

"Funny but true," Ducky responded back. "Just chill out, okay? Where are you, anyway?"

"I'm about to get on I-91 off the Mass Pike, that is if this jerk behind me doesn't kill me first."

"Just take it easy. Sometimes being a type A isn't so good for you."

"Right, got it. Speaking of the medical examiner, do we know when the autopsy is going to be performed?"

"Well, tomorrow is Monday; I assume it'll be then."

"I hope so. Do we know anyone who might have an inside track to the ME so we don't have to wait forever to know the results?"

Ducky chuckled. "You mean besides my wife, the district attorney?"

Harry gave himself a mental slap upside the head. "Oh... yeah, I forgot."

"She's on it, Harry. We've already spoken about it. We'll give you a call tomorrow as soon as we get the results."

"Right, got it. Talk to you later." Before ending the call, Harry said, "Ducky, one more thing."

"Anything for you, Harry."

"I was just wondering where the ME's office was located. Do you know?"

"I'm pretty sure it's in Northampton."

"Thanks, bro. Have a good night." Harry glanced into his rearview and ended the call. Evidently Ducky didn't absorb the fact that he wasn't on his way back to Jersey but was heading back toward Wallingham—but now Northampton. He'd be there himself to get those results.

Chapter 5... Natural Causes

"What'dya mean, I'm not allowed in?"

"What'dya think I mean? It's not that hard to understand."

"Listen, the guy was a friend of mine, and I'm just trying to do a favor for the family."

"I am listening, but every poor soul that goes through here was a friend of someone, and the reason there's an autopsy being conducted is because the cause or manner of death has been deemed to be abnormal, as in violent, suspicious, or unexplained. Now, unless your name is on these papers as the investigating officer, you shouldn't be in this office."

"I'm a personal friend of the district attorney."

"And you could be a personal friend of the governor too, but your name is not on these papers as the investigating officer so he wouldn't be able to help you either."

"You know, you don't have to be so cantankerous about this."

"Watch it," she said sternly. "Why don't we just agree that I'm good at my job."

Harry looked away in frustration and she knew she'd won. So did he. "Can you at least verify that the autopsy is scheduled for today?" he asked.

Looking over her glasses, the old bird considered him carefully. She'd been threatened, cajoled, sweet-talked, and bribed by every defense lawyer, reporter, private detective, insurance investigator, and otherwise interested party for more years than she cared to remember, and her skin had developed into something akin to rhino hide. This guy was harmless, but rules were rules. "With which district attorney are you so friendly?"

A glimmer of hope. "Monica Brimton."

"Nice lady. You're lucky."

"Why am I lucky?"

"Because if she knew you were in here badgering me like this, she'd kick your tail all the way to Boston." She looked at the papers. "ADA Brimton is not the investigating officer, however."

"Ah, no, you're right. I believe that would be Detective Pruitt from the state police."

"And you would be right. As such, I hope you're also good friends with Detective Pruitt, because she's the one who's going to be receiving the results."

Harry saw the glint in her eye. "And when would that be?"

"Do you have anything else that you need to discuss with ADA Brimton?"

"I might," Harry replied slyly.

"Well then, I might suggest that you call ADA Brimton about that matter after three o'clock today."

"I'll do that," said Harry. "I'll bet you make a terrific turkey at Thanksgiving, don't you, ah..." He looked at the nameplate on her desk. "Ms. Rafferty."

"I do," said Ms. Rafferty. "All it takes is patience."

* * * * *

Harry gazed absently through the window. The restaurant was cute and trendy and the food had a gourmet touch to it, and it was about to make him sick. Looking at Monica pick at her salad, she wasn't exactly wolfing it down either.

"What made you decide to call me for lunch?" he asked as she sipped her iced tea.

"I got a call from Mrs. Rafferty at the ME's office."

"Uh-oh. I'll bet she gave you an earful."

Still looking into her plate, Monica smiled and said, "She just said you were persistent."

"That's all?"

"Well, not exactly, but she could tell you were really concerned with the autopsy results and asked if maybe I could do you a favor before you exploded and we had another unexplained death on our hands." When he didn't smile, she added, "Laugh Harry, that was humor."

"Oh, right." He forced a tight smile.

She looked up and pointed her fork at him. "All you had to do was ask, you know. You didn't have to go in there and get all John Wayne on her."

"You mean all Dirty Harry on her." He forced another uncomfortable smile. "My wife absolutely hates it when I do that. Won't even talk to me."

A few moments of silence passed and Harry took a bite of his Reuben so that he had something to do with his mouth besides talk. The sandwich had already turned cold and the cheese had become an oily wax-like product. Trying to brush away the awkwardness hanging over the table, "Where's Ducky today?" he asked. "Is he going to be joining us?"

"He should be on his way," said Monica, eyes still focused on her plate.

Maybe there was a diamond in there and she was guarding it, thought Harry. "Oh, I see." More time passing. "Do you work near here?" he went on, thinking how different she seemed than two days earlier. Her cutting sense of humor was now dulled by something more ominous, and what had been laugh lines at the corners of her mouth were now worry lines. She was still quite attractive, he noted inwardly. Lucky man that Ducky.

"My office is two blocks up King Street," she replied as she tossed her napkin on the table. She nailed him with a stare, a cold one.

"Listen, I'm really sorry if I embarrassed you with the whole Mrs. Rafferty thing. Sometimes I get my ass up on my shoulders and I don't think things through before I act. I guess I should have had the courtesy to call you and ask if—"

"It's not that," she shot back.

Her demeanor changed abruptly. Oh, there was anger, all right, and plenty of it, but he had the feeling that she wasn't angry at him. "Monica?" He looked at his watch. It was getting on two o'clock. He decided to follow his instincts. "Mrs. Rafferty said the autopsy results would be available today after three and that the results would go directly to Detective Pruitt."

"We won't need to call Detective Pruitt," Monica said directly. She leaned forward and clasped her hands high, almost as if she wanted to hide behind them. "I called the ME at home yesterday and asked him if he could get to Hutch's autopsy first thing. I've had the results since this morning."

Looking at Monica's manicured nails and how she twisted her fingers back and forth nervously, it was obvious that something was terribly wrong. Otherwise, she would have told him. "Tell me," he said. "Tell me now."

More time passed as the server came by and refilled their water glasses. It was agony. Harry steeled himself while never-ending seconds ticked away. "Monica?"

"Sudden and severe myocardial infarction."

Harry reeled back in his chair. "I can't believe it. Suzanne even said that he'd just had a physical recently and that outside of a little high blood pressure everything was fine. Did the ME say what caused it?" In shock, he just sat there shaking his head and it was hard to tell if he was really expecting an answer. "What else did the ME say?" he asked, finally refocusing on her.

Monica looked away, avoiding his gaze. Seemingly working up the courage to answer, she said, "The ME said there were no toxic substances in Hutch's system, no evidence of drugs or poisons that would induce a heart seizure."

Harry just sat there, his mind still caught in a whirlwind of possibilities of how Hutch could have had a sudden heart seizure, as Monica had just described it. "What about blood clots, or blockages? Did Hutch have coronary artery disease and maybe didn't know it?"

"No, nothing. No clots, no soft plaque, his arteries were clear. No wounds or bruises on his chest or about the heart." She paused. "He died of massive and very sudden cardiac arrest, without warning signs of any kind. The ME said his heart muscle contracted to the point where it obstructed the blood supply from entering the heart." She looked past Harry and a moment later Ducky pulled up a chair and gave Monica a kiss on the cheek.

Looking at their faces, Ducky said, "What's wrong?"

It didn't take long for Monica to fill him in. It took even less time for Ducky to come to a conclusion that up to that point had seemingly evaded Harry. "That means that if the ME didn't find any evidence that Hutch's heart attack was caused by anything out of the ordinary, he has no choice but to classify the cause of death as natural causes."

The comment caught Harry between the eyes. "But the ME also said that there were no causes, natural or otherwise, to trigger such a severe heart attack. How can it be classified as natural causes when natural causes were more than likely the least influence in this situation? It doesn't make any sense." They both looked at Monica as if she could answer the paradox.

"I've already asked the ME to double check the tox report, which he said he'd do, but barring any new findings there...." She paused again. "... he has no choice but to put the COD as natural causes."

Harry pushed his half-eaten sandwich away and wet his lips with some iced tea as he contemplated what Monica had just said. "Well, what about Detective Pruitt's investigation? Did she find anything at the crime scene?"

"That's just it," said Monica.

"What's it?" Harry and Ducky both questioned at the same time.

"If the cause of death is classified as natural causes, then there is no crime, and there's no reason for Detective Pruitt to pursue an investigation."

Harry tossed his napkin on the table. "This is bullshit. Something had to cause that heart attack, regardless of what that ME found—or didn't find—and this detective lady should be on this like white on rice. There's gotta be someone we can talk to."

"There is," said Monica.

"Yeah, who?" Harry shot back angrily.

"Me."

Chapter 6... Back To The Old Grind

Denise said, "Are you going to tell me about your visit with Suzanne on Sunday?"

Harry looked at his wife, knowing by her tone that he needed to talk to her instead of dwelling in the blue funk he'd been in all day. He'd hardly said two words to her since his return from Massachusetts the night before. Usually she was pretty good about not playing twenty questions and letting him process, but he knew something of this magnitude couldn't stay inside him for long. Truth be told, he always felt better after they'd had a chance to talk about whatever was bugging him, but he could tell by her sideways glances that her patience with him was reaching its limits and it was approaching lecture time. That's the last thing he fucking needed.

He glanced at the clock next above the fridge. It was five o'clock somewhere, he figured, and he poured himself two fingers of Dewar's, straight. "Glass of wine?" he asked with his back to her.

"Sure," she answered, surprising him. It was only four o'clock on Tuesday, three days after the reunion and Hutch's death, and he knew simply by her demeanor that she'd said yes because she didn't want to say no to him—about anything, not right now—he was strung too tight.

"How were things at work today?" she asked.

Another question. "Things were fine. I only missed two work days and everyone held down the fort with no problems. What are you making?" he asked, setting down a glass of merlot next to her. It was better that he ask the questions, he thought.

"I forgot to take something out to defrost before I left for work this morning, so I thought some linguine and a little salad would be good. That all right with you?"

"Linguine is good," he said agreeably. Half the scotch went down, and it went down easy.

"Do you want to make it and I'll do the salad?" she asked.

He knew immediately that she was trying to keep him occupied so he wouldn't dwell. "Sure," said Harry, taking her place at the counter. Denise moved off and took out a salad bowl. "The visit with Suzanne and the kids was terrible," he said, finally answering her. "The autopsy hadn't been performed yet on Sunday, and nobody knew anything about how Hutch could have died like that." He paused as he unwrapped a container of creminis for the sauce. "Of course, now that the autopsy is finished, things might be even worse."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Denise countered. "You said they ruled cause of death to be natural causes, didn't you?"

"Yeah, so?"

"Well, I don't imagine that having a cause of death other than natural causes would somehow make the family feel better."

"You see," said Harry. "That's just it."

"What's just it?"

"Yes, Hutch's death was ruled due to natural causes, but it's because they couldn't rule otherwise. They couldn't rule it accidental, and they couldn't find any drugs or toxins in his system, and there wasn't any evidence of foul play, so for lack of another reason they had to rule death due to natural causes."

Denise put both hand on the counter, palms down, and speared him with a look. "What, and it would be better if it was classified as a murder? C'mon Harry." He said nothing. "And I don't understand why you're so preoccupied with this cause of death thing. What difference does it make? The poor man is dead; the best thing we could do right now is honor him and comfort his family." Now she was worked up, and she finally sipped her wine. "When is the funeral, anyway?"

"You didn't know me very well back in college," Harry said. He let the statement hang there.

"No, I didn't," she responded cautiously. "We didn't meet until our senior year."

"But you do know that I had an older brother who died of leukemia back then."

"Of course I know. Your mother spoke about it many times, God rest her soul. It was like a piece of her went to the grave with him."

"It was the same for my dad," Harry said reflectively. "I don't think any of us ever got over that." He downed the rest of his scotch and poured another.

"I take it that has something to do with Hutch," Denise concluded.

"Did you know that my mom and dad went to counseling after Curly died? That my dad was drinking so much that he almost lost the family practice?"

"No, no one ever told me about that." Denise settled into a counter stool. "Are we still talking about Hutch?"

"My parents actually separated for a while, although they tried to hide it from me."

"How do you hide something like that?"

"Well, they weren't very good at it. My dad took an apartment across town, and he would come home during my college breaks, but I could tell something was wrong. When I found out it was like my legs had been cut out from under me. With my brother gone, and then with them on the skids, I lost all my focus. I thought: why bother? I was thinking pretty seriously about just dropping out and moving to Alaska, or something. You know, my version of chucking it all and falling off the grid, I guess."

"Were you serious?"

"Oh, hell, Denise, I don't know. As serious as I could be at that time, I guess. All I knew is that my family was shattered, and school didn't seem worth it to me anymore. My big brother was gone, my parents were as good as gone; my dad was basically a functioning alcoholic on the verge of losing everything in his own world... I mean, what was the point, right? I was on and off academic probation at school, more on than off, I think, on the verge of flunking out and getting thrown out until Hutch managed to help me out."

"Helped you out, how?"

"Looking back on it, he just stayed with me. We'd just pledged Zeta Chi when all this happened and it was our first year living in the Lodge. He got to know my class schedule and made sure I got up for class every day. He made sure I did my reading and got my papers in on time. He basically became my mother and told me people had been through a lot worse than what I was going through, and that he wasn't going to let me punk out and fail."

"Sounds like he was right."

"He was, although I didn't want to believe it at the time. He knew I had fallen into a big time depression, and he became my support system. When my parents finally divorced in my junior year, he helped me decide who I wanted to designate as my legal guardian while I was still in school." Harry paused as he contemplated his second scotch. "Now that Hutch is gone, I feel that I need to support his family in every way possible and make sure that there are no lingering questions about his death that would besmirch his reputation in any way."

Denise had no mercy on him. "Then I'm sure Hutch would be the first to say that drinking your way through his passing isn't the way to honor him. That's what your dad would have done."

Harry wheeled toward her as sparks flashed in his eyes. "You're right," he said bitterly, dropping his glass on the kitchen counter. "The way to honor him is to find out what killed him. There's no fucking way Hutch died of natural causes, and we need to find out who did it." Harry speared his wife with a look that wasn't very friendly.

* * * * *

"What is the status of the accounts?" the caller asked, noting that the call to Qatar went through cleanly. He could have been calling across the street instead of halfway around the world.

"They are still open and operating normally," the recipient of the call verified.

That was good news—so far. Both of them knew that the freezing of foreign assets was a complicated and imprecise exercise, fraught with political landmines, but the fact that the accounts were still accessible meant that they'd dodged a bullet—again, so far. There was no telling if the necessary actions for making the accounts unusable to them had already been put in motion, and there was no way to know who was monitoring the accounts. It would be just like the hypocritical infidel bastards to watch and wait until millions more had been transferred in before they _froze_ those balances. _Freezing_ assets was such a cleaner term than _stealing_ them, and it would be just like them to purposely wait until there were many more zeros in those account balances before they _stole_ those millions.

The silence on the line was a signal that the recipient was waiting, and the caller was glad that he'd obtained the latest update from his source inside the state police bureaucracy. It had been a cheap and easy bribe, and an even easier hack. "The report we've been waiting for has ruled...." He almost said _natural causes_ , but he caught himself just in time. "The report we've been waiting for," he began again, "has indicated nothing unusual." The cell phone the caller was using was supposed to be secure, but one was really never sure about that. If anyone was listening in they'd be asking: _What report?_ And they'd have to work pretty hard to read something into the words _nothing unusual_.

"I am glad to hear that," the recipient responded. "Where are you now?"

"I am in New Jersey outside the home of the accomplice."

"Does he suspect anything?"

"I don't think so."

"You are being paid to know so, not think so."

Again with the doubt. Someday maybe he'd have retribution for such insults. For now, however, he had no choice but to remember their mission and put up with the man's affronts. "I am sure he is not aware of my presence, _Mushir_." Mushir was the highest rank ever awarded in the Syrian military, a title the recipient still carried although he was no longer a soldier in the traditional sense of the word.

"See that it remains that way. Our forces are in need of those funds and we cannot let these infidels take them from us and funnel them to our enemies."

"I understand completely, _Mushir_. I will report back to you once I have verified that the funds are still in our control."

"See that you do. I will inform our allies that the jihad will continue as planned and that our struggle to maintain the faith will persevere. It rests on your shoulders, _mujahid_."

The call went silent and the caller put his cell phone back into his pocket. Noting that it was almost time for afternoon prayers, he started his car and decided to head back toward Route 35 where he'd spotted a little motel that looked affordable. It was just as well, as someone in a parked car wearing a traditional _keffiyeh_ was bound to attract attention, which was something he couldn't afford. Hopefully his headdress would not cause him a problem in renting a room for the night. He'd had the experience more than once that rooms suddenly became unavailable despite the fact that there were only two or three cars in the parking lot.

He pulled into the street and pushed the button for the air conditioning, feeling the rush of cool air that blew into his face. Point Pleasant was indeed pleasant this time of year, not too hot but quite humid, similar to Doha which at this time of day could be a sweltering cauldron with both temperature and humidity in the nineties. He'd say his prayers and have something to eat, then he would come back after dark when he would be less obvious.

* * * * *

Harry stared at the phone while the linguine he'd had for dinner reformed into a solid mass seemingly twice its original weight inside his stomach. He'd just gotten off the phone with Suzanne, who'd called and informed him that the family had decided to have the wake on Sunday and the funeral on Monday, and would he consent to being one of the pallbearers.

"Of course, Suzanne, I'd expect nothing less and I'd be honored. How are you holding up?"

"As well as can be expected," she'd answered. "The kids are still here, but to tell you the truth, sometimes I wish they weren't. I'm afraid that when they leave all this will come crashing down on me like a ton of bricks and I'll crumble into a million pieces."

She was talking out of both sides of her mouth. "I suppose you got the medical examiner's report," said Harry, immediately regretting that he'd brought it up. She was under enough anguish and this wasn't the time to talk about that. What the hell was wrong with him?

After some silence, "Yes, we did. I guess he was under more stress than I imagined."

Huh? Did he dare pursue that statement? On his fourth scotch of the night, he figured his judgment was somewhere up his ass next to his head. "What do you mean by that?" he'd asked tentatively.

"Well, what could have caused Hutch's heart to stop like that besides stress from work?" Suzanne had replied between sobs. "I wish I had known and maybe I could have done something about it, but you know Hutch, always with that stiff upper lip mentality. Is that some kind of fraternity badge of honor all you fraternity brothers shared?"

"I guess so, Suzanne," he'd answered, absorbing her verbal dart. Thank God he'd had the good sense to steer the conversation toward the funeral arrangements and where to send flowers, did she need any help with anything, blah, blah, blah. Eventually, however, he got back to the question that had been on his mind since his conversation with her son Bobby on Sunday. "Suzanne, one last question about Hutch's work, and then I promise I'll never bring it up again."

"Sure, Harry. I'm sorry for that last remark. I guess I'm more upset than I think I am."

She broke into more sobs, yet he still plowed forward. It wasn't going to get any easier with her, and he had to know. "Do you have any idea of what Hutch was working on at the bank that caused him so much stress?" Whatever her answer, he knew without any doubt that there was nothing work related that could have caused Hutch to have the kind of stress that would have caused his heart to stop. He was surprised, actually, that Suzanne was buying into that idea. Maybe she was grabbing at straws, looking for answers where there were none. Yeah, well, he wasn't. He waited. "Suzanne?"

"I think he was working on several things," she'd answered.

"Can you be more specific?"

"Well, I know that he was working with some investors who wanted to build a theme park in Germany."

Hardly something that would cause enough stress to give anyone a heart attack, thought Harry. "Anything else?"

"Why do you want to know all this, Harry? What are you driving at?"

Uh-oh. He couldn't exactly say _because I think your husband was murdered_ , could he? "I'm a lawyer, Suzanne. If Hutch was intentionally put into circumstances that caused him undo risk to mind and/or body, you may have some basis for a lawsuit against the bank. As cold and unappealing as that sounds to you right now, I'm just looking out for you and your family."

"Do we have to talk about that right now?"

"No, of course not. I'm sorry. I just thought as long as we were talking.... Well, perhaps this wasn't the best time to bring it up. Listen, do you need any help with the arrangements, anything at all?" Inside his head, Harry heard the word _jackass_ reverberating between the walls of his skull. What was he thinking?

"You can help with something, Harry. If you could fit it in, that is."

"Anything, Suzanne. Anything at all. You just name it."

"Well, if you could call all the brothers who were at that reunion last Saturday, I'd appreciate it. I know they're spread all over the country and they were just here for the reunion and all, but I know that Hutch would have wanted every one of them to come to the funeral if they could make it."

"Absolutely," said Harry. "Consider it done. Is there anything else?"

"Just be here with Denise," Suzanne replied. "It's all you can do."

"No problem, Suzanne. I'll take care of it."

"Thanks, Harry. I appreciate it." She paused, and Harry almost hung up on her. "Listen, Harry...."

"Yes, Suzanne."

"There is one thing I remember about what Hutch might have been working on."

_Hello._ "Okay, what is it that you remember?"

"A while back—gee, I guess it's a few months ago now—I remember Hutch saying something at dinner one night about him being in contact with the Treasury Department."

"The Treasury Department—as in the Treasury Department in Washington?"

"Yes, that's right. You know, with him being an expert in international banking and everything, he mentioned that they had a lot of questions about systems for international financial transactions and international currency exchanges, you know, things that he thought someone at the Treasury Department would know as well as he did. He thought it was kind of strange."

Harry found himself gripping the phone so tight that his fingers were turning white. "Do you know anything about what happened after that conversation?"

"No, only that he flew to Washington the week after, and he never mentioned it again. I don't even know if the phone call and that trip to D.C. were connected. I just forgot about it, I guess. I don't know why I'm recalling that now. Funny how the mind works."

"Yeah," said Harry. "Real funny."

* * * * *

He'd already called Ducky to inform him of the dates for the wake and the subsequent funeral. They talked. It was a waste of time. Harry tried to tip-toe into the cause of death thing again with Ducky, figuring he'd try to reason with him, but poor Ducky was caught between a rock and a hard place.

"C'mon Harry, my wife is the district attorney, for crying out loud."

"I know that, numb-nuts. Why do you think I'm bringing it up again? There's got to be something you can say that might convince her that Detective Pruitt should take another look at this thing."

"You're calling _me_ a numb-nuts? How much have you had to drink?"

Ducky was basically telling him he didn't want to hear it, not right now, and not after Harry had downed a bellyful of scotch. Harry admitted to himself that he would have done the same thing had the situation been reversed. The cause of death discussion was a dead issue for now, but Harry did get a couple of phone numbers from Ducky, numbers that belonged to brothers that he was now charged with calling to inform them of the funeral date. He looked at the time, noting that it was 9:45 p.m., and he wondered if it was too late to call. Fuck it, he thought, not for this. The first number belonged to the Inevitable Doctor Stuart Eisenberg. He answered on the first ring, catching Harry by surprise.

"Doc, it's Harry."

"As in Dirty Harry?"

"The one and only. I hope I'm not calling you too late."

"Not at all. I'm having a bit of a late night myself. Us doctors can keep some weird hours, you know. What's up?"

Harry thought he'd start out with the obvious. He'd get to the other topic he wanted to discuss in due time. "It's about Hutch's funeral, Doc. I told Hutch's wife that I'd call all the brothers in case they wanted to attend. It's going to be on Monday, Doc. The wake is going to be on Sunday afternoon."

"The family isn't wasting any time, are they?"

"I hope you can make it."

"It might be tough, but I'll try. Hopefully I can get someone to cover for me at the hospital and we can squeeze onto a flight out of O'Hare."

Harry hesitated, wondering how he should pursue the conversation. "Shame about what happened with Hutch, isn't it Doc?"

"Sure is. I assume they've already had the autopsy and determined a cause of death."

"Now that you mention it, Doc, I wanted to ask you about that."

Doc must have sensed something in his voice. "Is something bothering you, Harry?"

Harry thought he'd come at it from the side. "Sort of, Doc, I know you've been a doctor for twenty years."

"Longer than that," Doc corrected.

"And you're a pediatrician, right?"

"That's correct."

"Well then, I'm not so sure I should be asking you this question, but in all that time have you ever heard of anyone's heart stopping where there was nothing to predict or indicate that it could happen? I mean, none, no issues with the heart, no coronary artery disease, nothing."

"Harry, are you telling me Hutch died of a heart attack last Saturday night, and the autopsy didn't reveal any symptoms or indications from inside the body that there was a problem?"

"That's exactly what I'm telling you, and furthermore the report said there were no poisons or toxins in his system."

Harry expected some reaction, but all he got was a practiced and restrained doctorly, _Uh-huh_. "You don't believe me," he shot back.

"Well, I'm not a medical examiner...." Doc began.

"C'mon Doc, you don't need to take that path with me; I want to hear what you have to say." Harry could almost hear Doc backing up.

"Listen, Harry, I know Hutch was a dear friend, he was a friend to all of us, but even friends have problems."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that there are several drugs that could induce severe myocardial infarction. I hate to say it, but maybe Hutch had a drug problem."

Harry didn't want to sound argumentative. "There were no drugs in his system either, Doc," he said calmly.

"Oh, now that _is_ interesting," said Doc. "You saw the report?"

"I got the information from Ducky's wife, Monica, the ADA—did you meet her Saturday night?"

"Not really, she was kind of preoccupied after the police arrived." Doc took a few moments. "What are you trying to tell me?" he finally asked.

"Well, doesn't that sound fishy to you? I mean, a guy doesn't just up and drop dead out of the blue like that and there's nothing to indicate what caused it to happen."

Once again, Doc let out with a doctorly, " _Hmm_. Based on what you said, it does sound rather strange, but maybe the investigation will find some explanation for what happened."

Finally, thought Harry. "That's just it, Doc. Because the medical examiner didn't find any evidence of foul play, he attributed cause of death to come from natural causes. There isn't going to be any investigation."

"Oh," said Doc. "That does sound strange." Then, "What the hell is up with that?"

"Now you're seeing things from my point of view." From a logic perspective, Harry figured he'd gone as far as he could in the conversation, so he popped the question he'd been dying to ask for the last few minutes. "Do you think you could help me out with this, Doc?"

"Help you out, how? I've already told you, I'm a pediatrician, Harry, not a medical examiner. And besides, they've already released the body back to the family. Once the interment takes place, there's not going to be much anyone can do."

"Well, I was hoping maybe you could make a couple of calls. You know, just nose around a little and ask a couple of questions from some of your doctor friends about how a perfectly healthy man suddenly dies from a massive myocardial infarction with no warning whatsoever. Surely you know someone who might be able to give us some idea of whether something like that is even possible."

"I'm sure it's possible," said Doc, "but I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks, Doc. I knew I could count on you."

"Sure Harry, but don't get your hopes up. I'm sure that medical examiner did a thorough job and unless he can specifically point to death by accident, overly dangerous risk, suicide, or homicide, he might have no choice but to classify the cause of death as an internal malfunction of the body simply because he can't point to some external force."

He was talking doctor talk now, thought Harry, but essentially Doc was saying the same thing Monica said on Sunday. "Anything you can do would be great, Doc. Maybe you could even have a doctor-to-doctor talk with the medical examiner."

"Now you're pressing, Harry. Take it easy on me, will ya'?"

"Okay, sorry Doc. I get wound up once in a while. Hope I see you at the funeral."

"Sure, Harry. I'll let you know if I come across anything worth talking about further."

They both hung up and Harry looked at the list of phone numbers in front of him on the desk. It was gonna take a while to get through them all, and he thought about who to call next.

Chapter 7... The Wake

One by one the visitors stepped to the casket. Some of them said a prayer and made a quick sign of the cross. For others it was a quick touch on Hutch's sleeve and then on to the receiving line where Suzanne and the kids bravely held it together along with Hutch's mom and two brothers, either of whom could have been his twin. The place was packed to overflowing, a sea of black and grey with pops of white pearl or diamond glitter, the scents of expensive perfumes blending into an amorphous nasal fog hanging in the listless air of the funeral home. Funeral directors who didn't look pleased that they were working on a Sunday tried their best to keep pathways clear, their obvious gold name badges hanging heavily on well-worn suitcoats. Their long countenances only reflected the somberness of the moment.

For the friends and social acquaintances, the wide-eyed look of shock accompanied concerned utterances of requisite offerings to help in any way to Suzanne and the family. For the businesspeople in the room, the same wide-eyed look of shock was the foundation of yet another expression, which was more like panic than not. Clearly no one at the bank was prepared to take on Hutch's role there, and the huddled bodies and concerned undertones of conversation about who was going to take his place was a main topic of hushed but obviously important discussion.

Having done their duty and offered the obligatory condolences, the Zeta Chi brothers gathered in their own tight circle in the back of the seating area, knowing that the best thing they could do at the moment was to offer spiritual support for Suzanne and the family simply by being there. That being said, for this group that only contributed to their common, unexplainable feeling of being totally fucking pissed off. The wives knew better than to stand with their spouses and they decided to move off, gathering in their own circle a few feet away, except for Monica, who was taking it head-on.

"I've already told you guys, I've tried until I was blue in the face to get an investigation going on this, but there is no evidence to warrant one. As an _assistant_ district attorney, I still need to have the DA's blessing to devote resources to an investigation, and based on what I just told you, well, I got nothing." Monica looked sympathetic, and she seemed sincere, but with this group that didn't do much to console them.

Fighting Al was the first to speak out, not aiming his comment directly at Monica, but when he said, "That's bullshit," he got more than an eyeful from Ducky.

"C'mon Al, don't be a dick, huh?"

Suddenly realizing he was indeed being just that, Al said, "Oh, sorry Ducky... and Monica, that wasn't directed at you. But I deal with presentation of evidence in my practice all the time, and I know that sometimes it's just a matter of finding someone to listen who has enough juice to grant a pretrial conference."

That didn't do much to cool Monica's jets, who said to Ducky in full voice, "Who is this guy?"

"We call him Fighting Al for a reason," Ducky replied. He then aimed his chin straight at him and said, "Ain't changed much over the years, have you Al?"

All juiced up now, Monica fired back, "This isn't a civil case, _Al_ , and there is no evidence to present. If there was, we'd have to hand it to a grand jury to see if it was enough to bring criminal charges. If you're a lawyer, you should know that."

Al just said, "Oops."

Harry recalled his conversation with Fighting Al from the previous Tuesday when he'd called him right after speaking with Doc. "Hey Al, you're licensed in Massachusetts, aren't you?" Harry had asked.

"That's right, my office is in Springfield."

"So what kind of law do you practice?"

"I do a little 'a this, and little 'a that, some personal injury or malpractice sometimes, maybe a little contract negotiation here and there. I have some steady clients with various needs. You know how that goes, right Harry?"

Al's non-answer was answer enough and Harry was starting to get the picture. "Sure Al, I know all about those kinds of contracts. How's your business?"

"My last name is Fiorello, Harry. It finds me, you know what I mean?"

The picture was getting clearer. "So let me ask you something."

"Shoot."

"Given the fact that Hutch died of a severe myocardial infarction and he just had a physical shortly before that, could there be a case against the examining physician?"

Al was sharp. "I'm not sure what you're driving at, Harry, except that if there was something wrong with Hutch and it was missed, there could be a basis for a malpractice suit for the benefit of the family, but you'd have to prove such. If indeed there wasn't anything significantly wrong, however, and the examining physician did his job properly, then there's no basis for a malpractice suit and poor old Hutch just bought the farm of his own accord."

"But would the filing of a malpractice civil suit be the catalyst that could start an investigation into this whole thing?" Harry asked. "I mean, that's all we're after, right, an investigation?"

"Quite the sly little devil, aren't you Harry. It could be. I'd have to check it out."

"And would you be willing to help with that, pro bono?"

"For old Hutch or his family? Count me in."

That's the way it had gone the preceding Tuesday night and into the next day before the wake when Harry had called the brothers to inform them of the wake and the funeral date. He knew what each of them did for a living, and to a man each of them had indicated their willingness to do what they could, if asked, to find out what really killed Hutch. If the fucking authorities weren't going to investigate Hutch's death, the brothers would.

* * * * *

Fish ordered a couple of beers and stabbed a piece of rumaki with a toothpick on his way past the buffet. He handed one of the beers to Harry who said, "I thought Jews didn't eat bacon."

"I'm not," said Fish. "I'm doing the chicken liver."

"Oh," said Harry, his grin widening. "What did you find out?"

Fish huddled up close as if the KGB was listening in. "I found out there are two ATMs located on Newberry Street in Wallingham near Slick's. Slick's is in the middle of the block, and one ATM is at a bank located on the corner just up the street. The other is a standalone location either on the street or inside the entrance of a building, I think. I couldn't tell when I zoomed in on the Google Maps thing on the computer."

Harry just shook his head. "So?"

"So," said Fish, "I figured banks and ATM locations probably have security cameras rolling twenty-four-seven, don't you think?"

Harry clinked Fish's beer and said, "I knew all those rumors about you being slow on the uptake weren't true."

Fish smiled back. "I was the one who started those rumors. That's how I cleaned up on you guys at the poker table."

"Right," said Harry, knowing Fish was anything but dumb. "How'd you come up with the security camera idea?"

"Hell," said Fish, "I figured in this day and age someone or something is recording everything. That, and I picked up on it when I was watching a cop show on TV."

"Whatever works," said Harry, and he made a visual sweep of the restaurant room the family had booked, knowing there would be a lot of out of town friends attending the wake and that they'd need a place to eat afterwards. Like the wake itself, the room was packed and Harry knew he should be getting back to Denise. "What's your next step?"

"Well, Wallingham is only half an hour off the Mass Pike. On the way home to Hartford after the funeral tomorrow, I figured I could take a little detour and hit Newberry Street in person and check out if there could be other security cameras in the area that might have caught Hutch's car in their sights. Who knows what we might find?"

Fish was being hopeful now. "And how do you suppose we'd get hold of those surveillance recordings if we wanted them?" Harry asked.

"Beats me," said Fish. "Do I have to do everything?"

And so it went. Harry did a mental duty roster of the brothers present. Besides himself, Harry could now count four other brothers who so far had agreed to "check things out" or "do what they could" to prove—mostly to themselves, at this point—that something was very wrong with the way Hutch had died. Doc was checking with his doctor friends. Fish was on the security camera hunt. Fighting Al was looking into what it would take to file a malpractice suit against the doctor who performed Hutch's physical. Ducky was going to continue to work on Monica to get her to try and convince her boss to open an investigation. The momentum was building. Of the remaining seven brothers, two of them didn't understand why he, Harry, was so gung-ho on this matter, while the other five were wary, to say the least.

Harry's next thought was that he was being kind to himself. A bunch of fifty-two-year-old civilians investigating a murder? No, wait; it wasn't even classified as a murder yet. The other brothers probably weren't wary; they probably thought he was a whack job. Was he? Did his wife think that? He looked at his reflection in the mirrored wall behind the service bar and suddenly felt as if everyone was watching him for signs of premature senility. Besides Hutch, he'd always been close to Fish and he offered to buy him a drink at the main bar which was in another part of the restaurant.

"Do you guys all think I'm nuts?" Harry asked, coming right out with it.

"You mean this investigation thing?" Fish responded. "I'm not sure."

"You're not sure I'm nuts, or you're not sure what the others think?"

"What does it matter what the others think?"

Surprised by the question, Harry bought himself a moment by ordering two Johnnie Walker Blacks, neat. "I think maybe some of the other brothers think I'm being overly dramatic and meddling into something that's none of my business."

"We were brothers, Harry. We _are_ brothers. Don't ever forget that."

"It was just a fraternity house, Fish. You know, living arrangements at college over thirty years ago. It's not like we were real brothers."

The scotch came and Fish downed it in one gulp. He ordered two more with water back. "Is that so?" he asked. "And what about the time in our junior year when Stokes' dad lost his job and Stokes said he was going to drop out."

"I remember that," said Harry. "We elected him to be a kitchen steward so he wouldn't have to pay room and board and could stay in school."

"And what about when Bapple went to Mardi Gras one year and got robbed? Remember that? He was stuck in New Orleans with not a dime in his pocket."

"I do remember that," said Harry. "No one had credit cards back then, so three guys hopped in a car and went down and got him."

"And how many times after graduation have we helped each other with job leads, or connections of some sort, all things that helped us and our families?"

"Lots, I'd guess." Harry was getting the point.

"We're more than acquaintances, Harry. That's why we sign our signatures with _Y.I.T.B.—_ Yours In The Bonds, remember? These guys may be a bit skeptical, but they'll come around." The second round of drinks came and Fish continued, "You and Hutch were close, man. If we come up with something that even resembles proof that he died suspiciously, these guys will be on it."

"Thanks, Fish. I thought maybe I was going off the deep end." Harry picked up his glass and clinked it against Fish's, then spotted something at the other end of the bar.

"What?" said Fish, turning to see what had caught Harry's curiosity.

"Do you see those two guys by the server station? If I'm not mistaken, they're from the bank."

"As in Hutch's bank?"

"Right on, Tarzan."

"How do you know?"

"I saw them talking with some other bank dudes at the funeral home. Just look at them: banker suits, banker glasses—they're from the bank, all right. Why don't we mosey on over and see what we can find out."

"Find out about what?" Fish asked, but Harry was already past him. Pulling up beside them, Harry flashed his widest smile and shook their hands as if he was about to sell a used car.

"I'm Harry Curlander," he said to the taller one whose grey-speckled hair was set off by his dark-toned complexion. "This is Don Fischer." He gave Fish a chance to shake hands, but the strangers were eyeing them guardedly. "We were close friends with Hutch... both of us," he added clumsily. "We went back a long way with him, over thirty years to be exact."

"Is that right?" the younger one said. He looked to be in his mid to late forties, typical WASP-looking kind of guy, scrawny sort. The taller one was older and had darker skin. He looked away for a second before taking a sip of his drink, but his eyes came back to Harry and Fish, darting quickly from one face to another. He didn't say a word.

"E...e... yeah," Harry said dramatically. "Old fraternity brothers with old Hutch. Couldn't be closer to him, you know. Always stayed in touch."

"You don't say," the scrawny one responded, obviously trying to be polite.

"Right... right, right," said Harry. "Couldn't be closer. Same with the rest of the brothers," he added, tossing a thumb over his shoulder and indicating the private dining room. "We all stayed close, you know, stayed friends for all these years."

The dark-skinned one finally spoke and said, "What can we do for you, Mister Curlander?" His eyes were dark and deep, like torpedo tubes on submarine.

"Please, call me Harry," Harry insisted. Did he just detect a slight accent in the guy's speech?

"And you can call me Fish," Fish added, figuring he might as well pile on to whatever the hell Harry was doing.

"You guys are from the bank where Hutch worked, aren't you? I didn't catch your names." Harry thought: take the hint boys.

The dark-skinned one didn't respond. The scrawny one drilled him with a glare and said, "I'm Jerry Brennan, CFO at the bank."

"CFO?" said Harry, shaking his hand again. "You must have known Hutch pretty well then, right?"

"I knew him since I started with the bank."

"Well then, I guess you knew a lot about him. Too bad about Hutch. He went just like that," said Harry, snapping his fingers. Behind him, Fish gave him a poke.

"What is it you gentlemen want to know?" the darker one asked directly, as in _bang_ , right between the eyes.

Harry smiled, knowing he'd already run out of runway with this guy. Looking him straight in the eye, he said, "And you are...?"

"This is Brendan Phillips," said Jerry. "He's the CEO at the bank and was Todd's boss."

The use of the name Todd threw Harry for a second until he remembered that Hutch used Todd as his first name in formal situations. As such, he knew instantly that while Hutch may have known these two yahoos for years possibly, the relationship was strictly business. Harry could see that the dark-skinned one—Brendan, now—was waiting for an answer to his question. Suddenly, Harry reached back and extracted his wallet, bumping Fish in the arm as Fish was almost glued to him. He pulled a couple of business cards and handed one to each of the bank guys.

"While I'm an old friend of Hutch and his family, I'm also the managing partner at Curlander and Curlander and we'll be handling Hutch's affairs, you know, probate, execution of the will... and any related matters."

Brendan zeroed in immediately. " _Related matters_ ," he repeated. "Related matters such as what?"

The guy was no dummy, Harry determined. "Well, you're obviously aware that Hutch passed away quite unexpectedly, but you may not be aware of the possibility that he died under suspicious circumstances." He left the comment dangle to see Brendan's reaction. There was none, except for a narrowing and deepening of his torpedo eyes. "We know that Hutch went through a physical recently as a requirement of his position at the bank, and we're looking into the possibility of bringing a malpractice suit against the doctor who performed that physical, as well as what possible liability might exist with the bank itself."

It had the desired effect on Jerry, whose facial features froze. Brendan, however, sipped his drink as if he'd just stepped off the eighteenth green. He actually smiled. "Whatever you're trying to do, Harry—you said I could call you Harry, right?"

"Of course." You prick.

"The bank is under no liability here."

"Then how would you explain Hutch dying from a massive myocardial infarction when shortly before that he'd had a thorough physical as a requirement of his employment at the bank, and nothing was found to predict him passing away like that? Don't you think there's a basis for some sort of malpractice there?"

"I don't know," Brendan replied. "I'm not a doctor."

Brendan's eyes stayed steely, and Harry wondered if it was his way of saying _go fuck yourself_. "Well something had to have caused that myocardial infarction. Do you think it's also possible that whatever Hutch was working on at the bank caused him to have so much stress that it brought on what I just described?"

"Again, _Harry_ , I'm not a doctor. I imagine that every job has its stressful moments, but I've never thought being a banker was a particularly stressful profession."

_That_ was definitely a go-fuck-yourself. "Can you tell me what he was working on?" Harry noticed how the younger Jerry's eyes swung over and met Brendan's. Jerry knew when to shut up, however, and he sipped his drink in silence.

Brendan said, "Sorry, I'm afraid that's not something we can talk about. I'm sure we'll be discussing this further once you file your suit."

"What was Hutch's involvement with the Treasury Department?" Harry asked directly.

"It's been good talking to you," Brendan said. This time he extended his hand and added, "I see from your card that you're headquartered in New Jersey. I assume you're licensed to practice in Massachusetts. Feel free to contact me directly once you get things squared away and you're more certain of where you're going with this matter." Without even checking, Brendan turned to Jerry and said, "Jerry, I'm afraid I'm out of business cards. Would you mind giving Harry and his friend...."

"Fish," said Fish.

"Fish... one of yours in case they need to get back to us?"

Good, loyal Jerry did just that, a clear signal to Harry and Fish that their chance of getting hold of Brendan again would happen when pigs grew wings. Clearly dismissed, they turned to leave when Brendan called after them, "Oh, and Harry, you wouldn't mind if I checked with Suzanne to make sure she's engaged your services, would you? Just good business practice, you know: cover all your bases."

Harry finished the drink he'd been holding and plunked his glass on the bar. "Not at all," he said. "But I'd appreciate it if you'd give her a few days before you did that. She's quite distressed and we don't plan on moving forward until she's had a chance to recover from this terrible ordeal." Brendan's mouth curled at the edges and Harry knew he'd just been caught in a bear trap.

"Of course," Brendan said pretentiously.

Harry turned away, feeling Fish come up next to him and whisper in his ear, "Tell me, Harry, what the fuck was all that?"

Chapter 8... I-95

The funeral went as well as could be expected, thought Harry, and he would have liked to think that it ended ten days of extraordinary sadness for Suzanne and the kids, but he knew that the sadness was just beginning. Now it would be more private, however. The kids at least had spouses, all of them, but they lived far enough away that just popping over to mom's house to make sure she was okay wasn't going to happen. Their busy-ness and their families would cushion their grief, but Suzanne was all alone, in a way. Talking on the phone with them would help, but it would accentuate her loneliness at the same time. While the Hutchinsons had plenty of friends in North Cambridge and greater Boston, the friends were _their_ friends and now they had to become _her_ friends. He wondered if that would happen. Probably not. He wished he could help, and the situation made him angrier.

Strange that a friend's death could cause one to be angry, Harry thought further. What an unexpected way for him to express sorrow, but that's how he felt. He wondered if the other brothers felt the same way. He looked over at Denise who was nodding away in the passenger seat. No wonder; she was probably drained. The last three days had been an ordeal for her too. She was an empathetic sort, always able to feel people's emotions as her own—except his, when he got like this; she didn't empathize with anger well. However, there were moments in her life when it took her over too. It would only last for a minute and she'd calm down to her serene self again. He wondered if that would happen if she found out about the blustery little chat he'd had with Brendan and Jerry at the wake. If Brendan called Suzanne as he'd threatened to do, it would be entirely possible that two of the nicest, calmest, most caring people on the planet would be extraordinarily steamed at him.

He decided immediately that if that situation came about he'd tell the truth, which was that he'd tried to intimidate those bank guys because there was no way in a million years that Hutch had died from natural causes, and something that was going on at that bank was connected. He knew it, he knew it, he knew it.

They were motoring along on the Connecticut Turnpike, I-95 South, having just passed Bridgeport on their way to the George Washington Bridge. It was about a five-hour drive from North Cambridge to Point Pleasant, and they'd been on the road for about half that time with the late afternoon sun now blindingly full in the windshield. It was going to be a tough drive, Harry expected, knowing that I-95 in Connecticut could become a parking lot at almost any point, especially during rush hours, one of which they were fast approaching. Oh, well, they'd get home sooner or later, he figured. Maybe they'd stop and get something to eat after they crossed the bridge, although he could feel the undigested chicken parmesan he'd eaten after the funeral sitting on his stomach. He'd just drive until they felt like stopping; from the sound of Denise's breathing it wasn't going to be anytime soon.

The sun was sinking toward the horizon and Harry lowered the visor to block the light spears stabbing into his sunglasses when he noticed the maroon Jaguar in his rearview, not so much because he liked Jaguars, which he did, but because this particular Jaguar had been in his rearview since he'd come off I-91 before New Haven—that he'd noticed. It could have been behind him longer than that. He was no expert in surveillance or being followed, and clearly neither was the person driving the Jag, but something didn't feel right. Now that he thought about it, it wasn't like when two cars happen to be travelling in the same direction on the same highway. When that happens, it's not unusual for those cars to pass each other back and forth due to the ebb and flow of traffic, but eventually they lose each other, only to be reunited at a rest stop, or a traffic tie-up somewhere, and the only reason you notice it is because the other guy is driving a lime green Cadillac with pink doors, or something. Well, this was no lime green Cadillac, and this particular Jaguar hadn't been distanced by any ebb and flow; it had been directly behind him for at least fifty miles now.

So as not to disturb Denise, Harry whispered, "What the hell is this?" If what he perceived was actually happening, and to not alert the other driver, Harry flipped his blinker and casually changed lanes so that the Jag was now in the lane to his left. His own vehicle, a four-year-old Acura SUV was a little higher off the ground, and he thought he might be able to get a view of the other driver's face in the side view mirror. Nothing doing. Just like with himself, the driver's visor was down, covering his face almost completely.

_Ca-thump, ca-thump_ , some uneven bridge joints rattled the image in his side view, and Harry whispered, "Okay, dickweed, I can see how this is going." He looked down, seeing that he was doing just over fifty and noting that all three lanes were jammed with cars following each other at much too close a distance. It wasn't stop-and-go yet, but it was getting there. Weaving in and out of traffic was going to be difficult, as well as unsafe, so he decided to just wait it out to find the right opening. In just the amount of time it took for his eyes to come up from reading the speedometer, the Jag vanished from his side view and was now behind him again. He punched the gas and changed lanes again, then slowed and squeezed in between two other SUVs that were travelling only a couple of car lengths apart, hearing the horn blast that came when he swung hard into the space. Each time he changed lanes, it was only a minute or two before the maroon Jag was behind him again.

Suddenly, he spotted a line of three tractor trailers, nose to tail like three huge elephants. It took some doing, but he guided his SUV so that he was able to wiggle in between the first and second truck. There was no way the Jag could move in behind him. Then, at the first opportunity, he swung his wheel and hopped into the furthest right hand lane so that he was completely hidden by the line of trucks. The Jag was nowhere to be seen, and the traffic in that lane was significantly slower due to cars ramping on and off the highway. The huge trucks were so close he could touch them, riding the dashed lines of his lane and blanketing him completely. He let up on the gas and the trucks moved by ever so slowly so that it took a couple of minutes for them to pass. The Jag was gone now, no longer behind him, but that wasn't his objective.

As the final truck passed, he flicked on his left blinker and left it on until someone was courteous enough to let him in to the lane to his left. Making the move, he looked for the Jag but the sun was fierce now, making every car in his view nothing but a dark spot in the intense light. He searched for some time, scanning all three lanes over and over again until suddenly all the taillights in front of him turned red and he had to step on his brake harder than normal so as not to plow into the car in front of him. He'd lost the Jag, but he wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. As predicted, I-95 between Bridgeport and Fairfield had slowed to a crawl, and his sudden push on the brakes caused Denise to rouse from her catnap. "Where are we?" she asked sleepily.

"We just passed Bridgeport," Harry replied. "I think we're in for some rush hour traffic from the looks of things. Sorry I woke you, honey."

"That's okay," she said. "But I think we need to stop anyway. I think I drank too much tea after the funeral. Can we find a rest area?"

"Sure," said Harry. "I think there's one right up the road." Indeed there was, and he pulled in to a parking spot in the second row, sixth spot in from the end, not paying any attention to that exact spot until he opened door and noticed that the car two spaces away was a maroon Jag—and the person driving was good old Jerry Brennan, the CFO from Hutch's bank. Harry walked right by, noting that the Jag's windows were shut tight and the engine was running, and Jerry was on his cell phone with a very intense look on his face. It didn't look like Jerry noticed him, and Harry didn't dare turn around to verify that as he casually followed Denise into the building.

Denise held the door for him as she went through first. "Are you okay?" she asked when she turned and looked at him. "Why is your face all red?"

* * * * *

Inside, Harry brushed off her question and convinced Denise that he was all right—but he wasn't really. His stomach was churning because he now knew that the hard-ass act that Jerry and Brendan had put on at the wake two days earlier was intentional, and there was something very shady about their reluctance to reveal what Hutch had been working on. His brain was churning because he was still trying to connect the dots between that and Hutch's heart attack. If he tried to connect those dots now, there would be nothing to connect because it would essentially be only one dot, which was Hutch's death, the only known entity.

In the men's room, Harry did a quick shake-and-zip and remembered that he'd put Jerry's card in his wallet. He pulled it out and looked at it: _FIB, First International Bank_ , with an address on Boylston Street. The churning in his brain gave way to numbness. What the hell was going on, he asked himself. He, Harry, was headed to New Jersey. The bank was in Boston, and it was doubtful that Jerry was on his way home if he was the CFO at FIB. Then, trying to give Jerry the benefit of the doubt, maybe he was headed someplace on business, New York perhaps, but then why was Jerry following him? And Jerry _was_ following him. Why else would he have stayed behind him like that? Harry decided to find out.

Exiting the men's room, he stomped right past Denise who was also just exiting the ladies' room. "Get some coffee," he said to her tersely, not paying any attention to the look he got in return. Outside, he bee-lined it to his car, looking for the maroon Jag the whole time. It was gone. When Denise came out with two cups of coffee, he said to her, "I think we're being followed."

* * * * *

"Harry, are you sure about this?"

Denise's voice had that tone, that tone that after twenty-five years of marriage Harry knew had its own meaning, regardless of what words were associated with it. "I'm not imagining this, and I'm not flipping out," he shot back.

"I didn't say you were guilty of either one of those behaviors," Denise shot back just as fast. "I just think this whole situation with Hutch has... well, made you think about your own mortality, perhaps."

Interesting that she'd just used the words _guilty_ and _mortality_ in back-to-back sentences, two words that seemed particularly poignant at the moment. He didn't want to go through this with her, but he had to admit that his thoughts were frenzied and chaotic, ricocheting randomly off the insides of his skull. Still, he couldn't let it go. Sitting there inside his SUV, he noted that the sun was now a blazing orange-grey ball on the horizon. He glanced at the dashboard clock and the next thought that bounced around inside his skull was about Fish, and whether he'd stopped in Wallingham to see if there were more security cameras near Slick's that might have captured what happened to Hutch on the night of his death. Not having the courage to look at Denise now, he pulled his cell phone from the cup holder and found Fish's cell number.

Fish picked up immediately and said, "I was just about to call you."

"Well?"

"You know, sometimes you really don't notice things until you look for them."

"C'mon Fish, what'dya got?"

"In addition to the two ATMs I mentioned that might have surveillance cameras, there's also a big convenience store gas station up the street from Slick's. I also checked out the street lights on Newberry Street to see if I could spot any police surveillance cameras, and I think I spotted something there, but I'm not sure. Anyway, it's something we should check out, right?"

Fish seemed hopeful. "Right," said Harry. "Listen, there's another reason I called."

"Yeah, what's that?"

"I think I was being followed today."

Fish hesitated. "What'dya mean, being followed, like, where?"

"Like on my way home on I-95, that's where."

Fish hesitated even more. "Harry, are you sure about this? I mean—"

"It was that guy Jerry from the bank, the CFO guy. He was behind me all the way past Bridgeport."

"Harry, are you sure?" Fish asked again.

"I saw him, Fish, up close. Why would he be following me? If he works for the bank, the fucking bank is in Boston. The bastard wasn't on his way home to see the wife and kids, Fish." Harry took a moment and let Fish think. "What about you?" he asked after some silent time passed.

"What about me?"

"You and I were both talking to those two assholes from the bank. If I was being followed, maybe you were too."

"Jesus, Harry. Now you're really talking crazy."

Harry thought: now he had two people saying he was off the deep end. "Listen, just pay attention to what's going on around you, okay? I don't know what the hell is happening here, but it's really fucking spooky."

"Yeah, Harry, okay, but I think you're seeing ghosts."

"Yeah, well, when you figure out why Jerry followed me all the way to Bridgeport, let me know." Fish didn't respond. "What about the ATM machines?" Harry asked as an afterthought.

"One belonged to Hampshire Bank, the other was from Citibank. Harry, the ATM from Hampshire Bank is clearly visible from the spot where Hutch's car was parked."

"Hot damn," said Harry. "Ain't that some shit?" He ended the call and looked at Denise.

"I heard," she said, holding up her hand like a stop sign. "I don't know why you have to use all that profanity when you talk to your fraternity buddies. It's so juvenile."

* * * * *

Finally reaching Point Pleasant, Harry drove slowly through town and even more slowly through his neighborhood. Since the rest stop, he'd formulated all sorts of scenarios in his head as to why Jerry would be following him, and in none of them was Jerry one of the good guys. As he approached their street, he cut the lights and carefully took the turn into their cul-de-sac called Monument Way which was shrouded in darkness.

"What in the world are you doing?" Denise asked.

Harry pulled to the curb, peering from side to side. It had been dark for about an hour and as such there was still a whisper of light in the night sky. "I'm looking for that maroon Jag," he replied as he dimmed the dashboard lights to nothing. Even in the darkness he could see Denise staring at him.

"I think you've flipped out," she said to him.

"Bear with me, okay? I have a feeling about this." Luckily, she didn't say another word but just sat there, and he knew she was really, really pissed. After about a minute, he pulled away from the curb and crept toward their house, which still a couple of hundred yards down Monument Way at the very end of the cul-de-sac. Harry knew every house along the way, knowing almost every car that belonged to those families as well. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary and he didn't spot any Jaguars, but it was pretty dark out. Reaching their house, he dropped his bag in the foyer while Denise wordlessly carried hers to their bedroom without even checking for phone messages, which was one of her rituals whenever they returned from a trip. He knew he wouldn't hear her voice again until the next day, and even then he wouldn't hear much of it. Quickly now, he went to his office off the family room and fired up his laptop, waiting the endless ninety seconds until he could get onto the internet.

The first thing he did was to find the official website for First International Bank, which turned out to be a customer service website to do online transactions. That wasn't what he wanted. What he wanted was the page that contained bios or information about the bank's officers. He scanned the current page for _About Us_ , or _Our Team_ , but he knew after a minute that such pages were the mark of smaller businesses and not necessarily pertinent to large institutions such as international banks. Changing his search strategy, Harry typed _Brendan Phillips, CEO First International Bank_ directly into the search bar.

Again, he waited the endless seconds for the search results. Scanning, opening, reading, none of them contained what he wanted until he came across the website for _American Banker_ magazine. There, published a couple of years earlier, one of the search results showed an article published by Brendan Phillips titled, _Staying Focused In The 2000s_. Harry felt his pulse thumping in his ears. Deliberately, he clicked on the article headline and up comes the article with a picture of Brendan Phillips, which caused Harry to read the caption three times. There was no doubt about it. According to the magazine, it attributed the tantalizing financial quote in the caption to Mister Phillips, whose smiling face filled the space above it. The problem for Harry was that the Brendan Phillips in the picture, the man that the article so clearly stated was the CEO of First International Bank, that man was double-chinned, wearing wire-rimmed glasses, and was almost completely bald, not at all the man with the swarthy skin and slight accent he'd met two days earlier at Hutch's wake.

Chapter 9... Who's Listening?

"Harry, did you get a copy of the affidavit from the guy over at the cement plant who is disputing Mister Riley's disability claim?"

Harry didn't even look up from his desk. "No, sorry, I'm really backed up," he said, indicating the papers strewn all over his desk. "Is it urgent?"

His associate made a face that said, _duh!_ "Yeah, it's urgent. The hearing is already scheduled and we haven't even filed the medical reports and the treatment statement to substantiate the claim. If we don't get on it we're gonna have to request a postponement and that's not going to make anyone happy."

"I'm sorry Karen, being out of town two weeks in a row has really put me behind the eight ball. I hate to ask, but can you cover me on this one?"

Karen made another face. "You owe me on this. I'm already up to my eyeballs."

Harry put on his best smile. "I know you are, but you're young, you can take it."

"Yeah, right," she carped as she turned to leave. "I'm not that young, Harry. God forbid I should have a social life."

Having been in her shoes, Harry smiled again, mostly to himself now, but the smile faded quickly. There were a dozen deadlines on his desk, but all he could think of was what had happened over previous two days. He shifted a stack of files from his inbox to the inboxes of his two associates, knowing they'd scream bloody murder when they saw his quickly scrawled sticky notes on each one of them. But hey, he was the boss and they'd have to suck it up and deal with it. The thought didn't do much to alleviate his guilt, however. He'd pay them back somehow, but not now.

"I'll be back later," he called over his shoulder to Mary, his admin/receptionist/office manager as he blew past her on his way to the front door.

"Later, when?" she called back urgently, knowing what had been sitting on his desk waiting for his return from the funeral. "And what do you want me to do about your two o'clock—who's probably already on his way here?" she added sarcastically.

Shit, he'd forgotten about that. Harry stopped in his tracks and looked Mary straight in the eye. She'd been with him for a long time, and normally she didn't question his requests, but she knew how backed up things were and how important those issues were to their clients. "Can you get Karen and Jack to cover for me and push off whatever they can't handle?"

"Are you all right?" she asked. Not getting an immediate response, "I'll take care of it somehow," she said, "but you're gonna have to face the music with them."

"You're a doll," Harry called as he walked through the front door. Now he had three more people besides Denise that he needed to explain to. He climbed into his car and made the fifteen-minute drive home in ten, his mind racing the entire time. Why he hadn't thought about this before he couldn't explain, but now he couldn't get it out of his mind. He checked the clock, seeing that it was just coming up on two o'clock. Denise wouldn't be home from work for another couple of hours so he had time. He flew into his home office just as he had done the night before and woke up his laptop, seeing that he'd forgotten to close his internet browser and the webpage showing the article from _American Banker_ magazine. The picture of Brendan Phillips—the _real_ Brendan Phillips, he thought to himself cynically —was still displayed on the screen. He closed it out, thinking he'd deal with that later. What he wanted now was his email, more specifically one particular email that he'd received from Hutch almost two months earlier.

He clicked on his Outlook icon and clicked on his email box, the one with the email address that was through his internet provider. Like many people, Harry had multiple email addresses that he'd put into use over the years, but this specific one he'd set up way back when in the early years of email, and as such it was still his private address, the one that his family and close friends used from the very beginning. It was also the one most inaccessible to him from outside the house. He knew there was a way to access it remotely, and he'd actually written it down once, but he'd forgotten the procedure and password long ago, which was why he had to come home to check it. It was also the address Hutch always used to correspond with him.

Where is it, where is it, he asked himself. Looking through his inbox and not seeing it, he switched to his deleted items box and scrolled down, again not finding it. Then, he did a search and finally, after a mild panic thinking he'd deleted it permanently, there it was. Opening it, he read the words carefully, feeling the choke in his throat as he went through it. _Hey Harry,_ _Hope all is well with you and Denise, and that all is well with the kids. I need a favor. Are you available to meet with me in NYC in two or three weeks? I would like to discuss a client situation with you in person—you know, no phone, no email trail. I've got a predicament and I need someone I can trust implicitly to give me some advice and keep his mouth shut. Can't go into more detail here. Let me know if you can meet me. Will be on short notice. I'll take you to Spark's Steakhouse._ _Y.I.T.B., Hutch._

The date on the email was March 20th, about six weeks before the reunion. Harry also found two more related exchanges, one of them being his own response, which was only two lines. He'd written: _Hutch, of course I'm available if you're paying for us to go to Spark's. Shoot me a date when you zero in. Best, Harry, Y.I.T.B._ The third exchange was from Hutch, saying: _Harry, trip to NYC is off. I'll talk to you at the reunion. Hutch._ The date on this final exchange was April 14th, and Hutch never got to talk to him at the reunion.

* * * * *

Picking up his cell phone, Harry looked for Monica Brimton's number. He didn't have it. "Shit," he said aloud. He picked up his land line and dialed directory assistance. "Yes, I need the number for the Hampshire County Massachusetts district attorney's office... please," he added, remembering that Monica was an assistant district attorney. He jotted it down on the back of an envelope sitting on his desk and hurriedly punched up the numbers. Someone answered on the first ring.

"May I speak with ADA Monica Brimton, please?"

"I'm afraid she's in court. Can I take a message, or would you like her voicemail?"

"Can you tell me when she'll be available in person?"

"If she comes directly back to the office from the courthouse, she will probably be here around four-thirty or so."

Harry looked at his watch. That would be in a couple of hours. Not the end of the world. "Would you tell her Harry Curlander called. Let me give you my cell number, and I'll probably call you back later." He gave the number, thinking, that was easy enough; hopefully she'd call back. If he didn't hear from her by the end of the day, he'd call Ducky tonight after work and talk to her then. And speaking of work, he should probably get back to it if he didn't want a mutiny on his hands back at the office. He took the envelope with the DA's number on it and zipped down Monument Way out of his cul-de-sac, paying no attention to the white van sitting between the Cezinskis' and the O'Tooles' houses.

As he passed the van, one of its two occupants, both of whom were wearing white shirts and hardhats with an insignia from Blake Electric on them, dialed a number with an 857 Boston area code. "He just called the district attorney's office for Hampshire County in Massachusetts," the van occupant said as soon as someone picked up.

"What did he say?" the party on the other end asked.

"Nothing. She wasn't in and he left a message."

"Where is he now?"

"Not sure. He blew down the street in a hurry, though. He might be going back to his office. Do you want us to stay here, or do you want us to camp out there for a while?"

"We don't have a tap on his office lines, do we?"

"Nope, just the house."

"Stay where you are. Maybe we can pick up something tonight when he gets home."

"Will do."

"Did you get the number he was calling?"

"Got the number and the name of the person he was calling."

"Good. Stay with it. I'll check in with you later."

* * * * *

"How were things at work today?"

A question; she was talking to him. That meant the ice was thawing. He didn't dare tell her that he'd pissed away half the day chasing after clues, clues that would give him more insight into Hutch's death. They were threads, really, like tiny pieces of lint blowing down the highway. It would take a lot of damned lint to reassemble a suit, thought Harry, and that was very much like what this quest of his was turning into. "I had a lot of catching up to do, but nothing out of the ordinary," he replied to Denise. "How about with you?" It was good to get her talking. Maybe he could get things back to normal.

"You wouldn't believe how Melanie messed up the quarterly projections again."

Melanie was her boss, and Melanie's incompetence was the last things he wanted to hear about right now, but he sat there and took it like a man; he even asked a couple of questions which made the agony of the conversation even more acute for him. Ah, the sacrifices he made.

They cleared the dinner dishes and Denise's sister called, which meant that Denise would be on the phone for a while. Perfect, thought Harry. He took the opportunity to go into his home office and call Ducky.

"Any luck with Monica?" he asked.

"If you mean did I badger her enough for her to talk to the DA again, the answer is yes, I did badger her enough, and, no, the DA isn't going to authorize an investigation based on no evidence of foul play, and, no, I can't badger her any more, she's already torqued off at me. I'm probably never going to have sex again for the rest of my life."

"At least she didn't throw anything sharp at you."

"It's not funny, Harry. You're lucky Denise doesn't have that kind of temper."

"Yeah, I'm lucky all right. You have no idea how cold it is in New Jersey this time of year." Harry waited a moment and sprung it on him. "I was followed, Ducky. When I left the funeral reception to come home, I was followed by someone from the bank."

"What do you mean, followed? I don't understand."

It was the same reaction Fish had. Indeed, it was hard to fathom in reality. "Followed, Ducky, like spy shit followed. All the way from Boston past Bridgeport."

"Harry, that's like a fucking hundred miles. Are you high or something?"

Putting on his patience hat, Harry went through the whole episode with Ducky.

"That all sounds squirrelly as hell," said Ducky. "Why in the world would anyone be following you, let alone the CFO from Hutch's bank? And why would anyone be posing as the CEO? It's too easy to check. And what does all this have to do with Hutch?"

Just like with himself, the questions piled up quickly in Ducky's head. Harry said, "That's why I thought I should talk to Monica again."

Ducky said, "Maybe you're right. I'll get her for you."

She was on the line in just a few seconds. "You don't give up, do you?"

"I'm not gonna give up now. I tried calling you at your office today; I guess you didn't get the message."

"If you didn't leave a voicemail, no, I came straight home after court. What's up?"

Did you hear any of what Ducky and I were talking about?"

"No, I was on the loom weaving a blanket."

Fucking smartass, thought Harry. No doubt Ducky had his hands full with this one. He went through the whole thing again, duplicating his conversation with Ducky almost word for word. "I was hoping this would be enough to change the DA's mind."

"I don't see why it would, Harry. While certainly strange, nothing you've told me qualifies as evidence that Hutch's death was caused by any outside or unnatural circumstance. And nothing you've said will cause the medical examiner to change the cause of death."

"Can't anyone dispute the medical examiner's findings?"

"That might be difficult now that Hutch has already been buried."

"This whole thing stinks, Monica. Hutch was in the best of health, and for him to have had a massive heart attack on his own is just insane. Something had to have caused it to happen, and if that's the case, then that's murder and someone is responsible."

"Maybe it was accidental."

"Accidental my ass. How does someone have an accidental heart attack?"

Monica went totally silent. "You have a way with words, Harry," she said finally. "There is something we could look into, however."

A glimmer of hope. "Now you're talking. So what is it?"

"Do you remember Detective Pruitt?"

"The frumpy old state police detective?"

"Don't underestimate her," Monica admonished.

"She gave me the creeps. How does she fit into this?"

"She called me this morning. She said she saw the medical examiner's findings and wanted to talk to me about a couple of things that were bothering her about the scene."

Harry sat up in his chair. "Don't tease me, Monica. Ducky might like it, but it's not for me."

"Get your mind out of the gutter, Harry. You Zeta Chi guys are all alike."

"And the detective said...?"

"She was asking about Hutch's cell phone. She said it was still bothering her as to why anyone driving a big expensive car like Hutch's Mercedes would be talking on the cell phone rather than using Bluetooth."

Harry considered the statement, remembering that Pruitt had made the same point to him on that fateful Saturday night. "Is that it?"

"No. She was also puzzled as to why Hutch was found inside a locked car. As best she could figure, that car had to be locked either from the inside, or using the remote entry device, both physical actions that had to be performed by Hutch himself, assuming that he was alone, of course."

"Of course," said Harry, hoping this was going somewhere. "Did she have any theories?"

"She did," Monica replied. "Maybe you ought to sit down now, Harry. Ducky is wondering if you need a ventilator."

Harry smiled, knowing she was trying to keep him calm. "Tell Ducky I appreciate his concern. What about Detective Pruitt's hypotheses?"

"She had the notion that Hutch was on the phone _outside_ the car and that something caused him to get back into the car and lock the doors."

Harry's mind suddenly exploded into half a dozen possible scenarios. "It could have been the phone conversation itself, but I see what she's thinking. Something Hutch saw or heard caused him to get back inside that car and lock the doors as if he was trying to get away from something, or protect himself."

"Detective Pruitt voiced a similar thought," said Monica.

Monica let his statement dangle there for a while, and Harry could hear Ducky talking to her in the background. "I guess Ducky has been working on you pretty hard," he said, to which Ducky repeated, "Get your mind out of the gutter, Harry."

"He has," said Monica. "But I understand how important this is to both of you. Detective Pruitt is wondering if she could get hold of that cell phone. It might reveal the identity of the last person Hutch talked to, and that could be significant."

"What about Hutch's phone records?"

"We'd need a subpoena for that."

Right, Harry thought to himself, unless one of the other brothers knew of a way to get around that little speedbump. "I'll call Suzanne and see if Hutch's cell phone is among his belongings."

* * * * *

Harry no sooner hung up his phone than it rang again and he picked up thinking Ducky or Monica were calling back. They weren't; the caller ID read Stuart Eisenberg.

"Doc. What's the word?" Small talk wasn't needed.

"I got a call today from one of my cardiologist buddies and I thought you'd like to hear what he had to say."

Doc hadn't made it to the wake or the funeral, and as such Harry hadn't followed up with him. As promised, however, Doc had made inquiries about the possibility of someone with a healthy heart having a massive heart attack at fifty-two years of age with no symptoms or warnings whatsoever. Harry said, "I'd like to hear it very much."

Doc began, "Well, my friend, Doctor Kadam, started with the usual warning that even a healthy person can suffer a heart attack when there is a presence of soft plaque inside the coronary arteries. In such cases the soft plaque could break off or rupture which could cause a blood clot that would travel to the heart, blocking blood flow and causing severe myocardial infarction. It's not unusual that such situations are not picked up in a stress test. Someone could pass a stress test today and have a heart attack tomorrow. Remember that famous news anchor that died a while back? That's what happened to him."

"Yeah, we know all that, Doc, and according to the ME that wasn't the case."

"I figured that, and that's how I responded."

"So?" Harry didn't hear anything for some moments and said, "Doc, are you there?"

"Harry, what I'm about to tell you sounds a bit farfetched, but Doctor Kadam went into something that really rattled my cage. It sounded really spooky."

"You're beginning to scare me, Doc."

"Well, it made me perk up and pay attention."

"Doc, what the hell? You're killing me here."

"Sit down and buckle up, Harry. Have you ever heard of the Office of Strategic Services, otherwise known as the OSS?"

"I'm not sure. Wasn't the OSS the predecessor of the CIA?"

"Very good. There probably aren't a lot of people who know that."

"I watch Jeopardy a lot."

"Having done its job during World War II, the OSS was dissolved after the war and went through some reiterations that eventually became the CIA. According to Doctor Kadam, it was around this time and through the 1950s that they started looking into some technology that was reputed to be able to assassinate targets so that they appeared to die from natural causes. With the advent of the Cold War, the concern revolved around the vulnerability of U.S. leaders to assassination by, quote, _natural causes_."

Just as Doc had described, Harry perked up immediately. "This is for real, right?"

"It's for real, all right, and it gets better. As time progressed, the causes of death that were researched were cancer, heart attack, and cerebral hemorrhage, each of these being induced in the target victim. Originally, the inducing methods involved the use of chemicals, which obviously proved to be unsatisfactory since they could be detected in any autopsy, and even specially developed drugs or chemicals had limited opportunities."

"Opportunities," said Harry. "Funny context for that word."

"Ain't that the truth? According to Doctor Kadam, the research continued into the mid to late sixties and expanded into other government agencies."

"What the hell kind of other government agencies would get into something like that?"

"Probably very secret ones," Doc replied, "but according to Kadam one of them was called... wait, I have it here... the Advanced Research Projects Agency, or ARPA, which did advanced research for DoD. It was started in the Eisenhower administration and part of its purpose was to cook up R and D projects that expanded the boundaries of science and technology, some of it, quote, _'beyond the requirements of the military.'"_

"As in the science and technology of turning people into corpses."

"Some people, evidently," said Doc. "The ARPA research studied techniques on how to induce cerebral hemorrhage and heart seizures from outside the body without the use of chemicals."

"Fucking A," said Harry. "So that any doctor doing an autopsy couldn't detect foul play and had no choice but to conclude that death was due to natural causes."

"Bingo," said Doc. "Evidently the research continued over decades and the good old US of A wasn't the only duck swimming in that pond. The Soviets were developing their own technology, and MI6 was in on the act also, looking into human mind control using low frequency microwave beams."

Harry took a breath and he could feel his heart beating faster. "Is that what was used to induce the heart attacks?"

"Not quite. Supposedly, the US developed a radio frequency weapon that CIA assassins used, and the Soviets developed a similar weapon that could kill an animal as big as a goat from a range of one kilometer. Can you imagine? Popping a beam into the middle of someone's chest from half a mile away and causing one's heart to contract to the point where it stops blood entering into it? Talk about scary...."

"How does your Doctor Kadam know all this?

"You know, I didn't want to ask. Kadam is from India, although I don't know if that has anything to do with anything, but he's done a lot of things in his career and I know he's published a lot of material over the years."

"And you think this is all for real?" Harry asked for the second time.

"I think it is. You can go on the internet and read all about this stuff."

"My head is spinning, Doc. I'm not sure what to make of it."

"I'm not sure either," Doc responded. "But it's a possible explanation for why those autopsy findings turned out the way they did. I think we owe it to Hutch to find out the truth about all this."

"I think you're right, Doc."

* * * * *

One of the occupants of the van which now belonged to Roker Plumbing instead of Blake Electric dialed the same number with the Boston 857 area code he'd dialed six hours earlier that day. "I think we're blown," he said as soon as someone answered and they went through their protocols to make sure the call was secure.

"Fuck. Don't tell me the local cops showed up to check you out? I thought we had that covered. Did you change your location and change the sign on the van per procedure?"

"It's not that. Our mark has been on the phone for the last hour. His first call went to a number in Massachusetts belonging to a Richard Swan, and he ended up talking to him and someone else named Monica who we're sure is the same ADA he tried to reach this afternoon. Swan and this ADA chick must be married or living together."

"And?"

"And it sounds like the ADA and the original investigator on the case are sniffing around and they're not buying into the ME's findings that the COD was due to natural causes."

The 857 party said, "Fuck," again and said, "Maybe we can squash that. You said the ADA is Hampshire County, right? What about this detective person?"

"It's a Detective Pruitt, state police evidently, but I think your idea is too little too late. There's more."

"You've had a busy night. What's the there's more part?"

The van occupant said, "As soon as he got off that call he got another call from someone he called Doc. The caller ID belonged to a Stuart Eisenberg with a Chicago area code. We're running that down now. Our boy Harry and Doc sounded like they're old friends, and they sounded like they were old friends with Hutchinson also. Doc has also been doing some snooping around, it seems."

Mister 857 area code said, "From the way you're saying it, it doesn't sound good."

"It isn't. The information this Doc person has discovered could blow this op wide open."

"Are you telling me he knows the technology?"

"I don't think he's aware that he knows. At this point it's only a crazy far out possibility that would explain their friend's death."

Mister 857 said, "That's still way too close for comfort. We could have a whole bunch Langley boys left holding their nutsacks having to explain how a gang of camel scrubbers were operating right under our noses. If our man goes public with what he doesn't know he's just discovered, or if our friends from Qatar somehow get wind of it, he could end up in the same condition as his friend Hutchinson."

"And so could his friend Doc."

"Where did this Doc get his information?"

"A doctor friend of his named Kadam."

"And who the fuck is he?"

"No clue."

"Then fucking find out."

"You're gonna need to handle that from there. This van isn't exactly an ideal base of operations."

"That won't be a problem. Shut it down and come on in. We're gonna need to rethink this."

* * * * *

He found a restaurant that served _Fattah_ with eggplant and pulled the black BMW into a parking spot outside. He decided not to wear his keffiyeh this time as the days were long and even if he stayed inside the car at all times it would be noticeable. Indeed, it was almost eight-thirty in the evening and it was still quite bright out. He looked at his watch noting that it would be four-thirty tomorrow morning in Qatar and he wondered if he should wait before calling since his compatriots were quite probably asleep. He decided not to. He dialed 011 plus the 974 international calling code for Qatar and as usual the call to Doha went through without a problem. Surprisingly, the man he called _Mushir_ answered on the first ring, sounding wide awake.

"Allo, as-salam alaykom." _Hello, peace be upon you._ It was his usual greeting, however ironic it seemed since peace was the least likely concept that dwelled in his brain.

"Wa alydom as-slam," the caller replied. _Peace be upon you as well_. "I hope I did not wake you, Mushir."

"I am waking early today in preparation for special _fajr_."

Fajr prayers were usually before sunrise, but the Mushir was up earlier than that. "I will be performing maghrib prayers shortly," the caller said, noting that sunset was imminent. "I will be joining you in spirit."

"As-salamu alaykum," the Mushir said.

That was quite unusual. He must be in a good mood. "Wa-alaikum-us-salaam," the caller said back to him. _And onto you the peace._ "It seems we are not the only ones watching the accomplice," the caller said bluntly, hating to break up this little moment between them and getting down to business.

There was an almost audible pause on the phone. "Please explain, _mujahid_."

"Two American government _khanzeer_ swine have been watching his every move for the last few hours. They seem to be centered on the residence so I am assuming they have installed listening devices inside the house. If that is the case, I assume they also have his phone monitored as well."

"And you know this how?"

"They are sloppy operators. They are operating from an enclosed vehicle, and in the typical American way they are very arrogant in how they carry out their duties. I was able to see inside the vehicle with my binoculars when one of them stepped behind it to urinate thinking he was hidden by the vehicle. I'm sure it was a listening station."

The Mushir asked, "About these two _khanzeer_ , you described them as being government swine. What makes you think that is the case, _saheb?_ "

Saheb? So he was being friendly now. There had to be someone else there with him, the caller thought warily. He'd better choose his words carefully. "The vehicle they were using and the equipment I saw inside was very sophisticated and very expensive, not the kind of equipment that a small town police force could afford. It has to be government, but it could be from any of their law enforcement agencies—FBI, CIA, NSA, ATF—they would all have access to that type of technology." It sounded like the Mushir muffled the phone and did indeed say something to someone else nearby. "It is good that we did not move too quickly on this accomplice. We could easily have been discovered," the caller added, wanting to point out that he'd been advocating patience in this operation since before they'd taken care of the banker. It was important that the time and the place be carefully planned for maximum effect with the least chance of detection.

"So our accomplice has his own government spying on him," the Mushir concluded. "Is there a chance this is a strategy on their part to discover us for political purposes?"

A very good question, one that the caller hadn't thought of. "That is indeed a possibility," he responded.

"Are you still certain that no one in that country is aware of your presence?" the Mushir went on.

Another good question he hadn't thought of. Perhaps the Americans inside the van weren't the only ones being arrogant. "I don't think so, but I will be more careful, Mushir."

Chapter 10... Point Pleasant

Detective Pruitt sat there for almost half an hour waiting patiently while ADA Monica Brimton was in talking with District Attorney George Wysocki. She knew why Brimton was keeping her waiting and hoped that Brimton would have better luck with Wysocki than she did with her own boss, that being the commander of the State Police Detective Unit operating out of Northampton. His name was Detective Barry Caruso. Ultimately, it was Wysocki who would make the final call on whether to investigate an unexplained death, but Caruso had some significant influence there.

Unfortunately, Pruitt had already struck out with Caruso—twice—to the point where he'd just thrown up his hands and said, "Catherine, I got cases coming out of my ears, cases with evidence to support an investigation. You've heard that word before, haven't you? _Evidence?_ "

"Yes, Barry, I've heard it before, but I've got a feeling about this one."

"That's not good enough, Catherine, and you know it. Now, if you want to go down and convince Wysocki that you've got enough to investigate this Hutchinson thing as a homicide, have at it, but I'm not seeing it. I need to see something that suggests foul play, and from what the ME's report says it's just not there."

"And how am I supposed to obtain more evidence if you won't give me time to investigate the situation further?" she had asked.

Caruso had simply thrown up his hands again and called over his shoulder as he purposely left his own office so he wouldn't have to discuss the matter further, "Not my problem, Catherine. Have a nice day."

Pruitt's ponderings were interrupted by the clacking of Brimton's high heels as she made up way back up the hall from Wysocki's office. The look on Brimton's face was answer enough, but she summarized her conversation with Wysocki by angrily plopping herself into the chair behind her desk. "Fuck," she said as she slammed down a stack of files.

Pruitt, a church-going grandmother of four, said, "I guess that means you didn't score."

Sweeping a handful of tousled hair back off her face, "Didn't even get close," said Brimton. "And to top it all off he gave me four more cases to handle. I'm going to be in court for the rest of my life."

Pruitt calmly took a sip of her tea. She knew Brimton's reputation as a fair but dogged prosecutor and had worked with her enough to know the reputation was well-earned. Although far better looking, the woman was like a bloodhound: once she got something in her head, it was tough to sway her from pursuing it.

"You know what really bothers me about this case?" Pruitt asked, hoping to build up Brimton's curiosity. Up to now, she knew Brimton was pursuing the situation because the deceased was a good friend of her husband. Pruitt's interest, however, was distinctly different and she needed to make sure Brimton saw it from her perspective.

Brimton said, "Maybe you weren't paying attention, Catherine. There is no case."

"Not yet," said Pruitt.

"You're worse than I am," Brimton responded. "What's on your mind?"

Pruitt shifted uncomfortably as the nine-millimeter lump on her hip dug into her side. "I've already mentioned my theory that the deceased was talking on his cell phone outside the car and reentered it before he died."

"Yes. Go on."

"I looked back at the list of items found on the deceased's body—"

"Call him Hutch," Brimton interrupted. "Calling him 'the deceased' makes it feel so creepy."

"Sorry," said Pruitt. "But the remote entry device for his car was still in the pocket of his blazer."

Brimton understood immediately. "That means he had to physically lock himself inside the car by pressing the lock button on the armrest. No one would lock himself in using the remote device and then put it back in his pocket, not if he was trying to get away from someone. That wouldn't make any sense."

"That's right," said Pruitt. "And if someone was trying to do harm to Mister Hutchinson, then the question has to be: why then, and why there, at that location?"

Brimton said, "Maybe it was a mugging and Hutch climbed back inside the car to avoid his attacker."

"I thought of that too," Pruitt shot back. "But I didn't find any unexplained fingerprints on the driver's door handle or anywhere else on the car. All of them belonged to Mister Hutchinson and people who found him. If it was a mugging, wouldn't it make sense that the mugger would yank on the door handle?"

"Maybe the mugger wore gloves."

"A professional mugger, using gloves to avoid laying down fingerprints, in Wallingham, outside a local dive bar? A bit of a stretch, if you ask me. If it was a mugger and he did grab the door handle, it's more likely that his fingerprints were smudged away by everyone else who touched that handle."

Brimton nodded thoughtfully.

"Besides, Hutchinson died of a massive heart attack, and I doubt a simple mugger would cause a man who was in good health like he was to have a massive heart attack."

'It is possible, however."

"It is, and perhaps there are some security cameras in the area that would corroborate that theory."

"But you're not counting on that," Brimton concluded.

"Not for a minute," said Pruitt. "There are simply too many loose ends about this for me to be comfortable with the term _natural causes_. My theory is that if Hutchinson died of a massive heart attack as the ME says, it had to be induced somehow. Someone or something caused it to happen." She picked up her tea and let Brimton soak up some of the doubt she had just tossed her way.

Brimton drummed her manicured fingers on her desk and said, "If we decide to look into this on the side, we're not going to be able to obtain any search warrants. We would need permission from the various parties every step of the way."

"I'm well aware of that," said Pruitt, "but people tend to give me what I ask for. I guess they figure what harm can come from this old biddy nosing around." She smiled a grandmotherly smile.

Brimton smiled back but her grin was short-lived. "I've got a place for us to start," she said. "Do you remember Harry Curlander?"

"Of course," Pruitt replied, her eyes narrowing. "He's maintained all along that Hutchinson's death is suspicious. Why start with him?"

"Yesterday he told me about a couple of very interesting run-ins he had with two of Hutch's coworkers who attended the funeral."

"Interesting how?"

Brimton looked at her watch. "I have to be in court in twenty minutes," she said. "Why don't I have him call you?"

* * * * *

Suzanne said, "Of course I've met Brendan Phillips. Why are you asking all these questions, Harry? What's going on?"

Harry thought, _uh-oh_. He was scaring her. "Sorry Suzanne, I don't mean to upset you." He got up and closed the door to his office. After his conversation with Doc and Ducky the night before, he was starting to even scare himself and he imagined his emotions radiated right through the phone line. "It's just that a couple of funny things happened to me at the funeral and... well, maybe it's just my imagination, but I feel very uncomfortable about it. Listen, maybe I should call back another time."

"Harry, no, it's okay. The kids all left today and I'm here all alone. This is as good a time as any."

He visualized her sitting all alone in that silent house. "Gee Suzanne, it's not good for you to be alone right now. Maybe you could go spend some time with one of the kids. If you'd like, you could even stay with us for a while. The Jersey Shore is nice this time of year."

"Not to worry, okay Harry? I'm going to do just that. Bobby already bought me a ticket to fly out to his place on Saturday. I just don't want to impose on them."

She was calmer now. "Good. It's the right thing to do, Suzanne, and it's not imposing."

"Why are you asking me about Brendan Phillips?"

"Well, the funniest thing happened. I met him at the wake, and—"

Suzanne interrupted and asked, "What do you mean, you met him at the wake?"

Harry undid the button on his collar and loosened his tie. What a strange question. "In the restaurant, at the reception after the wake. Fish and I went to the bar for a drink and we bumped into two guys there, you know, we were just making small talk and they said they were from the bank. One of them said he was Jerry Brennan, the CFO at the bank.... Do you know Jerry?"

"Of course I know Jerry. Hutch was the CFO before him and Jerry took the job when Hutch was asked to take the president's job."

Harry leaned back in his chair and gazed aimlessly out his window. "What's he look like, Suzanne? Jerry Brennan, I mean."

"Look like? Jerry? He's kind of lanky, mid-forties, Ivy League sort. Why?"

That sounded close enough. "Well, Jerry was with this other fella, taller, darker complexion, and introduced him as Brendan Phillips and as CEO at the bank. So I was wondering—"

"Brendan Phillips was the CEO at the bank, but he wasn't at the wake, Harry. Jerry was, and he came over to me to pay his respects, but Brendan Phillips wasn't there."

Bells started ringing inside Harry's head. "What do you mean _was_ the CEO?"

"Brendan Phillips is dead, Harry. He passed away about a month ago and the CEO job is still open. Hutch thought he might be in line for it, but the board was doing its due diligence and interviewing other candidates, so we were waiting to see which way it was going to go."

Harry's suddenly felt as if he'd been hit with a hammer. There was no sense in asking Suzanne anything further for fear that it would cause real distress, and his plan to tell her about Jerry following him on the Connecticut Turnpike went right out the window. Suddenly feeling the need to cover up, he backtracked quickly. "I must have misunderstood. How silly, right? Maybe Jerry said the other guy was taking over for Brendan Phillips and I just heard it wrong." He thought to himself: right. No wonder the guy didn't have any business cards to hand out.

Suzanne went on cautiously now. "What you're saying could be true, but I don't remember Hutch saying anything about the CEO position being filled. Are you sure about this?"

"Suzanne, do you know how Brendan Phillips died?"

There was significant silence on the line for several heartbeats, during which Harry could almost hear Suzanne's over the phone. "He died of a massive heart attack, Harry, but that wasn't a surprise at the time. The man was sixty pounds overweight and smoked cigars as thick as my wrist." Her voice was quivering. "What's going on here? _Harry?_ "

"Suzanne, do you know where Hutch's cell phone is located?" Harry held his breath as he waited for her answer.

"Why are you asking? You're the third person who's asked about Hutch's cell phone."

Harry didn't know what to say next. Should he be the one to tell her that Hutch's death may not have been due to _natural causes?_ "If you don't mind my asking, Suzanne, who were the other two?"

"The first person was someone from the bank." There was a distinct upturn in her voice now, tighter, more strained. "The second was a Detective Pruitt who explained that she was the police officer who'd investigated the scene after Hutch was found, and you're the third person. Why is Hutch's cell phone such a hot topic right now?"

Not answering the question, Harry asked, "Do you have the phone, Suzanne? Have you looked for it?"

"The detective lady said that Hutch may have been talking to someone just before he died and she felt it might be important to contact that person. Why would that be, Harry?"

Not answering her for the second time, Harry asked, "And what about the person from the bank. Why did he want the phone?"

"It was a she, not a he, and she just said she was from the HR department at the bank and wanted the phone back because it was company property, that and Hutch's laptop. She sounded very young and it didn't sound like she knew that Hutch had died. When I said something she said she was very sorry and that she was just doing her job; it was standard procedure to take back company property when someone left the company."

"So she was saying that Hutch's phone was a company phone," Harry concluded.

"I guess," Suzanne replied. "I told her it wasn't."

"Because...?"

"He had a company cell phone at one time but he turned it back in. It was just too much to keep track of so he just decided to use his own. I think he still got a phone allowance from the bank that paid our cell phone bill. It was one of the little perks of being a senior executive there.... Harry?" There was another very long pause. "Harry, there's something wrong, isn't there? Hutch didn't die from natural causes, did he? That's what this is all about, isn't it, all these questions and all this go-around about his phone and who he was talking to before he died?"

Harry swiveled in his chair and looked straight ahead. Softly, he asked, "Do you have that phone, Suzanne? It could be very important." He didn't dare go further about _why_ it was important.

"I have it, Harry. I have it right here."

"Is it turned on?"

"It is now."

"Do you know how to check the call history?"

"I do. Do you want me to do that now?"

"I do."

"Okay. I have it."

"Can you see if there are any calls showing for the late afternoon of May 4th?" Harry waited a minute during which he could hear Suzanne start sobbing on the other end of the line.

"The late afternoon of May 4th is when Hutch died," she sobbed. "And there is a call showing. Hutch was talking to someone just before he died, Harry. It shows it right here, at 5:02 p.m." She broke into a full cry now, and it was tough to listen to.

"Can I have the number?" he asked, taking one of his business cards from the holder on his desk and jotting it down as she read it off.

"Should I send this phone to Detective Pruitt before the messenger from the bank gets here?" Suzanne managed to ask between sobs. "She asked if I could to that."

Harry flew out of his chair, knocking it hard against the wall. "What messenger from the bank, Suzanne? Didn't you say it wasn't a company phone?"

"The girl...." she sobbed. "The girl from HR said they'd send someone from the IT department over to pick up Hutch's laptop and would it be okay if he examined the phone briefly so he could unlink it from the company email."

"Did you tell this to Detective Pruitt?" Harry asked urgently.

"No, I didn't think it was important. The girl said the IT guy would only take a minute or two to do that."

"When is this person from the IT department supposed to be there?"

"I knew I'd be home for lunch so I said around noon would be convenient."

Harry looked at his watch. It was twenty minutes until then. "Suzanne, this girl, did she call you on your home number so that you could see her call on the caller ID?"

"Well, yes, I guess so. She called on the home number but I didn't look at the caller ID. I guess her number is there."

"This girl...." said Harry, "... did she give you her name?"

"I... I think she said her name was Jennifer. I don't think she gave me a last name. Why? What's the matter, Harry? You're scaring me."

Well, that horse was already out of the barn, and maybe this was a good time to be scared after all. "Suzanne, I want you to listen to me very carefully. I want you to take that laptop and Hutch's phone, and I want you to get in your car and drive down the street and park where you can see your house. Then, I want you to call the number that this girl used to call you. There's a chance that the number doesn't belong to the bank. If it is the bank, then ask for the HR department and see if there's a Jennifer there. If there is, just hang up. If there isn't, you'll know it was an impostor."

"Oh my God, Harry, what's going on here?"

"Just keep an eye on your house, Suzanne. If someone shows up, call 9-1-1 and tell them someone is trying to break into you house, but whatever you do, _do not_ get anywhere near that person. There's something very strange happening here, and while I'm no police investigator I think Hutch's death is tied up in all this. I don't think there's any way Hutch died of natural causes, Suzanne, and I'm going to talk to Detective Pruitt about everything we talked about." And more, Harry thought to himself. Way more.

* * * * *

"Good night Karen, good night Jack. I'll see you two tomorrow."

"Are you burning the midnight oil tonight?" Karen asked.

Harry looked at his watch. "I won't be here that long, but I've got to get through some of these hearing briefs before I go home. I figure you guys can only cover for me for so long. I really want to thank you for doing that."

Karen and Jack looked at each other, and while the younger and less experienced Jack didn't say anything, Karen said, "To tell you the truth, Harry, we've been worried about you. It's not like you to push off work. Is everything okay with you?"

They were standing in his doorway, expectant looks hanging on both their faces. He knew he owed them an explanation. "Don't worry about me," he replied offhandedly, "and everything is okay with me and Denise, but I'm trying to help out an old friend. It's something that's very important to me."

It was Jack who said, "Is there anything we can do to help?"

Harry considered how lucky he was. Someone else would be complaining. "Just keep doing what you're doing," he responded. "I hope I can get through this soon and get back to normal, but it might take a while. I appreciate everything you're doing and I won't forget it."

Jack heaved his backpack over his shoulder and called as he turned to leave, "We're there for you, boss. Gotta a softball game tonight. See ya' tomorrow."

Karen smiled and said, "He's a good man, you know."

"So are you, Karen. Have a good night."

Karen turned away and said, "I'll lock the door behind me. Don't forget to set the alarm when you leave."

Harry heard the door close and noted that Karen had turned off the lights in the outer lobby. It sure looked dark out there. Must be a storm coming. Turning his attention to the stack of work in front of him, he decided to grab a cup of coffee thinking it would help him concentrate on all the legalese he was about to absorb. The stuff never got any easier, he thought. He made his way to the copy room which also served as their lunchroom and popped a coffee pod into the single-serving coffee maker. He pushed the brew button and parted the slats on the mini blinds as he absently checked the sky. Sure enough, a thunderhead was coming off the water, looking like it was going to swallow Point Pleasant whole. No softball game for Jack tonight, he chuckled to himself as he looked up and down the block. Curlander and Curlander was located just up the street from the Point Pleasant Municipal Complex on Bridge Avenue, and usually at dusk and into the evening the activity was headed toward the boardwalk at Point Pleasant Beach. Sure enough, in the thirty seconds that he looked out the window, half a dozen cars loaded with young Jersey Shore partiers headed in that direction, bikini tops and bare chests plainly visible in almost every car that passed by. "You're gonna get wet tonight," Harry snickered as he heard the beep of the coffee maker go off. He glanced at the gathering thunder clouds one more time, noting but not paying any specific attention to the dark BMW 750Li that was parked on the street a few spaces down from his building entrance on Bridge Avenue. There was no reason to. His building housed several practices, including another attorney's office, an engineering firm, and an investment firm, and there were perhaps two dozen other businesses located in the buildings nearby. Harry grabbed his coffee and returned to his desk, glancing at the clock in his office. It was twenty after seven, he still had some time, and he tried to put the thoughts about Hutch, Monica, and Pruitt out of his mind, if only for a little while until he could catch up on his work.

He tried vainly for the next half hour, but he couldn't get the conversation he'd had that morning with Suzanne out of his mind. With the curiosity of how her situation had turned out, he decided to call her and find out. There was no answer and he left a message, wondering where she could be at almost eight o'clock at night. Maybe she'd hooked up with a friend for dinner. That's it; she needed to get out of the house. That was good. He'd try back later. He went back to his work. At eight-thirty, he tried again; still no answer. Hmm. He decided to call Denise and let her know he'd be at the office for at least another half hour.

"That's okay, sweetheart, I'll get a sub from Jersey Mike's on the way home.... No, I won't be too late.... Bye.... I love you too." He went back to his work. It was useless. He couldn't concentrate. He should have followed up with Suzanne earlier, that afternoon, but he was wall-to-wall with appointments all day. He tried again, same result.

"The hell with it," he said to himself aloud. "It'll be here tomorrow," and he grabbed his suitcoat and was out the door. He tried calling Suzanne one last time on his cell phone as he walked through the back self-locking exit door of his building. Still no answer. Hoping everything was all right with her, he pushed the unlock button on his key remote only to remember that he'd forgotten to set the security alarm to his office suite, which Karen had purposely told him not to forget. "Shit," he said, now he had to walk back around the building to get back in and set the alarm. Oh well. He came around the access lane from the back parking area, fumbling with his keys in order to unlock the main entrance door when he noticed that the dark BMW he'd seen parked a few spaces down the street was now directly in front of the building with its headlights on. It was too dark to make out the driver's face.

After setting the alarm he went through the back self-locking exit door again and made his way onto Bridge Avenue, noting that the BMW was still there. The first traffic light turned red as he approached, and he looked into his rearview only to see the BMW pull up behind him. After the situation on I-95 with Jerry and the Jaguar, this took on special meaning and his nerves were suddenly ablaze. The light turned green and Harry popped it and squealed left through the intersection, putting distance between his Acura SUV and the BMW. The BMW fishtailed through the intersection, its driver obviously caught by surprise and now struggling to catch up.

"Fuck this!" Harry bellowed inside his car, and he blasted through the next intersection just as the light turned yellow. Behind him, the BMW ran the light, barely avoiding a couple of cars that had entered the intersection. Harry banged a left onto Route 88 which was one of the main thoroughfares through town, and he knew instantly that was a mistake. The street was full of lights and he was quite sure that whoever was driving the BMW wasn't concerned about the number of points on his license. Looking down and seeing that he was doing close to sixty, he felt the sway caused by the higher center of gravity on his SUV as he weaved around cars, most of which blasted their horns at him as he swerved past them.

Why were they following him? Then, the thought changed to why were they _after_ him, because that's what was going on here. Jerry had been following him, but from the recklessness displayed by the BMW, every molecule in Harry's body told him that whoever was driving that car meant to do him harm. He squealed around a New Jersey Transit bus and was almost into the next intersection where the light was red. In a panic, he jammed on his brakes and swung the steering wheel to the right at the same time, sending his SUV into a sideways skid. Gunning the engine, he sailed up that street, but he didn't sail for long as his right front tire clipped the curb, the resulting ricochet sending his SUV to squarely into the side of a pickup truck parked across the street.

Feeling a burning pain in his side, groggy from the punch-like shot he'd received from the exploded airbag, Harry pushed it away as the pain knifed through his body. Almost unconscious, he noted the flashing blue and red lights of a police car that pulled up almost immediately and nosedived to a stop with its headlights illuminating the interior of his SUV as if he had parked next to the sun. Barely able to breathe, he pushed the window button on his armrest just as huge droplets of rain began to fall from the storm that had been coming on for the last hour.

With the instant downpour pelting him in the face, Harry squinted up at the police officer that came up next the window and said, "Someone is trying to kill me. Back there, someone was chasing me, trying to kill me— _trying to kill me_ ," he said as loud as he could.

"Yes, sir," said the officer. "We saw him too. Try not to move now," the officer added as he pressed a button on his communicator and called for an ambulance.

Gasping for air, Harry could feel his broken ribs trying to poke through his side. Suddenly, huge claps of thunder boomed through the night sky and the rain began to come down in sheets. Barely hearing his cell phone go off, Harry managed to reach into his suitcoat, seeing that Denise was calling. "Denise," he said, coughing up a mouthful of blood all over himself.

Not knowing his predicament, she started right in. "Harry... Monica called and said it was very important that you call Detective Pruitt as soon as possible.... Harry? Harry, are you there?"

That call was already on his agenda, Harry thought through his fog. Somehow, he managed to respond to his wife. "Denise, I've been in an accident. Meet me at the hospital."

"Oh my God! Harry! _Are you all right? Harry? Harry...!"_

Chapter 11... The Hospital

"He is aware of my presence, Mushir."

"How did that happen?"

"It was bound to happen sooner or later, Mushir. We have had eyes on him since before we accomplished the first part of our mission. He was bound to detect us sooner or later."

"'Aḥmaq! We should have killed them both at the same time as we had planned. It is now much more complicated."

The insults were bound to come. Killing both men at the same time would have been the ultimate tipoff that their deaths were no accident and would not only have aroused suspicion, but would have led to an obvious investigation. The opportunity had presented itself for one of the assassinations, but not the other. He was not going to be the fool in this mission. "I was successful with our first target and made sure his death would escape any suspicion. Do you not think that both of them dying by induced heart attacks at the same time would not have aroused the very suspicion you are looking to avoid? Do you even know if that was possible to achieve? You have placed me in a very precarious situation and it is because of you that his own government is monitoring him. If you continue to call me a fool and an idiot, I will be more than happy to return to Yabrud and continue the jihad in a more traditional manner. It is your choice, Mushir, but I am not the only one who will have to explain if this mission fails." The Americans would have called this his fuck you speech.

After some silence, the Mushir said, "Those accounts are very important to us and we have much invested in them. They must remain undetected until we can set up other means to funnel the money to our causes."

"You are reminding me of something I already know. If you would like me to complete this mission, you will need to listen to my recommendations. Otherwise you may obtain another munāḍil, another fighter who will follow your orders without question as you might prefer. It is up to you, Mushir, but you and I will both face Allah together should you decide to take that action." Now the Mushir had as much at risk as he did. Now their lives depended on each other's actions and it was up to the Mushir as to whether he lived or died by his own hand, for it would be like cutting his own throat should he bring this to confrontation between the two of them. That decision would bring shame on them both, a shame that would be a hundred times worse than dying honorably in the eyes of Allah.

"These deaths cannot be traced back to us," the Mushir said, his fury at having been threatened evident in his voice. "Complete this mission immediately as you have been instructed. The lives of your family depend on it."

* * * * *

"Easy now, Mister Curlander," the young nursey said as she tried to help Harry out of the wheelchair and back into the bed. Harry was 6'1", and 215 pounds. She was 4'11" and ninety-eight pounds if she carried a brick in her pocket.

"How old are you?" Harry asked.

"Nineteen," the young thing replied.

"Huh, I've got ties older than that," Harry muttered lowly. "And you're a nurse?"

"Well, no, not exactly. I just completed my first year in the LPN program at Jersey College."

"So you're not a nurse."

"Well... no, not yet. I'm still studying, and I'll be one around this time next year."

"So what are you now? Like, an assistant nursey or something?"

"I am a patient care nursing summer intern," she said proudly.

"And what does a patient care nursing summer intern do, exactly?"

"I help with treatments and I assist patients with tending to the personal care activities of daily living. Would you like a sponge bath?"

"No, I don't want a sponge bath. I want to go home."

"Oh. Sorry. I can't help you with that. That would be up to the doctor. I can get you a magazine, if you'd like. Or maybe a toothbrush and some mouthwash. I think you need it."

Harry gave her a look. "Oh, I do, do I? Do they teach bedside manners at Jersey College?"

"That's one of the elective courses, and I elected not to take that right now. You could use that sponge bath too, you know."

Denise returned from the nursing station down the hall. "He's not giving you any trouble, is he?" she asked the young patient care summer intern nursey person.

"Oh no, absolutely not. He's a real angel," she replied, smiling back at Harry. "He could use a sponge bath, though."

"I'll give him one when he gets home," Denise said. "The doctor said we'll be out of here in half an hour."

"That means sometime today—maybe," Harry responded grumpily. "These bandage wraps are killing me, they're so tight." He tried to change his position and the pain shot through his chest like a lightning bolt. Three broken ribs will do that to you. The doctor said he was a centimeter away from a punctured lung, hence the overnight guest appearance in the hospital. Now it was all Harry could do to keep his mood out of totally-pissed-off territory, at which he was being only moderately successful. "Don't you have someone who's waiting for you to stab them with a needle or something?" he said to the nursey person.

"And I was saving that for you," she shot back. "I'll bet he's a ball of fire on Valentine's Day," she said to Denise, and she was out the door.

Denise said, "She'll make a good nurse someday."

Harry said, "Yeah, right," and he turned away, thinking about what happened the night before.

Picking up on it, Denise said, "I'm going to the cafeteria to get some coffee. Do you want anything?"

"My cell phone," he said coldly. "Did you bring Detective Pruitt's phone number?"

Denise had known him long enough to know there was no sense consoling him or trying to be nice when he got like this. He'd probably feel better if he just punched something. She reached into her purse and handed him Pruitt's number and his phone, kissed him on the forehead and said, "I'll give you some time."

Harry noted the date on the phone display. It was Thursday, May 16th, almost two weeks after the reunion and Hutch's death, and only three days since the funeral. It seemed much longer than that, he thought. Being just a regular Thursday, it was a normal workday and Harry figured that's where everyone would be—at work. He had several calls to make. The first of them would be to Pruitt.

There was a lot to talk about with her, and he wasn't sure where to start. Perhaps he could start with the most recent occurrence about the human resources impostors who had attempted to obtain Hutch's cell phone and laptop from Suzanne. Or, there was the fact that he, Harry, now possessed the number of the last person that Hutch had talked to on the phone before he died. Even more interesting was why Jerry Brennan had followed him from Cambridge halfway to Point Pleasant after the funeral, and why the tall, dark-skinned fake Brendan Phillips had been introduced as such at the wake when the real Brendan Phillips was verifiably dead, also of a massive heart attack, coincidentally—or maybe not so coincidentally. And what about the mysterious email exchange he'd had about a month before the reunion about Hutch wanting to meet him in New York City to discuss something because he, Harry, could "keep his mouth shut?" What a juicy little tidbit that was.

It was all true, but it sounded too hard to believe and he wondered if Pruitt would buy in or think he'd gone bananas. He shifted his weight in the bed, wincing as pain stabbed through his chest again. Trying to catch his breath and sucking in air laden with the wonderful aroma of hospital room bouquet, he wondered if he should even say anything to Pruitt about what Doc had found out from Doctor Kadam. Probably not, he figured. Putting himself in Pruitt's shoes, if he was on the receiving end of someone telling him about CIA assassins inducing heart attacks by using futuristic radio frequency weapons, he'd think they were nuttier than a Mr. Goodbar. One thing was quite believable, however, someone had been after him last night, and it was believable because he'd lived through it—albeit barely. It wasn't beyond reality that he could have ended up like Hutch, and certainly Pruitt was bound to see that reality and get an investigation going on whatever was going on here. Floating above all this was whatever Hutch might have been working on at the bank, along with whatever conversations he'd had with the U.S. Treasury Department, which to Harry seemed interconnected somehow, but which no one seemed to have a handle on. Harry thought: was he into some shit, or what?

Picking up his cell phone, he was about to dial Pruitt's number when the phone vibrated in his hand, startling him. Not recognizing the number, he hit the answer button. "Hello?"

"Yo, Dirty Harry, Al Fiorello here. I got your cell number from the folks at your office, and they said something about you bein' in the hospital. Is everything okay wid' you?"

It was Fighting Al, and Harry remembered immediately that Al had agreed to look into what would be involved in filing a malpractice suit against the doctor that had examined Hutch for his bank-required physical. "Hello Al, I'm a little banged up but I'll make it."

"How banged up?"

"Three broken ribs and some internal bruising. I have to take it easy for a few days."

"No shit. What the fuck happened? You weren't, like, mugged or something, were ya'?"

Harry debated whether he should go into it. "I might as well have been. I think someone was after me last night, and I sort of ran off the road trying to get away."

"Fuckin' A, Harry... for real? Do you know who it was?"

"Not exactly, but a lot of strange things have been happening to me since the reunion and this whole deal with Hutch; I have a feeling it had something to do with that."

"Harry, hold on a second and let me close my office door." Al put the phone down and was back in a few seconds. "Listen, Harry, normally I don't stick my nose where it don't belong, but if you'd like to find out who was trying to jump your ass last night, I know some guys who sort of specialize in finding out stuff people don't want found out, if you get my drift."

Harry was getting the drift, all right. Hesitating, "Listen, Al...."

"Hey, Harry, just sayin', okay? It's just that with the work I do, I get to know people, that's all. Sometimes real life ain't like what you see on TV, ya' know?"

Harry let the conversation hang there, wondering why he was even thinking about it. "I'll get back to you on that, okay Al?"

"Whatever you think, Harry. You just need to say the word, but uh... well, the reason I called. You're not gonna like what I have to say."

"It's okay, Al. Spit it out."

"So you're still convinced that this thing with Hutch really stinks, huh?"

"More than ever."

"Well, I looked into the whole malpractice angle like we talked about, and I don't think that would get us anywhere."

"Bummer. Why not?"

"Well, when we talked about this at the wake with Ducky's wife.... And by the way, is she hot as a pistol, or what? She's got some great rack on her, don't ya' think?"

"Yeah, Al, great rack. You were saying?"

"What is she, ten years younger than Ducky?"

"I never asked, but she looks it."

"I'll say. Lucky dog that Ducky. I'll betcha he's playin' motorboat with those puppies every night."

"Al, you were saying?"

"Right. She said that the ME's report didn't indicate there were any severe blockages or coronary artery disease in Hutch's body."

"That's right."

"Well, if that was the case, then it would be almost impossible to prove negligence in that we'd be saying that the examining physician should have found something that wasn't there. Do you see my point?"

Reluctantly, Harry said, "Yeah, I'm afraid I do."

"There's another reason. In order to even bring a malpractice suit in a situation like this, we'd have to claim that it was something the doctor did that caused the harm. Now, I know we talked about bringing suit mainly for the purpose of getting an investigation going, but I don't think we'd even get that far. I don't think there's any way we could claim that it was something the doctor did that caused Hutch's death. If this case came in my front door, I'd probably turn it away."

Harry nodded to himself, knowing Al was right. "Well, it was worth a shot, right?"

"Hey, anything is worth a shot, especially in this situation. Hutch was one of our brothers, man, and I agree with you—I think this thing is fucked up."

You don't know how fucked up, thought Harry, then he recalled what Al had said a few moments earlier. "Hey Al, let me ask you something else."

"My time is your time, as we lawyers say."

"You said before that you know people who know people, right?"

"You're driving at something, Harry. I can smell the rubber burning right through the phone line."

"Between you and me, if we needed to get hold of some phone records without anyone knowing about it—"

"You mean without a search warrant or a subpoena."

"That can be such a complicated procedure sometimes, don't you think?"

"I do," Al replied.

"And it seems such a waste of time and expense to go through all that for the little bit of information we're looking for," Harry went on. "I thought you might know someone who could help us streamline the process."

Fighting Al paused and said, "Phone records, huh? Yeah, I might know a guy. Gimme a couple 'a days."

* * * * *

"So let me see if I got all this," said Pruitt, who went on to recap everything Harry had just told her on the phone: Jerry Brennan following him on I-95, the Brendan Phillips impostor, the human resource pretenders who were trying to get hold of Hutch's cell phone and laptop, the email exchange about Hutch wanting to meet Harry in New York City on the sly, and finally the fact that Hutch had been contacted by, and had made a visit to, the Treasury Department in D.C. some months back regarding topic unknown, as was whatever he was working on, seemingly, at First International Bank. Harry didn't say anything about cardiac-arrest-inducing radio frequency weapons. It sounded too farfetched and he needed Pruitt to believe him right now rather than think he was some sort of obsessed whack-a-doodle.

"You got it," Harry said when she was finished.

"And you say someone tried to run you off the road last night."

"Not tried—did," Harry corrected.

"And where is that cell phone right now?" Pruitt asked, not bothering to mention that she'd already asked Mister Hutchinson's wife the previous day if she could send it to her.

"His wife Suzanne has it, along with the laptop those phony human resources people were after."

"I might be able to look into some of this on my own time," Pruitt said, "but there is no official investigation open at this point. You understand what that means, don't you, being a lawyer and all?"

Harry did indeed understand. "If I can convince Hutch's wife to give you that phone and laptop voluntarily, would that be in violation of any privacy laws, or would there be any reason why you couldn't take a look-see as to what's on those devices?" Harry also didn't say anything about the fact that he was now in possession of the phone number belonging to whomever Hutch talked to just before he died. He needed to know where Pruitt's head was with regards to this investigation before he divulged much more.

"If she turns over those items voluntarily, no, I don't think there's any problem, but I'll double check with ADA Brimton just to make sure. You said Mrs. Hutchinson lives in Cambridge?"

"North Cambridge, to be exact. That's probably about an hour and a half from Northampton, which is where you're located, right?"

"That's correct. If she agrees to let us inspect those items, call me back and I'll make arrangements to pick them up. Just one thing, Mister Curlander."

That sounded ominous. "What's that, Detective?"

"Be sure she understands how important those devices are and to not let them out of her sight."

Harry almost bopped himself in the head as he suddenly recalled that Suzanne was all alone and whoever had tried to get hold of those items might try again—and a little more forcefully this time. "I'll give her a call right away," he said to Pruitt. He had a bad feeling about this.

* * * * *

CIA Special Agent Darryl Breckenridge slammed down his headset and said, "Shit." Picking up his cell phone, he called the same Boston 857 number he'd been using since he'd been assigned to this operation. "We're fucked," he bellowed into the phone. "I tried to tell you before that we were fucked, and now I'm telling you again. We're fucked."

"Slow down, Breckenridge. What's got your panties in a bunch this time?"

"Someone ran our man off the road last night and it sounds like he almost bought it."

"And you know this how?"

"I just got done listening to his wife talking to her mother for the last half hour. If we're gonna protect this guy, we gotta have more eyes on this thing."

"And where to do you suggest we get that? I'm lucky I got authorization to put you on this."

"Listen, if what his wife just said was true, this is turning into one piss-poor exfiltration operation. It sounds to me like he's getting in deeper and he's not even aware of it."

"I hear ya', Breckenridge, and I'll carry the message up the ladder, but you stay on plan for now until I tell you different. We don't want any blowback on this."

"We've already had one protected source burned in this operation, if we lose another we'll have a lot more to worry about than blowback. These tangos think he's an accomplice, boss, and we're leaving him out there as bait without him even knowing it. I'm telling you, either there's a cell closing in on this guy, or we've got a mole in this operation. Either way we're fucked and we've got to bring this guy in from the cold."

"That's not part of this op."

"Then we need to make it part of this op, or there will be a lot more than just blowback in the shit storm I'll create."

"What the fuck, Breckenridge? I'm hearing you loud and clear, okay, but we have no proof that we've been penetrated."

"Then you tell me how they got to him. I'm telling you, someone is doing a damned good dry clean on us, or we're blind as bats. You don't want to pull the plug, fine, but then you do something so that Curlander isn't the meat in this sandwich. I, for one, do not plan on spending quality time in a federal prison over this."

"I could have your ass for this, Breckenridge."

"Yeah, well, better I get fucked that way than by being some dude's shower bitch."

* * * * *

"The problem," said Monica, "is threefold."

"Threefold?" Pruitt questioned. "Explain it to me."

Monica swiveled in her chair and gazed out her office window: nice mid-May day in Northampton, the type of beautiful spring weather that happens in New England. She was thankful that Pruitt was doing more than just taking an interest in the case, as evidenced by the fact that Pruitt was there on her day off. She needed to be careful with her language here so that Pruitt would stay motivated to keep this case-but-not-a-case on her agenda.

"First off," Monica began, "in cases where digital evidence might be involved, the search warrant process is becoming a two-step process."

"How's that?" Pruitt asked.

"Existing rules are premised on a one-step process of search and seizure: the police obtain a warrant and enter the place to be searched and retrieve the property named in the warrant."

"Yeah, got that," said Pruitt. "How is this different?"

"Computer technologies tend to bifurcate the process. Not only does the computer need to be designated in a traditional warrant, but then the specific information being sought on that computer must also be named on a separate search warrant. In this sense, computers are treated like another storage location, and as you know, warrants are needed to search any specific location involved in an investigation."

Pruitt nodded and said, "According to your friend Curlander...." She paused. "He is your friend, isn't he?"

"More a friend of my husband, but close enough."

"According to him, some people posing as bank employees are trying very hard to get hold of the late Mister Hutchinson's cell phone and laptop from the wife. Curlander thinks there's some information there that will cast doubt that Mister Hutchinson's death was attributable to natural causes."

Monica was listening very carefully. "Okay," she said, urging Pruitt to continue.

"So if the wife is in control of the property in question and she gives us consent, and we find evidence that substantiates Curlander's suspicions, is that enough to establish probable cause for an arrest?"

Pruitt was eyeing her closely, Monica noticed, and it was clear why her reputation preceded her. When Pruitt made an arrest, there wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that some perpetrator would get off on a technicality. Monica said, "I think that if we proceed as you've described and we come across something that warrants reclassifying Hutch's death as suspicious, there's a very real possibility that we might have to go back and obtain a search warrant to make admissible in any possible proceeding any evidence that we know already exists due to our search by consent in an unofficial investigation." Monica paused here. "That's the third element. We have to be very cognizant of Fourth Amendment admissibility even though we don't have a case and we don't have any suspects at the moment."

Pruitt just shook her head. "I think I know what you just said. So it's okay to get hold of that cell phone and laptop from the wife?" she questioned. She didn't bother to tell Monica she'd already spoken to Suzanne and had now decided to actually drive to North Cambridge.

"I just have one more question," said Monica. "Who actually owns those items?"

Pruitt leaned back in her chair and sighed, "Oh darn."

Chapter 12... Tinted Windows

Fish put the phone down and gazed blankly out his office window, the smell of rain tickling his nostrils. Flashing back to their college days together, he reflected on the recent reunion, thinking most of the brothers carried a bit more outside polish, but basically they were the same guys he'd known for more than half his life. Harry certainly hadn't changed much.

For a while, he thought Harry was imagining things and that his stunt at the wake was a bit extreme, but there was no way Harry imagined his way into the hospital with three broken ribs. Now, the crazy phone call he'd gotten from Harry the previous Monday about him being followed on I-95 didn't seem so crazy and he regretted saying it—that Harry was crazy, that is; he should have given him the benefit of the doubt.

Thinking about the situation further, he'd thought more than once that Harry's preoccupation with Hutch's death was getting on toward manic obsession, but he wrote that off to the fact that Harry and Hutch had been more like real brothers rather than frat brothers back in the day—that, and the fact that Harry had always been an all-in kind of guy. Now, as Fish reviewed some of the occurrences that Harry had told him about which had taken place in the last week, Harry's fixation on proving that Hutch did not die by natural causes seemed understandable, if not downright logical. As for himself, there was something to be said for the relationships he'd maintained with his Zeta Chi brothers over the years. To him, it wasn't like joining some club; it meant they had an obligation to look out for each other. If Hutch's death was not due to natural causes, then that meant he was murdered, pure and simple, and if looking out for each other meant that they had to find out who did it, then that's what needed to happen.

" _Think,"_ Fish said to himself. That's what he was good at. That's what mechanical engineers did. Through the use of analysis, modeling, design, and synthesis, mechanical engineers solved problems. _Think_. Research, testing, development, and implementation: those were the hallmarks of his trade. _Think_. Predicting situations and manufacturing solutions is what he got paid for; dealing in reality while experimenting in innovation were his methodologies. _Think_. He needed to put it all to work here.

The facts were these: there were two ATM machines within a stone's throw of the spot where Hutch was found. One of the ATMs was at a branch location for Hampshire Bank, and was visible from the spot where Hutch's car had been parked. It wasn't exactly close to the scene, however. The other ATM was a standalone machine located next to a tiny lunch deli inside the vestibule of an office building across the street from Slick's. There was a third ATM located inside a convenience store gas station about a block away, but like the ATM located in the office building lobby, if it held a security camera it would have no view of the street and Hutch's car. Fish had also contacted the Wallingham police department, but they had no security cameras located on Newberry Street. As for Slick's itself, forget it, the place was a dive, or maybe even a dump aspiring to be a dive; the owner laughed when he was asked whether he had any security cameras in the place. Hampshire Bank it was.

Okay, thought Fish, he'd gotten that part worked out, but what did he know about security cameras and surveillance systems? One word answer: zotz. _Think_. Figure it out. And he did. Come to find out that ATM security had turned into an industry in and of itself. Most security cameras these days were FTP cameras that supported uploading of recorded images to an offsite FTP server. In this way, one of the biggest vulnerabilities of security cameras could be avoided, that being the destruction of the camera and the recorded images by intruders or anyone else who wanted the data gone forever. By uploading the data in real time over an IP protocol, even if the camera was destroyed, the data was not. If the security camera on the Hampshire Bank ATM was configured in this way, whatever it recorded in its purview on the evening of May 4th would be on a server somewhere.

So far so good, now what? _"Think,"_ Fish said to himself again. He'd just got done working on a problem a lot more complex than this, surely he could figure out how to get to the images from that ATM. Wait. The problem—actually the project—he'd just thought about: his company had just resystemized and reengineered the entire manufacturing process for a company that manufactured oil tankers. Talk about your complexity. One of the biggest challenges for his own company in meeting the requirements for such a massive project was that they had to rethink and reinvest in their own computer aided design and database management technology so that any one of thousands upon thousands of drawings and specifications were available at a moment's notice to anyone on the project at any point in time, quite a chore given that the manufacturer was located in Bangladesh, but that's exactly why it was a requirement. Reinvesting in their own technology to meet this requirement meant bringing in additional expertise into their IT technology department, and her name was Sally Westerman. Fish picked up the phone and looked up the extension.

"Sally?"

"Yes?"

"Hi, this is Don Fischer. You remember me, don't you?"

"Of course. The Bangladesh trip. That was fun, wasn't it?"

That was good to hear. Fish thought she was interesting in an off-beat sort of way and had been debating for a while now whether he should ask her out. "It was fun," he said. "Did you have fun?"

"I just said that."

"Oh."

"What can I do for you, Fish?"

"Listen, I need to talk to you about something personal—"

"Wait, is Sanders from materials sciences there with you? Did he put you up to this? If he is, tell him no, I can't touch the tip of my nose with my tongue, okay?"

"Uh... that's not what I wanted to know, but thanks for the intel."

"Oh, sorry. A girl has a couple of drinks on a trip and some guys never let her forget it. It was the jet lag, you know?"

"Sally, my question has nothing to do with that. Like I said, it's kind of personal. I hope you don't mind."

"Personal, huh? You know, I wasn't the only one on that trip who got sloshed."

"Sally, slow down. My question has nothing to do with the trip. It has to do with your knowledge of computer systems security."

"Yeah, I'll bet. Security as in have I ever worn leather handcuffs? Sanders is right there laughing his butt off, isn't he?"

"No, he's not... really."

"For real? What about oil wrestling? That's another of his favorite topics."

Geez, thought Fish, he needed to get out of his office and talk to people more often. "No, nothing to do with oil wrestling either."

"You're serious, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am."

"Well, okay then, I guess. What'dya want to know?"

"How would you rate your knowledge about computer security and firewalls and stuff like that?"

"Quite good, actually."

"Quite good, or really good?"

"I guess you could say really good. Why?"

"So how hard would it be to hack into a storage database and copy some information?"

"What kind of information?"

"Say photos from a security camera."

"Not anyone's financial information, or tax return, or social security information? Nothing like that?"

"Not at all, just photos from a security camera."

"Anything military, or something requiring top secret clearance?"

"No, it's from a business security camera."

"Well, it depends on the organization's firewall, but that doesn't seem like anything that an experienced hacker couldn't get through. Probably pretty easy, actually. Why do you want to know all this stuff?"

The magic question, thought Fish. It was probably a situation where honesty was the best policy, so he told her.

"And this guy who died, he was a friend of yours?"

"A very good friend, with a wife and three kids. They need to know the truth."

Sally said, "I wouldn't do a hack from a company IP address, but if you're okay with doing it from your personal IP address, I guess I could check it out for you and see what's involved. Sounds like a good cause. How old was your friend?"

"Same age as me, fifty-two. I knew him for over thirty years."

"Oh man, how sad. When do you want to do this?" Sally asked.

"How about tonight, after work? Would you mind coming to my house? I don't live far from here."

"Done. Just email me the directions."

"This is just between us, right Sally?"

"Absolutely."

"Are you sure about this?" Fish added.

"Hey, if it's ever discovered it will be your IP address that gets traced, not mine. Besides, maybe you'll help me squash that rumor about what happened after I lost at beer pong at the company picnic."

* * * * *

Pruitt pulled up to 91 Clifton Street in North Cambridge and found it more than interesting to see a Cambridge patrol car and what was clearly—to her—an unmarked detective's car parked in front of the house. Taking note of the neighborhood, she had an idea instantly about what was happening. All of the homes were old, eighty years old or more, she guessed, and as such it was a mixture of tired and sometimes dilapidated structures mixed with reclaimed homes being brought back to their original glory by people looking for the stability of a family neighborhood like this one. Across the street she could see the football field and baseball diamonds of Russel Field. The home she was looking at was immaculate and it had to be worth a million plus. She took a parking spot a couple of doors down, then made her way up the recently painted but creaky porch steps and knocked on the stained glass front door. It was slightly ajar, and she could hear voices inside. A moment later the door swung open and she was greeted by a uniformed officer. Beyond him she could see Suzanne Hutchinson, she assumed, speaking with a casually dressed detective who was nodding and taking notes. She flashed her state police detective shield to the officer and he let her pass without saying a word although his confusion was evident as to why a statee would be here for a routine breaking and entering.

Examining the scene as she entered, Pruitt noted instantly that the drawers on every cabinet or table in the room had been opened and the contents were either strewn on the floor or disheveled within. Somehow, she knew immediately what the intruders had been looking for, and without going into the other rooms in the house, she knew it would be the same there. The detective's back was to her and she heard him ask Suzanne, "Do you know how they got into the house?"

"I think they just unlocked the back door somehow," she answered. "I didn't find anything broken and I found the door unlocked when I got home from my hair appointment. I always use that door because it leads to the garage and I'm sure I locked it when I left."

Upon hearing her answer, Pruitt knew immediately that this was no ordinary break in. Common thieves usually went the smash-and-grab route and did not use lock-picking tools where some degree of skill was involved. Furthermore, the search inside the house was obviously systematic, something that dumbass crackheads were not. They usually went to the offices or bedrooms looking for any jewelry or cameras or anything else they could carry away easily and hock to finance their next high.

"You're sure?" Lopez questioned, but he turned when Suzanne caught sight of Pruitt and looked her way. "Can I help you?" he asked as he shot an annoyed look at the officer for letting someone into his crime scene.

"State police," the officer called as he hunched his shoulders.

"State police?" the detective repeated, his surprise as evident as the officer's. "What's this all about?" He gave Pruitt an up and down. "Can I see some ID?"

Pruitt looked past him and asked, "Are you Suzanne?"

"I am," said Suzanne. "Are you Detective Pruitt?"

Pruitt took out her shield and showed it to both of them.

"I'm Detective Lopez," the detective said, his tone softening. "Funny, I thought I knew all the state police investigators operating out of the Middlesex unit."

Pruitt looked him square in the eye. There weren't many female detectives with the Massachusetts State Police, and none of them were fifty-somethings. One got respect by giving respect, however, and she held steady and said, "I'm out of Troop B in Northampton, and I'm here on another matter." She was careful not to use the word _case_ , as there was no case. "Forgive me for stepping into your crime scene, but I think this B&E and what I'm working on might be related."

"So what are you working on?" Lopez asked.

The guy looked like he'd been on the job for a while, thought Pruitt. Salt and pepper hair, crow's feet at the temples, narrow eyes—no sense in beating around the bush. "I'd rather not say, but I think I might be able to make this quick for you if you'll allow me to ask Mrs. Hutchinson just a couple of questions."

Lopez looked at Suzanne. Clearly he was no dummy and he absorbed her body language immediately. "Knock yourself out," he said flippantly.

Pruitt turned to Suzanne. "Those items we talked about on the phone, Mrs. Hutchinson, were they here in the house when this occurred?"

Suzanne had been dabbing her eyes with a tissue the while Pruitt was talking with Lopez. Suddenly, her demeanor did a one-eighty and she speared Lopez with an ominous stare. "I hid them," she spat out. "I put them where no one would find them in a hundred years."

"Were they in the house?" Pruitt repeated.

Resolutely, Suzanne replied, "Not on your life."

Seeing the abrupt change in behavior, Lopez inquired, "What items are we talking about?"

Blowing past his question, Pruitt went on, "Is anything else missing?"

Suzanne got her meaning immediately. "No, nothing." She turned to Lopez and said, "I'm sorry to have bothered you, Detective, but I'm afraid I've made a terrible mistake."

Dumbfounded, Lopez looked at the two women and spat out, "I don't know what's going on here, Mrs. Hutchinson, but whatever it is, are you sure you know what you're doing?"

Suzanne looked at Pruitt and said, "Quite sure. Thank you for coming out, Detective. I'll show you to the door."

Lopez looked at Pruitt and said, "What the hell?"

* * * * *

Pruitt picked up her tea and waited for Suzanne to compose herself. The woman had been through an enormous strain and the prospect of her husband's death being of suspicious nature was an added shock she didn't deserve. Looking at the pictures of her kids in various stages of development, Pruitt could tell that Suzanne Hutchinson was a wonderful woman, wife, and mother. "How are you holding up?" she asked.

Sitting on the other side of the well-worn but obviously expensive eighteenth-century dining table, Suzanne looked at her with crimson eyes. "You know," she began, "when I got that call from Harry on Wednesday and he started asking me about Brendan Phillips—"

"Who's Brendan Phillips?" Pruitt asked. She remembered that Curlander had mentioned the name to her the day before from his hospital room.

"He's the former CEO at the bank where my husband worked. According to Harry, someone was pretending to be Brendan Phillips at my husband's wake. I thought Harry had totally lost it."

That's right, thought Pruitt, now she remembered. She was careful not to pepper Suzanne with too many questions, but made a mental note to come back to Brendan Phillips. "Why is that important, Mrs. Hutchinson?"

"Call me Suzanne, please. Mrs. Hutchinson was my mother-in-law."

Pruitt smiled and that seemed to put Suzanne at ease. "And you can call me Catherine. Go on with what you were saying about Mister Curlander."

"Well, when Harry ordered me to take Hutch's phone and laptop and get out of the house, I got really scared, especially after I found out there was no Jennifer in the HR department at the bank."

Pruitt calmly sipped her tea. Suzanne needed to tell her story. "So what did you do then?"

"Well, I parked down the street and stayed in the car for a while like Harry told me, but no one came to the house." That made me even more suspicious in that they'd made an appointment to pick up that phone and laptop, so why didn't anyone show up?"

"What do you think?"

"I don't know, but I had this feeling that maybe they were watching me too."

"Were you using the same car your husband drove on the night of his death?"

"No, I used my own car. The Mercedes is parked in the garage. My son Bobby drove it back from Wallingham and it hasn't been used since that night."

"So if someone was watching you, they'd have to be aware of what car you drove."

"That would make sense. In any case, I got to thinking that Harry was right; there was something on that phone or laptop that had to do with Hutch's death." Suzanne indicated the surroundings and all the evidence of the burglary. "It's pretty clear that's what they were after."

"So you hid them," Pruitt concluded.

"You're damned right I did. Those bastards killed my husband and we need to get them."

Pruitt offered no comment. While she was personally coming around to that same opinion, she needed to follow the evidence, which up to now was close to none. "So where did you put the phone and the computer?" It was the question she'd been dying to ask for the last twenty minutes, but suddenly, in that very instant, some instinct inside her told her that Suzanne should not answer the question. Reflecting on what she already knew about this non-case, all of the unexplainable occurrences and coincidences were becoming too much to swallow, and she knew whoever had tried to rob Suzanne had also run Harry Curlander off the road the day before. Also, whoever had performed these acts could still be out there ready to try again, and that made the situation even more dangerous for both of them.

Suzanne was about to speak again when Pruitt stopped her and quickly scrawled the words _don't talk_ on the notepad in front of her. Suzanne froze, her eyes wide and connecting with Pruitt's immediately. Pruitt did a quick scan of the room, noting there were four windows there, two of them looking out onto Clifton Street where her car was parked. The curtains were parted, she noticed, long, filmy floor length sheers tied back to let in the light. She got up from her chair and took a path along the edges of the significantly-sized room, trying not to put herself into view to anyone who might be looking in from outside. Looking back at Suzanne, she put a finger to her lips and Suzanne nodded.

Instinctively, Pruitt's right hand moved to the butt of her nine-millimeter Glock. Reaching one of the front windows, she carefully undid the tiebacks and let the sheers fall to the middle of the window. She moved to the second window and did the same. Suzanne got up and took care of the open windows on that side of the house and they were suddenly enveloped in a muted, spooky dimness, the only sound being the chirping of robins from the huge maples shrouding the front yard. From the side, Pruitt moved the heavier long side drapes just enough so that she could peek out onto the street and beyond. What she saw were the baseball diamonds she'd observed previously, the one closest to the street flanked by metal bleachers along the first base line, in front of which were a few parking spots. That's when she spotted the dark sedan parked in one of those spots, facing the house, directly, like whoever-was-behind-that-windshield-was-looking-at-them-right-now directly.

Pruitt didn't recall whether that car was there or not when she'd arrived about an hour earlier. The squad car and Detective Lopez's car had been parked in front of the house then, but with those cars gone now the hairs on her arm began to tingle and she wondered if they were safe. She wondered further if whoever had broken into the house was sophisticated enough to have planted a listening device somewhere in the event that if the burglars did not find the phone and laptop they were after, they might ascertain its location by listening to the conversation between Suzanne and the police that she would surely call when she discovered the break-in. Pruitt concluded that was indeed quite possible, but luckily Lopez didn't get the chance to ask Suzanne if she knew what the burglars might have been after.

Noticing a cord for a pleated shade that would come down to cover the window interior, Pruitt pulled it and completely blocked the window from outside perusal. She did the same for the window on the other side, and it wasn't more than a minute later that the dark sedan pulled out of its parking spot and disappeared down Clifton Street. The tingle she'd felt moments earlier turned into a full-blown shiver up her spine and she knew they needed to get out of that house immediately. She stepped over to the notepad still sitting on the dining room table and wrote out _we need to leave—NOW_. With Suzanne right behind her, Pruitt pulled her Glock and undid the safety. They walked not so calmly to Pruitt's unmarked car parked two doors up on Clifton Street, and left quickly.

* * * * *

Mary Swindell had been with Curlander and Curlander since well before there was a second Curlander in the picture. She remembered how proud the old man had been when Harry finally decided to join the family practice, but it had been a long time coming. With the family situation the way it was after Curly's death, Harry had gone off into the world of big law in the early days, insisting on making it on his own without help from his father or anyone else. Watching Harry break his back in the meat-grinder world of billable hours took as much of a toll on the old man as it did on Harry, it seemed, perhaps more so in that Harry reaped the rewards of his hard work in dollar signs, millions of them Mary guessed from the looks of things, but the old man said it wasn't worth it.

"Being a big firm lawyer isn't what it used to be," the old man preached. "You gotta claw your way in, and then you gotta watch who's behind you the whole time 'cause they'll steal the fork right off your plate. Working with cutthroats isn't the way to go."

It took Harry almost twenty years to come to the same conclusion, but he finally came back to Point Pleasant and they changed the stationary to include a second Curlander on the letterhead. Now, as she was driving to Harry's house to drop off some work to him, Mary smiled as she recalled Harry's early days with the old man. She could still hear them arguing.

"The world has become a litigious place," Harry had contended.

"And we're no better off for it," the old man had countered.

"Dad, we can only go so far with family law. We don't need to take every case that blows in the door, but I think we need to expand and bring in a couple of other lawyers with experience in areas where we're not experts."

"I'll be damned if I'm going to turn this firm into a bunch of Philadelphia lawyers and ambulance chasers," the old man had bellowed.

"What about kids?" Harry had countered. "Where do they go to get a fair shake? Do you know how many child abuse and neglect situations there are in Ocean County? Or how about environmental law? The way these developers are gobbling up land around here, who's going to protect central Jersey from becoming another Love Canal? And how about all those casinos going up in Atlantic City? Do you know how much work in regulatory law and contract law can come out of an environment like that? We're right here in their back yard."

The old man paused for a moment. "And you think we can make headway in all those areas?"

"Absolutely."

That was fifteen years ago. They tried it and never looked back. Harry rebuilt the practice with that vision, and the old man died at his desk a happy man at eighty-two.

Now, pulling into Harry's cul-de-sac, she wondered when would be a good time to tell him that she was thinking about retiring. Maybe after he recovered from this accident, she thought as she approached the house, either that or when he got through this situation with his fraternity brother passing away. Talk about getting wrapped up, it seemed like Harry had forgotten about everything else in the world.

Harry opened the front door and said, "Thanks for driving this stuff over here, Mary. As long as I'm going to be house-bound, I figure I might as well get some work done."

"Not a problem," she said. She turned to Denise and added, "If he gives you any trouble you just call me and I'll come over and sit on him for you."

"I might just take you up on that," Denise responded. "And don't think you have to do all the traveling. It's no problem for me to bring these documents back when Harry is done with them." She got up close to Mary and whispered loud enough for Harry to hear, "It'll do me good to get out of the house."

Mary smiled and said, "See you later, you two. Just call if you need anything."

"Thanks again," Harry said as he went to close the door while Denise carried the file box into his home office for him. He looked out momentarily as if to check the weather. "Honey, how long has that van been parked outside?"

"What van?" Denise asked.

"The van with Roker Plumbing printed on the side. I swear I saw it parked further up the street the other day."

"Could be," Denise called back from down the hall. "Maybe another homeowner saw it in the neighborhood and contacted them for some other work. You know how that goes."

"Guess so," said Harry, thinking nothing of it, but no sooner were the words out of his mouth when the van started up and crept stealthily past the house. That's when he noticed that the van's windows were completely blacked out. How odd, he thought. That didn't look like any plumber's van that he'd ever seen.

He carefully took a seat behind his desk. Even with the pain killers his ribs were killing him. Good thing it was Friday, he thought; he'd have the whole weekend to lie still and try to get past this. He dipped into the file box and pulled out a couple of folders, but found himself unable to concentrate. Instead, in his mind's eye, he reran the scene of the van crawling past his house. No plumber uses a van with tinted windows, he thought again. Wait, what was the name of that plumbing company? He pulled up the internet and did a search on _Roker Plumbing_ : nothing. Then he did _Roker Plumbing in New Jersey_ : nothing again. He went to the window and the van immediately rolled away as if it had detected him. It was as if it had listened to his conversation with Denise.

"Well fuck me sideways," he whispered to himself. Someone had stalked him at his office and tried to run him off the road on Wednesday night, could it be possible that whoever had done that could be inside that van? Of course it was possible, he thought immediately, and now he was convinced of it. No plumber used a van with tinted windows. He reached for his keyboard again and this time typed in _electronic eavesdropping devices_ and was stunned by what came up. There were devices that could fit into clocks, light fixtures, inside phones, smoke alarms, devices that could be pointed at the house from outside—from that fucking van, he thought instantly—voyeur cams, pinhole bugs, all sorts of tiny, inconspicuous little gadgets that could let someone know if you farted under the bedcovers.

Up to now, and even with the accident, Harry thought that everything that had happened had been about Hutch. Sure, someone had been following him two nights earlier, but in actuality he'd run off the road because he'd clipped a curb and sent his own vehicle into a skid spin. Now, looking around his office, at his cell phone, at the light fixtures, anywhere and everywhere that a listening device could be hidden, he came to realize that this was now also about him, and that he could be in real danger. The creepiness of it was starting to make him sweat.

He picked up his cell phone and put it down immediately. He couldn't trust it. He debated whether he could use Denise's cell phone, but decided against that also. Mary had just left and couldn't be more than five minutes away. He picked up his cell phone and called.

"Mary, Harry here. Sorry, I need for you to turn around and come back... No, nothing serious, I just forgot to give you something, that's all... Sure, take your time, see you in a couple of minutes." He sat there in dead silence, detecting Denise's voice in the background. She was out on the patio on her phone with someone... good... if anyone was listening in on her phone they could concentrate on that for a while. Four minutes later, Mary's car rolled into the driveway and he made his way carefully to the front door.

Not saying anything, he waved her in. Noting the confused look on her face, he held a finger to his lips and whispered in her ear, "Can I use your cell phone?" To say that she looked at him oddly was an understatement, but she gave him the phone.

"Don't talk, okay?" he barely whispered, and she nodded tenuously. Then, "Which button for text?" he whispered. She reached over a pushed an icon and Harry checked for Ducky's cell number on his own phone and entered it into Mary's text screen, along with a message: _Ducky, Harry here. Will call you in 30 seconds. Need you to play along, okay? Please reply via text._ Less than a minute later, Mary's cell phone bonged its incoming text signal and Ducky's reply appeared on the screen: _OK._

On his own cell now, Harry punched up Ducky's number and spoke out clearly, "Ducky, Harry here. Listen, I found out who killed Hutch and I think we need to call the authorities." Mary looked at him as if he'd lost his mind and he waited for Ducky to say something. C'mon Ducky, say something, anything to flush these bastards out.

"I knew you could do it," Ducky finally shot back. "How did you find out?"

Harry was on the spot now. "Some people tried to run me off the road the other night and I got the license plate number of the bastard who did it and tracked him down. It has to be connected."

"I suppose you want me to let Monica know," Ducky responded.

"Yeah, and tell her to contact both the state police detective who investigated the scene and the district attorney and let them know we finally got some hard evidence on this thing."

"Will do, Harry. Anything else?"

"Yeah, as the ADA your wife is tight with the medical examiner, isn't she?"

"Yeah, tight enough, I guess. Why?"

"Ask her what's involved in getting Hutch's body exhumed. I think the ME is gonna need to reexamine the body and determine the real cause of death."

"Will do, Harry."

Ducky sounded serious as hell. "Thanks Ducky. I'll be in touch." Harry ended the call and looked at Mary. He gave her a hug and as he did he whispered in her ear, "Thanks Mary. Just go back to the office like nothing happened."

Mary shot him a _yeah, right_ look but did as he said. When her car was out of the driveway, he noted that Denise was still out on the patio talking on the phone. She had no idea of what had just taken place. He moved purposefully to his office and removed several heavy law books from one of the built-in bookcases. Wincing as he dropped them on a chair, he dialed the combination to the wall safe and pulled out a Sig Sauer P320 .40 caliber automatic and loaded it with a fourteen shot magazine. Next, he took one of the guest chairs from in front of his desk and dragged it into the hallway to face his front door. If anyone was after him—and he was convinced now that someone was—and if that someone had had been listening to his conversations, they knew he'd been hurt, they knew where he was, and now they had no choice but to believe that he knew their identities. Whatever it was they were afraid of, now would be the time for them to do some damage control before their situation got worse. For them, damage control would be getting him out of the picture permanently, as they'd already tried to do, and now he was giving them another chance—or so they'd think. He only wished he knew what that situation was, but clearly he was getting close to discovering it and someone was getting spooked.

He took a seat in the hallway between the vestibule and the kitchen and put the gun in his lap. If anyone was going to burst through his front door, they'd be hard-pressed to see him in the darker hallway and he'd have a split second advantage while their eyes adjusted from sunlight to shadow. That's all he needed, but, looking at it another way, that's all he'd get. He wondered what to do about Denise, but that situation sort of took care of itself as she came up behind him, evidently having finished her phone conversation. She came around and faced him as he sat in the chair. She looked down and the gun, and then she looked into his eyes. He prepared himself for the _are-you-out-of-your-damned-mind_ onslaught which he figured was sure to come, but instead she asked as calmly as could be, "Are you sure about this, Harry?" When it came right down to it, there weren't two people on the planet more suited to be soulmates for each other. She'd follow him into hell if he was serious about it, and he'd do the same for her, no questions asked.

"I'm sure," he replied as calmly as she'd asked the question.

"This looks serious."

"It is."

"Is there another way to handle this?"

"I don't think so. They're after me too and I think they're gonna keep trying until they succeed."

She paused now, and he could see her weighing her options in her head. "I see," she said. "Are they in that van you kept asking about?"

"I think so."

"Do you need any help?"

"I might."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Do you remember where we keep our other self-defense weapon, the one we bought for you when we took that gun safety workshop?"

"Of course. It's in the dresser drawer under your socks."

"I'd like you to get that gun, sweetheart, and I'd like you to load it and stand over there on the other side of the door so that if anyone comes in they won't see you."

"Okay, and then what?"

"Well, if anyone does come in and they are uninvited, I'd like you to be prepared to shoot them dead if I tell you to do that."

"Not a problem," Denise said, and she marched off and retrieved the weapon, it being a Walther PPK .380 that they purchased because it fit her hand better than his larger Sig Sauer. She then pulled another chair from the office and parked it on blind side of the front door. "Do you mind if I read?" she asked. "I know how you hate to talk when you get intense like this."

"No not at all. What are you reading?"

"One of my romance novels. You wouldn't like it." She retrieved her book from the patio and sat cross-legged in the chair, reading her book as if she was waiting for a bus instead of a possible assassin. After about twenty minutes she asked, "Are you certain someone is coming?"

"I wasn't entirely sure, but I think our guests are arriving now."

She looked at him. "I love you, Harry. You're the only man I could ever love."

"I love you too, sweetheart, with all my heart. It's time to pay attention now." He could feel his heart begin to race. He carefully pulled the slide and chambered a round on his Sig Sauer and Denise did the same on her titanium-coated Walther. They could hear a couple of car doors slam shut in the driveway, and Harry flashed two fingers to Denise, who nodded in return. A few seconds later, one shadow and then another shot across the hallway tiles as their guests passed the decorative square windows ringing their front door. The doorbell went off, sounding like a cathedral bell in the stillness. Some seconds passed and it went off again.

Denise looked at Harry and croaked lowly, "Should I answer the door?"

Harry raised his pistol, aimed it at the middle of the door, and said, "Do it."

Denise got up and took hold of the doorknob with her left hand while holding her automatic down low behind her leg with her right hand. Harry gave a nod and she yanked the door open with an urgent swish.

"Move one inch and you're a dead man," Harry called from the chair. "Hands up, _now!_ Both of you!"

"Jesus, take it easy! Easy... okay?"

"Hands up I said. _Now!_ Get down on the floor, on your knees... _now!_ "

"Okay, okay, my hands are up."

"Down on the floor! Both of you!"

Easy now, Mister Curlander. It's not what you think."

"How do you know what I think? Who the hell are you?"

"Can I reach into my pocket and get my ID?"

Denise came around, her gun pointed right between his eyes. The second guy was down right beside him, on his knees now, looking back and forth nervously between Harry and Denise. "Where's your ID? What pocket?"

"Inside breast pocket of my jacket, left side."

Denise took a step back so as to be out of arm's reach and said, "Take it out and put it on the floor, slowly." He did so. "Slide it over here." He did so, and she picked it up.

"Who is he?" Harry called to her.

Denise lowered her gun and said, "Meet Special Agent Darryl Breckenridge, CIA."

Chapter 13... i Quattro Fratelli

The Mushir was not happy with the failed attempt. Mister Curlander was proving to be a very observant and suspicious man, and a very lucky one.

"You have failed us again," the Mushir had said. He'd been calm this time, and had not taken on the blustery tone of the last conversation, but that could well signal a betrayal which could come at any time. "If you are not successful with the next attempt we may have to send another to take care of this problem."

"You may act as you please, Mushir, and I understand your displeasure. If you want to send another, that is your choice, but there is no guarantee that he will fare better. We will both pay the consequences of a failed mission if we are overly impulsive."

"Get this done," the Mushir had commanded. "Others aren't as patient as I am."

Looking back on it, giving chase to Mister Curlander through the streets of his own community had been a mistake, but the opportunity had been there. His death would have been looked at as accidental had it happened, which was one of the main objectives of the mission. Now, it was clear that the Mushir was being pressured and it would have to be done the first opportunity, even if it required taking more risk. Despite the Mushir's impatience, however, the most important aspect of the mission continued to be that the deaths of both Mister Hutchinson and Mister Curlander not be traced back to the leaders of their struggle. Of that he did not need to be reminded. If they were to continue _al-jihad fi sabil Allah_ , striving in the way of God, against their enemies in Syria and beyond, then the funds that were coming from their friends in Qatar needed to be protected at all costs. Without that money, and without the accounts in the United States in full operation, the Syrian government could continue its dominance over their cause indefinitely, and the deaths of thousands of their fellow _mujahideen_ would happen quietly but quickly with a ferociousness that would frighten even the most hardened fighters.

Now, the mission was becoming more complicated. Too many other entities were becoming involved, and no matter how Mister Curlander died there would be a suspicious element to his death which could ignite inquiry and investigation that could risk the discovery of the accounts. They could be _screwed_ , as the Americans said. He needed to think about how he was going to proceed. The lives of his family and many others depended on his actions now, and he needed to move quickly.

* * * * *

"When is your flight?" Harry asked.

"This afternoon," Suzanne replied. "I'll be leaving for the airport in a couple of hours."

"How long will you be staying at Bobby's place?"

"Originally I thought I'd stay a couple of weeks, but now I'm not so sure. I may stay longer. After what happened here yesterday this place is giving me the creeps. I don't think I slept more than ten minutes the entire night."

"I'll bet," Harry responded. "You know, my offer for you to come to the shore is always open. You just say the word." And now that he'd said the word, he didn't know if that was such a good idea. He hadn't said anything to Suzanne about his own episodes, which had caused a fitful night for him as well. He got to the matter about which he'd called. "Did you give the phone and the laptop to Detective Pruitt yesterday?"

"I did. She took them with her, which suits me just fine, but I still feel kind of nervous about this. I mean, whoever broke in here looking for those items won't know she has them. What if they try again? What if they do something to the house? Maybe I should cancel this trip entirely. What do you think, Harry? You've been right about everything else that's happened so far."

Harry's anxiety level—which had been the red zone ever since Special Agent Breckenridge had knocked on his door the previous day—inched up a notch and he could feel his blood pulsing through his veins. The last thing he needed was to be responsible for Suzanne's safety, but he understood her feelings completely. "It's a little short notice, but maybe you could find a house sitter. You should certainly let the neighbors know you're going to be gone so they could keep an eye on the house."

"I've already done that," Suzanne responded.

"Do you know anyone at the Cambridge police department?"

"There's the detective I met yesterday who came to investigate the break-in."

"Maybe you should let him know as well. If he's on top of things he'll let the officers that patrol your neighborhood know to check things out while you're gone. I assume you've done all the normal things to make sure you don't broadcast that the house is empty, you know, stop mail delivery, things like that."

"Yes, yes, I've taken care of all that. Maybe I'm just being paranoid."

Harry didn't want to be rude, but he wanted to get to the point. "Suzanne, do you know if Detective Pruitt looked at what was on that phone and laptop?"

"I think she wanted to talk to Ducky's wife first, you know, to cover all the legal aspects seeing as there's no official investigation going on. I've never met Ducky's wife, Harry. Have you met her?"

"I have," Harry replied. "You'd like her. She really keeps Ducky in line."

"And she's the district attorney in Wallingham, isn't she?"

"Assistant district attorney actually, and that's part of the issue. If she was the DA, there would be a whole lot more attention on this."

"I hope she can help us, Harry. You'll let me know what comes of this, won't you?"

"I will Suzanne. You have a good trip, and I'll touch base with you as soon as I have more information." He hung up and looked at the clock on the dashboard. He was in Denise's car outside a convenience store, not wanting to make any phone calls from the house after what Breckenridge had told him. It was eight-thirty on Saturday morning, May 18th, and two weeks ago at this time he was on the Garden State Parkway on his way to the reunion. That seemed so long ago now. It being early, he figured it would be a good time to call Ducky and Monica. Ducky answered right away as if he'd been waiting for the call.

"Just what the hell was that all about yesterday?" Ducky spat out. "Just play along...? Really? Nothing like putting me on the spot, Harry."

"I didn't have a choice."

"So what exactly was I playing along with, or for, or whatever the hell I was doing?"

Ducky didn't sound happy. "The truth?"

"No, Harry. I want you to lie to me. Of course I want the truth. From the way you're talking, I take it you didn't really find out who killed Hutch."

"It was a ruse."

"No shit. Why?"

"My house was being bugged, and my phone was being tapped, and I needed to get the fuckers who were doing it flushed out into the open." That revelation was followed by a long, long silence during which Harry just sipped his coffee. He knew he'd just hit Ducky between the eyes with a pretty fantastic-sounding story and Ducky was taking time to process.

"Let me see if I got all this straight," Ducky resumed. "At the wake on Sunday, you bump into some guy who claimed to be the CEO at Hutch's bank, except that the guy wasn't the CEO but some impostor. On Monday, you were followed halfway to Point Pleasant by the CFO guy from Hutch's bank, who really was the CFO. On Wednesday, someone stalks you at your office and then tries to run you off the road on your way home...."

"Well, I'm assuming they were trying to run me off the road. In reality I clipped a curb as I was trying to get away from them. Wait, how'd you find out about that? I don't recall saying anything to you about it."

"Fighting Al called me. And today, to make this tale even more special, you're telling me that your house and phone were bugged. Have I got all that about right?"

"Pretty damned close, I'd say."

"Well fuckin' A, Harry. That sounds like some pretty serious shit."

"Yeah, well, you haven't even heard the best part. The guys who bugged my house and phone, the guys I tried to flush into the open?"

"Yeah?"

"They were CIA."

"CIA."

"That's what I just said."

"The CIA bugged your house and tapped your phone."

"You're repeating again."

"I just want to be sure I heard you correctly."

"You heard me correctly."

"Harry, why is the CIA after you?"

"They're not after me. They are trying to protect me."

"From whom?"

"From the guys who tried to run me off the road."

"And they are?"

"They don't know, exactly." Harry could almost hear Ducky grinding his teeth.

"Okay," said Ducky. "Let me come at this from another angle. Why were they trying to protect you?"

"Because they think someone was... excuse me... is trying to kill me."

"C'mon Harry, I'm trying to stay with you here, but you're going to have to give me the full picture. Why would anyone want to kill you?"

Harry took a deep breath, knowing it all sounded too fantastic to believe. "Fasten your seatbelt, Ducky."

"Wait," Ducky said suddenly. "Is this something Monica should hear?"

"That's part of the reason I called."

Harry expected Ducky to summon her and bring her into the conversation, but instead Ducky asked, "How are you calling me right now? You're not calling me from your house line, are you?"

"Ducky, I'm not an idiot. I'm in the car, Denise's car actually. Mine will be out of commission for a while."

"On your cell phone?"

"Yes, on my cell phone."

"Harry, hang up right now. Don't say another word."

"But how—"

"Check your voicemail in five minutes." And he was gone.

Harry sat there thinking: what voicemail? Ducky wouldn't be leaving any messages for him at the home number, so he thought: work. He waited a couple of minutes to give Ducky a chance to do whatever he was going to do, and then dialed the number to his office, punching in the remote access code for his voicemail. Sure enough, Ducky's voice came right through with the message, "Get Denise's phone. Call back to this number." It was a number Harry didn't recognize. Harry called Denise and ten minutes later he walked into the nail salon where she was getting a fresh coat of Moon Candy shellac and picked up her cell phone.

"What the hell was all that about?" Harry asked when Ducky answered.

"Listen, Harry, I know enough about this sort of thing from Monica's experience to know that if someone was listening in to your conversations, you have to assume they have all your phone numbers and can be listening in at any time. We might even be taking a chance by using Denise's cell phone, but I think they would need a separate court order for that. You are on Denise's phone, aren't you?"

"Just as you instructed. Whose number is this?"

"It's a very private number Monica uses once in a while."

"So Monica is there?" Harry asked.

"Hello Harry," came her voice from the background, and she was on the phone a second later. "Let's meet for lunch."

Harry said, "Lunch?"

"Yeah, lunch. Ducky told me you had some friends crash your party and I think it might be best to have lunch and talk about that in person."

"But you're four hours away in Massachusetts."

"So pick a spot in the middle and we'll meet you there. Where can you be around one o'clock this afternoon?"

Harry noted the time and said, "I know a nice Italian place in the Bronx."

* * * * *

Quattro Fratelli restaurant was on East 187th Street near the corner of Hoffman Street in the Belmont section of the Bronx. Its burgundy awning shaded outdoor diners from the warm May afternoon sun while overhead large fan blades made of braided straw gently stirred the air. Taking a sip of a very good pinot grigio, Harry waited for a young couple on the sidewalk side of the wrought iron divider to finish examining the menu before continuing his conversation "How's the grilled octopus?" he asked.

"It's excellent," Monica answered as she took a bite of it. "Tell me more about what this agent Breckenridge said to you."

Harry leaned into the middle of the table. He couldn't help but notice Monica's perfume and he did his best to not be distracted by it, or her. Denise's right hand held his left. Ducky looked serious as a heart attack; bad choice of words, he thought instantly. "Have you ever heard of FinCEN?" he asked, his voice low. Denise had by now, of course, and, as always, she was content to play wing man.

Ducky shook his head no while Monica said, "Isn't it part of the Treasury Department?"

"FinCEN stands for Financial Crimes and Enforcement Network," Harry explained. "It's got an entire law enforcement structure set up to guard against illicit activities in both domestic and international banking systems. It's the financial intelligence unit for the U.S. Treasury and is the government's big dog in fighting financial crime, money laundering, and terrorist financing, and it works with other law enforcement agencies all over the world."

Monica said, "I've heard of these guys but I've never gotten involved with them."

"Well, the opportunity may have just dropped into your lap."

Harry paused and Ducky said, "Don't leave us hanging, Harry. How is this FinCEN organization involved with this Breckenridge dude from the CIA? More to the point, how is any of this related to Hutch?"

Harry didn't respond but leaned back in his chair and locked eyes with Denise, knowing after twenty-five years of marriage she had something to say. She didn't disappoint.

"It's related to all of you in different ways," she said to Ducky, which he didn't expect.

"How so?"

"One," she said, looking at him and pointing her thumb straight up in the air, "you and Harry and the other brothers have been talking back and forth for a couple of weeks now. As a result, whoever was after Harry could just as easily be after all of you now, and you don't even know it. Two..." She extended her index finger now. "... whatever comes of this, Hutch's family deserves to know the truth about how he died. Three..." She held up her middle finger now, all by itself. "... if someone killed Hutch and they tried to kill Harry as well, we need to get those fuckers and skin them alive with a dull butter knife."

Harry kissed her hand and smiled sweetly. "That's my girl," he said, noting that Ducky and Monica looked a tad shocked. "Isn't she great?"

Ducky pried his eyes away from Denise and said, "Harry, how does this relate to Hutch specifically?"

"Right. Suzanne told me that, quote, 'a few months ago' Hutch was contacted by someone at the Treasury Department, and a week later he made a trip to D.C. Hutch travelled a bit for his job, so she thought nothing of it. Separately, Breckenridge said he's been working with FinCEN for, quote 'a few months'."

"So clearly you think those occurrences are tied together," Monica concluded, "but what's the connection?"

Her eyes were intense and unwavering, Harry noted. "The reason Breckenridge has been working with FinCEN is because the Treasury Department issued an alert urging all U.S. banks to monitor accounts connected to senior officials in both Syria and Qatar, and for them to be on the lookout for any account activity that might signal misappropriation of government funds. FinCEN asked the banks to exercise enhanced scrutiny on such accounts." Harry held off for a minute as their waiter came over to check on them.

"Another bottle of wine?" Monica inquired. No one objected. "So you think Hutch's bank had primary interest in the alert," she went on.

"And, I think Hutch came across something that convinced him to take that trip to D.C. According to Breckenridge, the alert required the banks to file SARs, suspicious activity reports, if they detected anything."

"What's that got to do with the CIA?" Ducky asked. Good question.

"Breckenridge didn't get into the exact details, but indicated that the CIA has its own international terrorist watch list, which was part of what he was working on. My guess is that when the same names came up in common between the squirrelly bank accounts and the terrorist watch list, that's when FinCEN and the CIA started playing in the same sand box."

Putting it together, Ducky said, "So you think that somehow these terrorist bad-asses got wind of the fact that Hutch was onto their game and had him...." He didn't finish the sentence. "But wait, you said on the phone this morning that Breckenridge was trying to protect you. Protect you from what? Wait... the assholes that tried to run you off the road... are you saying they could be... what... international terrorists?"

Harry took a sip of his wine. "I don't know, but I think, that they think, that I know something about whatever accounts Hutch may have discovered, which now FinCEN and the CIA are all hot-to-trot over."

The waiter came over and they ordered the rest of their lunches. After he left, Harry said more to Monica than to Ducky, "There's more."

She said, "Listen, Harry, I know you're trying hard to establish probable cause for opening an investigation or making an arrest in Hutch's death, but so far nothing you've said is going to convince my DA to go in that direction. Everything you've said so far is conjecture and the ruling from the medical examiner is still the overriding factor. There's no evidence here that Hutch's death was suspicious in any way."

"Please, just let me say what I came here to say. Aren't you at all interested in why my house was bugged and my phone was tapped?"

Skeptically, Monica looked at Ducky, who said to her, "C'mon Monica, Hutch was one of us."

"The surveillance is certainly an interesting question," she admitted. "You said these CIA guys were trying to protect you. You still haven't said what they were trying to protect you from."

"Like I said, there's more."

Monica said, "Of course there is," to which she caught a sharp look from Denise. Taking a deep breath, she said, "I need to use the ladies room. Denise, would you care to join me?"

Denise said, "Yes, of course," and they were off.

A few moments passed while Ducky sipped on some water. "Listen, Harry, you know I'm going all out on this. You do believe that, don't you?"

"Are you?" Harry questioned.

"You're damned right I am, but let's get real here. Like Monica said, you've got nothing in terms of hard evidence, and you are... no, we are... going to need more besides your obsession with this if it's going to move forward."

"Is that what you're calling it, an obsession?"

"C'mon Harry, let's not do this. We made a bond to be brothers for life, and Hutch was our brother as well, and so is Fish, and Doc, and all the rest of them, but we can only help so much without concrete proof about how Hutch died."

Harry's jaw muscles tightened. "Are you speaking for the rest of the brothers now?"

"We've had some conversation about it."

Harry stared Ducky right in the eye and he could see that Ducky wasn't pulling any punches, and he never would. If Ducky said he was in, he was in, but Harry realized now that Ducky wasn't going to be on this train much longer unless some concrete evidence surfaced that gave him, Monica, and the rest of the brothers something more to go on than brotherhood and faith. Harry said, "Let me say what I need to say here, today, and then you can all decide where you want to go with this. You'll have your evidence."

Ducky let the comment hang. The girls were back and they both spotted the wounded looks on the men's faces. Neither of them spoke until Monica said to Harry, "You wanted to tell us something before we got to why you were being surveilled."

Jaw muscles still tight, Harry said, "A few weeks before the reunion I got an email from Hutch asking if I could meet him in New York City."

"Do you know why?"

"He said he had a client situation he wanted to discuss."

"And you needed to go all the way to New York to do that?"

"In his email, he said specifically that he wanted to discuss the situation in person, no phone, no email, and he wanted to discuss it with someone he could trust implicitly."

"Implicitly."

"As in someone who could 'keep his mouth shut.' Those were his words exactly."

"So what happened at this meeting?" Monica went on, clearly intrigued.

"We never had it. Hutch cancelled and said that he'd talk to me at the reunion." Harry stopped there, as they all knew why that conversation never took place. "I think the reason Hutch wanted to meet with me was because he'd discovered some serious illegal activity at the bank and he wanted to get some advice on how to deal with it." He paused. "But you need proof, right? Not conjecture."

Monica said, "I don't understand. What's to deal with? If he'd already become aware of some suspicious account activity, and he'd already spoken to the FinCEN people, then all he had to do was bring them in and they'd take it from there... right?"

Harry noted Ducky's smile and knew they were thinking the same thing. Ducky said, "It's not that easy, sweetheart."

"Why is it not that easy?" Monica asked sharply.

Ducky replied, "Because if Hutch had discovered the suspicious activity, what was to make him think that someone else at the bank wasn't aware if it as well? On the one hand, if indeed no one else was aware of it, what was wrong with that picture? On the other hand, if someone else was aware and had not done anything about it or reported it to someone, what was wrong with that picture? Either way, the situation could range from some severe incompetence, to collusion. And, tied in to that are the politics of the situation to consider."

Monica held up her hand and said, "You don't need to go any further." She turned to Harry. "My husband was about to remind me that politics are something I'm not very good at."

"Just sayin'" said Ducky.

"Oh, and by the way," Harry went on. "Did I tell you that the CEO at Hutch's bank died a few weeks ago?"

That certainly got Monica's attention again. "I don't recall you saying anything about that."

"And guess how he died?"

Monica and Ducky stopped moving, their eyes glued to Harry's. "Don't tell me," said Monica. "No way."

"Yes, way. Massive heart attack. Sound familiar?"

All eyes turned to Monica now. "I know what you're all thinking," she said, "and if I was in your shoes I'd be thinking the same thing. Believe me, I really hate to say this again, but without proof that the CEO's death and Hutch's death were due to anything other than natural causes, and further proof that their deaths were connected, all we have here is coincidence." She let the comments settle on the table, but they didn't settle well as evidenced by Harry's heard-it-all-before look. "What I'm more interested in," she went on, "is how these CIA boys managed to get a court order for the wiretap and the surveillance on you. In order for that to happen, they had to show some sort of probable cause to a judge somewhere along the way."

"I think I know the answer to that," said Harry. "Breckenridge said it had to do with the information they picked up on while doing their terrorist watch list surveillance."

"Which was?"

"I'm not sure Breckenridge meant to reveal this on purpose, but what I got was that whoever these guys were that he was surveilling, they were convinced that Hutch had evidence that was lethal to their cause, and that he had passed it along to me."

Monica made the connection instantly. "Hutch wanted to make sure someone else had this information in case something happened to him. Someone he could trust implicitly and keep his mouth shut. Hence the trip to New York City."

Harry smiled. "Exactly. Only thing is, the bad guys must not have become aware that the trip never happened."

"Or maybe they figured Hutch gave you the information some other way," said Ducky. "So what if you did have it? What were these CIA guys going to do, put you in some sort of witness protection program?"

"Personally, I think the protection thing is a bunch of fucking bullshit," Harry said aggressively.

"Honey? Language?" said Denise, who'd hardly said a word other than her earlier tirade.

"Sorry, dear, but I think that's something they cooked up so that a judge would allow the surveillance."

"That sounds a little thin to me," said Ducky. "Would a judge approve a court order on something like that?" he asked Monica.

"I guess that depends on the ultimate target and how strong the possibility was that any evidence obtained through execution of the order would eventually be inadmissible. Some judges would take a chance if the prize was important enough and they couldn't see another way to get it. It also depends on what else was at stake. All I know is that we've got a lot of coincidence and circumstantial evidence built up, but I still think we need a piece of real evidence, something to tie all this together that would be indisputable." She looked at Harry.

Harry grinned and said, "And I think we have it. Detective Pruitt is now in possession of Hutch's cell phone and the laptop he used at the bank."

Monica shook her head. "I've already talked to Pruitt about those items. There are different ownership rights at play there, and any search of either item could require more court orders."

Ducky suddenly whipped out his cell phone. "Don't worry about that," he said. "I've got this."

"Who are you calling?"

Ducky winked at Harry and said, "Zen Master."

Even Harry didn't see the connection. "How can Zen Master help with this? Doesn't he own a string of Papa Pete's Pizza shops?"

"Ah," said Ducky. "There are many lessons in the mysterious ways of the Zen Master. You might remember that he didn't live in the Lodge during our junior and senior years."

"Yeah, I remember. He moved off campus and shared a place with a couple of other brothers who were a year ahead of us. So?"

"So you might recall that one of those other brothers was Tushy Wilcox, as in Rob Wilcox, who is now Senator Rob Wilcox from North Carolina."

Clearly intrigued, Harry said, "Sure, I remember Tushy. You got my attention, Ducky, but where are you going with this?"

"Well, if Zen Master is still close to his former roommate, maybe he would be willing to make a call."

Skeptically, Monica asked, "To what end, Ducky? This old boy network of yours can only take you so far. This is the law we're talking about."

"And it is precisely because of the law, my dear, beautiful, loving wife, that I think we should contact brother Zen Master and let him work his magic."

Monica was about to snap back when Denise put a hand on her arm. Monica took a deep breath and said, "I think I've had about enough of this."

Ducky kissed her hand and said, "All this talk about the CIA and FinCEN has reminded me that Senator Tushy is on the Senate Subcommittee on Emerging Threats and Capabilities."

"And you know this... how?" Monica challenged.

"I looked it up, my dear, just as I researched the current profession of every other brother I could think of who might have known Hutch in case we had to enlist their expertise in some manner. That, plus the fact that Tushy was featured in our alumni magazine last year."

Monica still wasn't reeled in. "So this Tushy is a senator and he's on this committee—"

"That's the Subcommittee on Emerging Threats and Capabilities."

"Whatever. How is that going to help us?"

Observing quietly, it was interesting that Monica had used the word us, thought Harry.

"The function of said subcommittee," said Ducky as if he was quoting something, "is to oversee DoD policies and programs to counter emerging threats such as proliferation of weapons of mass destruction, illegal drugs, and terrorism. Did you hear that last word, boys and girls? Terrorism. We all know what the CIA does, but what did you say was one of the functions of this FinCEN organization?" The question was addressed to Harry, but Ducky went on to answer it for him. "You said it was the government's big dog in fighting financial crime, money laundering, and terrorist financing all over the world... right?"

"That's right," said Harry.

"So Tushy and FinCEN are fighting the same war!" Ducky exclaimed. "With Tushy being on this subcommittee, do you think it's possible that he knows some of the other head mofos-in-charge on the subject? And if it's possible that Hutch's cell phone and laptop contain information about suspicious accounts at Hutch's bank, do you think Tushy might be able to put us in touch with people who could get to that information, legally or otherwise, and put us on to whoever had a motive to kill Hutch? Huh? Do you think it's possible?"

No one answered.

"Well, is it possible, or not?"

Harry leaned back in his chair as the waiter brought their food, after which Monica turned to Denise and said, "So Denise, why is it that you don't allow your husband to do so, but it's okay for you to use the word fuck?"

Chapter 14... Paranoia

As Harry pulled into his driveway, he could see the sun going down in his rearview and its reflection cast an orange band across his eyes. He sat there for a second listening to the car tick away heat, wondering how to express what he'd been considering since they'd left Ducky and Monica in the Bronx.

"Out with it," Denise ordered. "I know you've been thinking about something since we left the restaurant, and from the look on your face it's something you don't want to tell me."

He tried to turn in his seat, but his aching ribs had something to say about that. "I think I'm going to take a few days off," he said into the windshield. "And I think you should too."

Denise nodded. "I see."

He didn't know what that meant, exactly, but he could see that she wasn't about to let him off the hook. "I can give you my reasons."

"That would be nice."

Oh, so that's the way it was going to be. "I'm worthless at work right now. It's like my mind isn't even there."

"That's it?" she said, looking straight ahead.

That sounded like strike one. "No, there's more. I think I have to be closer to what's going on with Hutch's investigation—or lack of investigation is a better way of putting it. If I don't push this forward in a bigger way, I think it will all blow over and Hutch's murder will be swept under the rug never to be addressed again. There will be no justice."

"You mean there will be no vengeance."

She looked at him coldly and he figured that was strike two. "There's another reason."

"I'm here, waiting, and listening, as I always am."

That hurt. "The truth is that I think I'm in danger, and I'm scared. I also think you're in danger just by being with me, and if anything should ever happen to you, I might as well be dead too. I love you, Denise, and I've got to solve this thing for more than vengeance. I want us both to be around for a while longer, together... forever." She looked at him oddly now, a look he didn't recognize.

"What's wrong with vengeance?" she asked. Her lips curled into what looked more like a snarl than a smile. "Get them, Harry. The brothers called you Dirty Harry back in the day. Get 'em, and get 'em good, I won't stand in your way." She paused. "There's just one thing."

He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "And what's that?"

"If you're going off the grid, I'm going with you."

* * * * *

They stepped out onto the back deck to have their conversation, not trusting that they were in complete privacy regardless of what Breckenridge said about the surveillance being deactivated. For now, they were prisoners in their own home.

"Did you make the hotel reservations?" Denise asked

"Well, sort of. Here's your phone back."

"Sort of? What does that mean?"

"It's commencement weekend at all the colleges in the area and the Wallingham Inn is completely booked. So are the other four places I tried. The only thing I could find was outside Springfield."

"But we have a room, right?"

"I think we do."

"Harry, we either have a room, or we don't. Which is it?"

"Well, the guy said they don't take reservations but he said he'd hold a room for us if we got there by 6:00 p.m."

"What kind of hotel doesn't take reservations?"

"The kind that rents rooms by the hour, but don't worry, he's going to give us the day rate."

Denise came up to him and wrapped her leg around his. "By the hour, huh? That could be very interesting."

"Uh, honey, my ribs... uh...."

"Not to worry," she whispered in his ear. "I'll do all the work."

Harry smiled and held her close. "Paradise Motor Lodge here we come."

Denise broke his embrace and said, "Don't forget to take these," and she handed him a heavy molded case containing his Sig Sauer P320 and her Walther PPK.

"Do you know if Massachusetts honors Jersey concealed carry permits?" Harry asked.

"They don't, but in view of what's been going on...." Her voice trailed off and that was that. "Did you get things squared away with Karen and Jack?"

"Sort of," Harry replied. "I called them both at home and said I'd be gone for a few days."

He left it there, but seeing the guilt plastered all over his face, Denise said, "You're a good boss, Harry. They'll live."

"Let's go," he said. "Beautiful day for a drive."

Indeed it was a gorgeous Sunday and they enjoyed themselves listening to Big Joe Henry on 101.5 while driving up the Garden State Parkway to the Tappan Zee Bridge. The water on the Hudson gleamed in the bright sun, and the hill country east of Bear Mountain was in full bloom as they motored toward the northeast on I-84. They made it to the _'beautiful Paradise Motor Lodge'_ by 4:00 p.m. and found it to be not so beautiful, but were pleased to find that their room had a huge round bed and that there was an ice machine across the hall. Dinner was fast and easy at the Clucky Chicken Diner, and dessert was a bottle of cheap champagne from Tom's Package Store that they brought back to the room. They iced the champagne with the free ice and drank it from plastic cups, then made love with Denise doing all the work as she had promised. Giggling like teenagers, they both fell asleep with smiles on their faces while listening to the squeaky bed in the next room.

* * * * *

They had a couple of hours before checkout time and Harry began to make his calls.

"And a good fuckin' morning to you too," Fighting Al barked into the phone.

Most people would have been a little taken aback, but this was Fighting Al he was dealing with. "So who pissed in your corn flakes first thing on a Monday morning?"

"Sorry, Harry. I just got notice that my client's son decided he wasn't in the mood to make his court date this morning and the old man is torqued off at me because he's seeing thirty grand in bail money go up in smoke. Now we gotta go find the punk-ass little twerp."

"But you had nothing to do with that."

"Hey, what can I say? These guys ain't the most sharpest knives in the drawer. I assume you're calling about that matter we talked about last Thursday when you was in the hospital. How's the ribs, by the way?"

Harry noticed that Al specifically didn't mention what their previous conversation might have been about. Al knew his way around a conversation, all right; wouldn't want to go up against him in court. "Ribs are coming along, and, yeah, I was wondering how you made out."

"My guy says he'll be taking a hell of a chance gettin' that information, Harry. Touchy exercise these days with all the privacy laws and all."

Okay, thought Harry, he knew where this was going and he had to smile, even if it was to himself. "I see. Is there something we can do to make him feel more secure in this endeavor?"

Al said, "I think there might be something we can do to ease his angst."

"How much easing do we need?" Harry went on.

"Gee Harry, I'm not in a situation where I can talk about that over the phone right now."

"Then maybe we can discuss it over lunch or maybe over a couple of beers after work."

Al said, "Lunch? Where you calling from, Harry. Ain't you in Jersey?"

"Nope. I'm right here in Springfield."

"Takin' a little vacation?"

"You could say that."

"Can you meet me at 5:30 this afternoon at a place called the Tin Cat?"

"I can. Hopefully we can settle this little matter."

"Good, good. Give me your cell number and I'll text you the address."

"You don't mind if Denise tags along, do you?"

"Not at all. Haven't seen the little woman in quite a while. Looking forward to it."

Harry ended the call and looked at Denise. "Okay, little woman. Who's next?"

"That would be Fish. Here's the number."

Harry punched it up and had to leave a voicemail, but the phone vibrated in his hand seconds later.

"Sorry," said Fish. "I didn't recognize the number and I thought it was a junk call. You got a new cell phone number?"

"My phone is out of commission right now and I'm using Denise's phone." Fish didn't question it and Harry was glad he didn't have to explain about Breckenridge and the whole surveillance thing. "I was wondering if you ever checked out the possibility of getting the security recordings from that ATM machine on Newberry Street. Last time we talked about it you said it might have had a view of Hutch's car on... you know... _the night_. _"_

"I did better than check it out," Fish said proudly. "I got the actual footage."

Harry's heart skipped a beat. "How _the hell_ did you manage that?"

"Uh, I'd rather not say, and I'm pretty sure you'd rather not know."

"Have you looked at it?"

"I have," Fish replied.

"Well?"

"Maybe I should send you a copy and you can decide for yourself."

"Decide what?"

"You should really see it for yourself."

"So bring it with you and we'll watch it together. I'm in Springfield and I'm meeting Fighting Al at five-thirty at a place called the Tin Cat. Can you make it?"

"I'll bring my laptop," Fish said.

Harry ended the call and turned to Denise. "Who's next on the list?"

"Detective Pruitt."

Harry punched it up and Pruitt picked up just as he thought the call would go to voicemail. "Ah, let me call you back in five minutes," she said when he identified himself.

Ten minutes later, Harry heard his cell phone go off—his cell phone, not Denise's cell phone, which was the one he was using. He picked it up, telling Pruitt to call him back on Denise's number. "Why are you playing musical phones?" she asked when he picked up.

He hesitated, wondering if it was wise to tell her about Breckenridge, FinCEN, and all the other juicy tidbits he'd discussed with Ducky and Monica at Quattro Fratelli. One part of him was thinking the situation was getting so complicated that he was having a hard time knowing who he could trust. Another part of him said that if he was in Pruitt's shoes, going out on a limb like she was to find out who'd murdered Hutch and information like the CIA, FinCEN, and the possibility of international terrorists being involved was kept from her, he'd be pretty pissed, especially if it put him in danger. He guessed further that someone attempting to run him off the road, and Suzanne's house being burglarized by unknown perpetrators looking for what Pruitt was now in possession of, both pretty much constituted dangerous situations. "I can tell you about the phone thing when we see each other in person."

"When is that going to be?" Pruitt asked. "New Jersey is a long way from Northampton."

"I'll get to that," Harry responded. "I understand that Suzanne Hutchinson turned over Hutch's cell phone and laptop to you."

"She has," Pruitt responded, keeping it cagey on her end as well.

"Have you had a chance to examine either of those items?" Harry asked.

"I'm not sure I can, legally," Pruitt replied. "There a chance that my examining them without the proper search warrants could make any potential evidence inadmissible in court should this non-case ever get that far. The way I understand it, Mrs. Hutchinson is the rightful owner of the cell phone at this point, but one of the main uses for that phone was for Mister Hutchinson's work at the bank. Ownership rights to what's on that phone are blurred here, and probably require a judge to decide how we would need to proceed. I also understand that the laptop is indeed bank property, and as such we would need permission from the bank in order to legally examine it. Either that or we would have to serve a search warrant directly to the bank."

Harry continued, "Listen, I understand your reluctance, but what if I told you that both the CIA and the U.S. Treasury Department would be extremely interested in those items, and if either of those agencies got hold of them you'd never see them again. My guess is that if you're really interested in doing justice for Suzanne Hutchinson and her family and finding Hutch's killer, you're going to need to know what's on those devices."

"How do you know all this?" Pruitt asked.

Denise suddenly got up and went to the window, peeking through the sliver of light between the glass and the curtain. A moment later, she went to the molded carrying case and extracted her Walther PPK. She looked at Harry and signaled for him to continue.

"Listen," he said, "about meeting in person. I'm in Springfield and I'm meeting with a couple of my fraternity brothers tonight at five-thirty at a place called the Tin Cat. They've got some information that might be important. Can you make it?"

"I'll be there," said Pruitt.

Harry ended the call and looked at Denise. "What's out there?" he asked as she moved to the other side of the window.

"Go ahead and call Ducky and Monica and then we can check out of here," Denise replied. "It's probably just my imagination."

* * * * *

The drive to the Tin Cat took no more than fifteen minutes. Harry looked at the dashboard clock, seeing that it was just past noon. "What do you think?"

Denise shook her head and said, "I don't like it."

Well aware of his wife's instincts, his stomach had been churning ever since they'd checked out of the beautiful Paradise Motor Lodge. "Do you want to check out the inside? Looks like they're open for lunch."

"I guess," she said. "We gotta eat someplace."

The Tin Cat was an old neighborhood joint that had obviously once been a shot-and-a-draft type place but had now been reinvented into a _gastropub_. Typical lawyer place, thought Harry, noting that the beer came in tulip glasses and the price of one approached double figures. They ordered a pricey burger and the trendy shepherd's pie, neither of them enjoying their dish.

"What's your gut telling you?" Harry asked.

Denise pushed her plate away. "It's telling me this shepherd's pie has too much thyme in it."

"You know what I mean." She looked him straight in the eye and pulled her handbag close to her in the booth. Harry eyed the bag, knowing what was in it. "Denise?"

"My gut is telling me we should not have made those phone calls using my phone. We should have known better."

Harry thought: _Duh!_ They _should_ have known better, and ten minutes later they were on their way to a cell phone store to take care of that little problem. The transaction was surprisingly easy and while they weren't completely at ease that someone wasn't monitoring their every move and every phone call, they felt better. Denise said Breckenridge was slimy and she was still going to be on the lookout for any car, or cars that repeatedly crossed their path. "How do we know he wasn't using us as bait?" she asked. "How can we trust anybody?"

Harry didn't argue and mentally slapped himself that he hadn't thought of that. Don't get sloppy, he thought to himself, but then he turned to Denise and said, "We can trust the brothers."

"Then no one else should be involved in this," she said back to him.

Harry knew she was right. Sitting in the car, debating their next move, he noticed she was already on her new cell phone, comparing it to her old cell phone. "What are you doing?"

"I want to make sure everything has been transferred properly. We need to turn these old phones off."

Again, Harry gave himself a mental head slap. "No tower pinging," he said.

"Very good, dear. Now, we need to use these new phones and rearrange tonight's meeting."

Harry could see that she was way ahead of him. "What would you suggest, cupcake?"

She gave him a snarl. "Why not go back to the original scene?"

"Slick's," said Harry, smiling at her. "You're a genius."

"I know."

* * * * *

Fighting Al came from his office in Springfield and he walked into Slick's carrying a single manila envelope. Toting a large carry bag containing the laptop and cell phone she'd obtained from Suzanne Hutchinson, Pruitt arrived from her detective unit headquarters in Northampton, while Monica came in from the DA's office also in Northampton. Ducky came from a job site for a shopping mall his company was rehabbing in South Hadley, and Fish had the longest drive, coming from his job at Pratt & Whitney headquarters in East Hartford, Connecticut. He walked in at 6:35 p.m. with a Boston Celtics backpack slung over his shoulder.

"You look a little tired," Al said jokingly when Fish walked in. "What's that dragging behind you? Oh, never mind, it's your ass." Al was doing his best to lighten the moment, but the suspense hung on them like an oil slick. He bought a pitcher and poured beers for everyone as they arrived except for Pruitt, who partook of some tonic water with lime. They all remembered Pruitt from the night Hutch died, of course, but only Monica buddied up to her. For the brothers, using the word _Detective_ when addressing her seemed to be a disconnect.

The change of time and location had been relatively easy to rearrange, and Harry and Denise had arrived early in order to secure a couple of tables for the seven of them in the back. The bartender was the same young goth chick who was on duty that ill-fated evening of Hutch's death, her pierced nose, heavy black eye makeup, and blue-streaked hair looking exactly the same. She said her name was Indigo. She recognized all of them instantly and was quite courteous, making sure they got as much privacy as possible once Harry popped her a forty-dollar tip and explained what they were doing. She said she was sorry their friend had died and did a good job of keeping the other patrons relegated to the bar and the tables in the front.

Harry said they'd wait until 6:45 until Denise was "done."

"Done with what?" Ducky asked.

"I'll explain when she joins us," Harry replied, not revealing that she was parked across the street watching to see if any of them had been followed, or if any suspicious-looking vehicles suddenly showed up. Denise came in at 6:48 and gave Harry a nod, and he called the meeting to order.

"We all know why we're here," he said. "I'd like to ask if we're all here as private citizens." He eyeballed Monica first and Pruitt next, as did the others.

Monica looked at Ducky and shifted uncomfortably in her seat, but said nothing. It was the loudest thing she could have said. Likewise, Pruitt wasn't about to declare herself a vigilante in public. "Mister Curlander," she began, "up to now there is no hard evidence that a crime has taken place. If what you all are about to present proves otherwise, I will be forced to adhere to the laws and regulations surrounding criminal investigations to ensure that your information was obtained in a legal manner."

"Thanks for the company line," Harry cracked back to her, "but do you really believe there's no evidence?"

Monica said, "If there is evidence, and you have it, we have to make sure it's admissible in court, Harry."

Unexpectedly, it was Fighting Al who said, "Then maybe it would be best if you and the detective went to the nearest Starbucks and had a latte—no offense intended," he added quickly.

Monica speared Ducky with a look. "Is that what you want?" she asked sharply.

Jumping in, Harry said, "Let's not all get off on the wrong foot."

"Harry, it's okay," said Ducky, but he snapped a wicked glare at Al. "Just give it a chance," he said to Monica. "You heard what Harry told us at the restaurant on Saturday."

"If any evidence that's discovered becomes inadmissible _for whatever reason_ ," Monica said tersely, looking at Al, "not only will all the work you've done have gone for naught, but you risk making the perpetrators unprosecutable." She looked at Harry. "Is _that_ what _you_ want?" she repeated, emphasizing the words differently.

"Maybe you and the detective can let them know when they're going over the line legally," said Denise, and all eyes turned to her. "They're going to go through with this whether you agree with it or not," she added. "Can't you see that?"

Monica just threw up her hands. "I think you're already over the line, all of you. The more I hear, the crazier I think this is."

Pruitt just sipped her tonic water and asked Denise, "Were any of us followed?"

"You saw me out there?" Denise questioned.

"You're not the only one who likes to check things out, especially about this situation."

"What do you mean by that?" Fish asked, speaking for the first time.

Pruitt went on to describe the suspicious dark sedan she'd spotted at Suzanne Hutchinson's house the previous Friday, and her feeling that she wasn't the only one who went there to obtain the laptop and cell phone that was now in her carry bag. She described further her suspicion that Suzanne's house might have been under surveillance. Pulling a plain white envelope from the carry bag, she handed it to Harry. "Mrs. Hutchinson found this among her husband's belongings and she wanted me to give it to you."

"What is it?" Harry asked.

"I don't know," Pruitt replied. "It's sealed and I didn't ask for permission to open it."

Harry noted the message scrawled on the outside of the envelope: " _Harry, use precaution_." He carefully tore it open, extracting a single piece yellow legal pad paper.

"What is it?" three people asked at the same time.

Harry just shook his head. "Looks like a list." He counted the letters on each line. "Each entry is composed of ten letters, but they're not actual words. Looks like a code of some sort."

"Mean anything to you?" Al asked.

Harry shook his head. "Not offhand." He turned to Pruitt. "Did Suzanne indicate why Hutch wanted me to have this?"

"She did not," Pruitt answered. "I asked her if she'd found anything else in Mister Hutchinson's belongings that seemed unusual, and she said no."

"Did she indicate where she found this?"

"It was in his brief case. She found it when she went in there to get the laptop that the human resource impostors were after."

"What human resource impostors?" Al asked.

"Too much to explain right now," Harry replied. "Let's stay on track and each of us talk specifically about why we're here. Otherwise, we'll never get through this."

"A compartmentalized operation," Al observed. "Very cool."

"We'll have to get back to this," said Harry, putting the list aside. "Al, what d'ya got?"

Al plopped the manila envelope he'd been holding onto the table. "I got what you asked for Harry, but are you sure you want to go through this now, here?" It was Al's way of agreeing with Monica and Pruitt that whatever was in that envelope could very well become compromised as evidence should a defense attorney ever become aware of how it was obtained.

Harry said, "If we want to solve this, I don't think we have a choice." Knowing why Fish was there, and knowing that Fish had probably also obtained the information he would present not exactly legally, Harry said, "What do you think, Fish?"

Fish replied, "If we don't use what we have, we have zero chance of discovering who killed Hutch."

"You know," said Pruitt, causing everyone look in her direction. "We don't necessarily have to be the ones to pursue an investigation."

"Then why the hell are we here?" Harry shot back aggressively, to which Denise put a hand on his arm.

"Didn't you tell me Mister Hutchinson was contacted by the Treasury Department some months back?" Pruitt asked, and Harry nodded. "Do you think there's a chance they were looking into some irregularities at his bank? Do you think further that there might be information on Mister Hutchinson's laptop that supports that possibility, information that someone outside the bank went to great lengths to obtain by posing as human resources representatives and duping Mrs. Hutchinson into handing over that laptop to them so that the information would not be discovered?"

Monica nearly came out of her chair. "Information that would cause some other law enforcement agency to open an investigation into laws broken under its jurisdiction."

"Watch what you say here, Monica," Ducky admonished. "You can't say anything that you can't admit to saying under oath."

She stared at him for some moments, and then turned to Pruitt. "Go on," she said curtly.

"What I'm asking is this," said Pruitt as she eyeballed each of the brothers in turn. "Is it important to you who, or which law enforcement agency, gets to the bottom of Mister Hutchinson's death?"

"Who gives a damn?" said Harry. "As long as there's justice, I don't care if it's the man on the moon who solves this." The other brothers nodded their agreement.

Fish said, "You know, they got Al Capone on tax evasion, not murder, but he still went away for the rest of his life."

Monica picked up her beer and gave Harry a sly wink. Just to make sure they were all on the same page, she said, "You know, Detective, it's interesting that you mention that there could be other law enforcement agencies interested in this situation. I was talking to a friend of mine recently and I found out that there's an organization inside the Treasury Department called FinCEN that's dedicated to uncovering financial crimes and it works with law enforcement to prosecute them. If there are irregularities at Hutch's bank that violate federal laws, they might be interested in looking at that. Have you ever heard of FinCEN, Detective Pruitt?"

"I have not," Pruitt replied.

"You might want to check it out when you get a chance."

The table was set. They were now building a case for the feds and they were going to hand it over all tied up with neat little bow. Harry thought: Breckenridge you jackass, this might be your lucky day. He looked at the envelope in the middle of the table. "Al?"

Al polished off his beer and opened the envelope. "These are Hutch's calls and texts from his cell phone for the last six months."

Monica couldn't help herself. "Pretexting, I assume?"

Her question was a direct inference that Al had obtained the records by pretending to be Hutch, which could be considered a serious crime in some situations. Al was much too sharp to answer her directly. He flashed a grin at Harry and said, "Sorry Ms. Prosecutor, I would have to cite attorney-client privilege before I could answer how I came across these records. By the way Harry, this cost us a grand, but I'll split it with ya'."

Monica said, "Uh-huh."

"Monica...?" Ducky admonished.

"Sorry," she said. "Force of habit." She signaled for Al to continue, but the look on her face indicated the conversation was giving her some severe stomach pain.

Al just smiled and went on, "I took the liberty of segregating any numbers that couldn't be identified. Those are highlighted in yellow. We also noted how many times Hutch corresponded with each number."

It didn't really mean anything to anyone except Harry who took out his wallet and extracted a business card. It was the same card where he'd written down the phone number that Suzanne had recited to him over the phone five nights earlier, the same night someone had tried to run him off the road.

"See this number," he said, holding up the card. "Whoever owns this number was speaking to Hutch just before he died, even perhaps while he died. You'll see this number listed at 5:02 p.m. on May 4th, the night of the reunion. I say this could be our killer."

"How do you know this?" Pruitt asked.

"Do you have Hutch's cell phone in that bag?" Harry asked.

"I do," Pruitt replied, and she reached in and pulled it out.

"If you go into the call history you will see this number listed, and it might be the last call in or out on that phone. Hutch was on that call when he locked himself in his own car."

"From inside the car," Pruitt added. "As if he was trying to get away from something, like someone was after him."

"Like someone was after me last Wednesday night," Harry added.

The room fell silent while Pruitt waited the agonizing thirty seconds for the phone to come on. She went into the call history, and sure enough there was the call just as Harry had described.

"Badda-bing," said Al.

Fish added, "Yeah, good work, Harry."

"Now all we have to do is find out who owns that number."

"I hate to burst your bubble," said Ducky, "but being on the phone with Hutch just before he died isn't a crime, and it doesn't make the person on the other end of that call a killer."

"Thank you!" Monica called out.

"You're right," said Harry, "and maybe I'm jumping to conclusions, but it might put us one step closer." He looked at Pruitt as he said it, but she could have been a statue. He turned to Fish. "Do you have something else for us?"

Fish unzipped his Boston Celtics backpack and pulled out his laptop. It only took a few taps on the keyboard before a grainy image popped up on the screen. "This is the security footage from the ATM machine located at the Hampshire Bank branch located just up the street."

"It's on the same side of the street as we are now, isn't it?" Al asked as he poured Fish another beer.

Fish pulled a legal pad out of the backpack and scrawled the location of the bank and the ATM. "This is Slick's, this is the bank, and the ATM is located here, right next to the bank's main entrance. Hutch's car was parked on the other side of Newberry Street, just past the bank." He drew the location of the car and drew a circle around it. "What you're about to see—"

Interrupting him, Monica said, "May I ask how you came to possess this surveillance material?"

Fish said, "I'd rather not answer that right now, but you should know that it is still on its original server. If someone ever initiated an official investigation and they needed to subpoena this material, it should not be a problem."

Pruitt looked at Monica and said, "He probably hacked it."

"One hundred percent," Monica shot back.

"So do you want to see this or not?" Fish asked.

Ducky made a face and said, "Go ahead Fish."

"What you're about to see is from the afternoon of May 4th. I took the liberty of editing it down to the time period around the discovery of Hutch's body, but there's a whole lot of other action that happened on the street that afternoon that could be checked out."

Pruitt asked, "Such as?"

"The most obvious are the license plate numbers of passing cars," Fish replied. "I didn't have the wherewithal to do that."

"You'd make a good detective," said Pruitt. "Is there a time stamp on this footage?"

"There is," said Fish. "Let me show you." Two taps later a video looking much like a YouTube video appeared on the screen with the date and time clearly emblazoned on the picture. It was 4:49 p.m. Fish froze the video and said, "The camera is designed to record people using the ATM so everything in the distance is somewhat distorted. If you look carefully, however, you will see a large Mercedes sedan passing the bank about a minute after I start the video again. Hutch drove a Mercedes model S500 which is a large car like the one you will see. I've looked at the footage a couple of different times for the one-hour time period before this, and I only made out two other Mercedes cars pass by, and they looked quite different than the one Hutch drove." Fish tapped the keyboard and sure enough a few seconds later they all saw a large Mercedes drive rather slowly down Newberry Street past the bank. "Given the time this car is cruising past Slick's, which was our meet-up spot for the reunion activities, and given its appearance, I believe this to be Hutch's car. We could confirm that by getting more detail on the license plate and verifying it with Hutch's wife."

"Where is Hutch's car now?" Al asked.

Pruitt replied, "According to Mrs. Hutchinson, her son drove it back to Cambridge and it's sitting in her garage. She said it hasn't been used since this night."

"Now watch carefully in this area over here," Fish said as he let the footage continue. They all huddled around the laptop and watched as the car moved down Newberry Street and disappeared out of the camera's purview. Half a minute later, the car came back up Newberry Street from the opposite direction toward the camera, but again it disappeared out of the camera's purview. Fish froze the action again and said, "I think that was Hutch looking for a parking spot." The time stamp was now 4:57 p.m. "Keep paying attention to this area." He let the footage roll again for a couple of minutes but outside of a few more cars rolling up and down the street, no one spotted anything of consequence.

"Were we supposed to see something significant on that last segment?" Ducky asked.

"I'll play it again," said Fish. "Keep focused right here, at the very edge of what the lens is able to capture. I was using a magnifying glass when I noticed it."

Al chuckled and said, "Old school."

Fish let it roll twice more before Harry said, "There, right at the very edge. Someone just came into the picture." Fish froze the footage and Harry put his finger on the screen.

"Oh yeah," said Ducky.

Al asked, "Is that Hutch?"

"Keep watching," Fish instructed. The figure took a couple of additional steps in the direction away from the camera, and stopped.

"What's he doing?" Al asked.

"He's just standing there," said Ducky.

"Standing where?" Harry questioned. "Where is this building he's in front of?"

"Hold that thought," said Fish. "Keep watching."

They all made a collective move toward the screen as Fish let the footage continue.

Suddenly, the figure did an about-face and was gone a second later, back out of the camera's purview. "Did you see it?" Fish asked as he stopped the footage.

"See what?" Al groaned. "All we saw was a guy on the sidewalk and then he was gone. What the hell does that prove?"

"I guess you didn't see it," said Fish. "I'll play it back again."

"Wait," said Harry. "Don't do anything for a second. What's the time stamp on the footage right now, at the spot where the guy disappeared out of the picture?"

Fish looked at him oddly. "Harry, the time stamp is right on—"

"Read it, Fish. For the benefit of everyone here—read the time stamp out loud."

"5:04, Harry. The time stamp reads 5:04 p.m."

"And what time did that last call come into Hutch's phone?"

"5:02," Pruitt replied, knowing exactly where he was going.

"And do you think that person in the surveillance footage could have been on a cell phone, talking to someone who'd called him two minutes earlier?"

"Shit, Harry, that's what I wanted you all to see," Fish shot back. "When the figure turns back and heads back the other way—in the direction that we last saw the Mercedes drive a few minutes earlier—if you observe closely, it looks like he has his hand up near his face—like he's on a damned cell phone. Watch." Fish replayed the last few minutes. "There, did you see it when he turned?"

It was Pruitt who said, "ADA Brimton, if closer examination of this footage reveals that the car we saw belonged to Mister Hutchinson, and that the person we just observed was him talking on his cell phone, we might have probable cause to reconsider an investigation on the grounds that the topic of that phone call may have caused him to have that heart attack. Wouldn't we at least want to talk to whoever was on the other end of that call?"

Monica considered the statement carefully. "What about the hack?" she asked.

"If the source of what we just saw stays in this room, and if this surveillance footage is still on the original server..." Pruitt looked at Fish now, but he was stone cold silent. "... then based upon my own findings and conversation with Mrs. Hutchinson as part of my ongoing curiosity about Mister Hutchinson's death, I could make a phone call and ask the bank to voluntarily supply me with a copy of this footage."

"You'd be willing to take that chance?" Monica asked. "It could be real trouble for you."

"It could be real trouble for both of us just being here," Pruitt said back.

Pointing at Pruitt's carry bag, "What about that laptop?" Monica asked. "It still officially belongs to the bank where Hutch worked, and we don't have a search warrant for that."

"What laptop?" Pruitt asked. "Did anyone here see me take a laptop out of that bag?"

Harry just smiled and gave Denise a look as he whispered something in her ear.

"Detective Pruitt, weren't you and Monica going to check out the location you just saw in the surveillance footage where the subject turned around?" Denise asked loudly, hoping they'd take the hint. "Do you think that might be important?"

They got the hint, all right, and the brothers waited while all three women left the room. When they were gone Harry said, "Hey Ducky, did you ever get hold of the Zen Master after we met at Quattro Fratelli on Saturday?"

"I did," Ducky replied. "I figured I'd get to that when the time was right."

"When do you think that would be?"

"Well, if you're thinking about busting into that laptop Pruitt never brought and we didn't see, I'd guess that would be now."

* * * * *

It had taken a while to regain the trail. He'd lost them in a traffic jam on the Garden State Parkway on Saturday morning and it was only by chance that he'd spotted the Curlanders again later that day just as they were pulling into their cul-de-sac. Monitoring Mister Curlander by watching the house was proving to be ever more difficult as the neighbors were becoming increasingly conscious of him even though he varied his observation points. There were only so many spots from which he could observe, and he'd gotten his share of looks from residents as they'd noticed him. When a local police car passed him twice on Saturday afternoon, that was his cue to come up with another surveillance plan. Luckily, finding a competent private investigator to assist with the surveillance of Mister Curlander and his lovely wife was not difficult to accomplish, although quite expensive. Still, the man had been quite proficient, able to follow Mister Curlander all the way to that run-down motel in Massachusetts without being detected. Now, five thousand dollars in cash plus expenses later, he'd caught up with the evasive Mister Curlander, and he was quite positive that this location, the scene of the Hutchinson encounter, was not a coincidental gathering place.

He watched carefully now, fully aware that the original plan of making Mister Curlander's impending death be due to seemingly natural causes as they had done with Mister Hutchinson, was now in jeopardy. It had taken weeks for them to become aware of a situation and a location where Mister Hutchinson would be alone and where they could carry out their attack, and they had been able to assemble the assassination team and carry out the plan perfectly due to his lack of awareness of their presence. He chuckled to himself, thinking in retrospect how much Mister Hutchinson's assassination was similar to that of President Kennedy more than four decades earlier, but it was almost exactly the same in that they, the assassins, were aware of the place, time, and route beforehand and had ample time to prepare the operation. It seemed unlikely that such an opportunity would present itself for Mister Curlander, however. He and his wife were constant companions, and while the two of them dying together would not be a problem as far as the mission was concerned, their deaths still had to appear to be natural or accidental in order that there not be any investigation that could possibly lead back to the reason why Mister Curlander had to die, which was his knowledge of the accounts.

At the time of Mister Hutchinson's assassination, they were fairly convinced that the only two people at First International who were aware of the accounts were Misters Hutchinson and Phillips, both of whose assassinations had been relatively easy to accomplish using the same radio frequency technology they'd stolen from the Russians years ago, but only recently had weapons built by some rogue black market manufacturers in India. If there was enough money in it, those people could build anything. Wishing that he could observe what was happening inside this establishment called Slick's, he had a strong suspicion that far more than two people were now aware of the accounts, or they would be soon. Entering the establishment was out of the question, however, for to enter a place of intoxicants was haraam, unlawful according to his interpretation of the Quran and an abomination of Satin's doing. Perhaps he should have kept his private investigator employed a little longer, but even that carried its risks.

No, he would have to find out who these other people were, and then he would have to contact the Mushir immediately. If those accounts could not be closed and reestablished somewhere else—which was highly unlikely seeing as it had taken years to establish the network of shell firms and secret accounts necessary to avoid scrutiny—then he was fairly sure of what the Mushir would have to say. Already the Mushir was not happy. While the failed attempt to obtain Mister Hutchinson's laptop and cell phone was not his doing, the fact that Mister Curlander had survived his forced crash the previous Wednesday was entirely his doing. When the Mushir became aware of this newest obstacle, he was quite certain of what his new orders would be, which was that they would all have to die.

Chapter 15... Leaving Slick's

Fighting Al parted the smoke-stained curtain, looking to see if the girls were still across the street supposedly checking out the location they had observed in Fish's ATM surveillance video. "You've got quite a woman there, Harry."

"I'm a lucky man," Harry confessed. "Without Denise there is nothing in my life that would have gone as well as it has."

Al said, "Good for you, man. And she's stayed with you all these years. What's your secret?"

Harry grinned and said, "It's my kind and sensitive personality."

Al chuckled and said, "Yeah, right. But seriously, how'd you guys meet?"

"Hutch introduced us. Suzanne and Denise were friends at Mount Holyoke and he fixed me up on a blind date with Denise so he could put the moves on Suzanne."

"That explains it," said Al. "I knew you couldn't have done it on your own."

Harry just kept smiling. "Gee Al; it sounds like you're a little jealous."

"Damned right I am. You really scored, man. Me? I just shit alimony checks."

"I owe a lot to Hutch," said Harry. "That's why I have to solve this thing."

"We have to solve this thing," Ducky interjected said as he looked Harry in the eye. "I told you I was in all the way."

Fish added, "I think we all are, Harry."

Harry suddenly changed his demeanor. "You know, I asked Denise to get Monica and Detective Pruitt out of here so they could have some degree of plausible deniability about what's going on here. There's no way they can see what's on that laptop."

"Yeah, we've covered that six ways from Sunday," said Ducky, "but my call to the Zen Master might have given us a way around that. Hopefully he got hold of Tushy."

"As in Tushy Wilcox?" Al questioned. "What does he have to do with this?"

"Oh ye of little faith," Ducky responded, trying to lighten the moment. "Perhaps I should explain whilst we enjoy another frothy beverage. Brother Fiorello, if you would do the honors and obtain another pitcher of said libation, we could acquaint ourselves as to the mysterious ways of the Zen Master."

Al said, "No problem. You guys got any money?"

* * * * *

Ducky put his cell phone on speaker and put it in the middle of the table. Zen Master picked up on the second ring.

"Zen Master, this is Ducky. I'm here with Harry, Fighting Al, and Fish."

"Hi guys. That whole thing with Hutch sure put a damper on the reunion, didn't it? Maybe we should take a Mulligan and try it again next year."

"Sounds like a great idea to me," Ducky said as the other brothers nodded.

"Hey, Ducky, I gotta give you props on the new missus. How did a zero like you manage to reel in a hot number like that?"

Ducky turned three shades of red but never to be outdone he said, "Obviously she noticed how tall I am when I stand on my wallet. Oh, and by the way Zen Master, she's standing right here beside me. Also present is Harry's wife Denise along with Detective Pruitt, who was the investigating officer on the scene the night Hutch died."

"Oops," said the Zen Master. "No offense there, Mrs. Ducky."

"Call me Monica," said Monica. "And no offense taken. I'm just happy you guys can all see clearly in your old age. At least you've got one thing that still works."

"And ba-boom!" shot the Zen Master. "Got me back but good, all right." He paused for a moment before getting serious. "I assume you guys are calling me back to see if I scored with Tushy."

"We are," said Ducky. "What's the scoop?"

"It took a while," said the Zen Master, "but I was able to work my magic. Tushy verified that he's on that subcommittee you told me about, and he's quite familiar with FinCEN. I told him about your situation and he's expecting our call. Hold on a second and let me see if I can make this a conference call without cutting you off."

Ducky did a thumbs-up and a few seconds later the voice of Senator Rob Wilcox came through the cell phone speaker.

"Rob Wilcox here."

"Tushy, this is the Zen Master. I've got Dirty Harry, Fighting Al, and Ducky on the line, along with Ducky's wife Monica and Harry's wife Denise, and Detective, uh...."

"Pruitt," Pruitt announced.

"... Detective Pruitt, who was the investigating officer on the scene that night." Zen Master didn't waste any time. "Did you get a chance to think about the situation as I described it to you?"

"I did," said Tushy. "Let me get right to the point. Harry, it sounds like the surveillance that was used on you is something called a roving wiretap."

"What the hell is that?" Harry asked belligerently. "Sorry, that wasn't aimed at you, Tushy."

"It's quite all right. I'd be pissed off too if I was subjected to one. A roving wiretap follows a target and does away with the need of the law enforcement agency to apply for a new wiretap every time the target changes a phone, or moves location, or does other things to possibly avoid the surveillance. Whoever was tracking you probably had wiretaps on all your lines, home and office both."

Harry said, "But why? I'm not a criminal."

"I hate to say it, but ever since the Patriot Act was enacted after September 11th, and even in its various reiterations after that—it's now become the USA Freedom Act, by the way—some of the surveillance being done out there has been pretty loosey-goosey. We've had a lot of citizens who've been looked at for just rubbing up against terrorists or terrorist related activities without even knowing it. I can understand it in one way, in that we need to find these bastards among us who want to do us harm, but it offends me terribly in another way."

Denise popped off out of the blue and said, "So all that stuff about protection was total garbage, Harry. That slimy CIA agent probably thought you and Hutch were working together."

Harry looked at her and she had fire in her eyes.

Tushy asked, "Was that you, Monica? I heard you were a prosecutor up there in Hampshire County."

Monica smiled and said, "That was Harry's wife Denise. She quite passionate about protecting her family, I'm learning. I do have a question, however."

"Shoot."

"As I recall, beside the roving wiretaps, a couple of the other key provisions of the Patriot Act were enhanced searches of documents, business records, personal items, and communications, especially as it related to the surveillance of individuals."

"Those are the lone wolf clauses in the act, and there are several of them," Tushy responded. "Individual terrorists, or lone wolves, are very hard to find and the government needs every advantage to stop them. The down side, as you might imagine, is that some innocent people get put through some unpleasantness. Uh, was there a question in there somewhere?"

"My question is this. We know the location of a laptop Hutch used for his work at First International Bank. If we suspect that laptop, which is officially owned by the bank, contains information about terrorist financing, can I, or we, we being the local district attorney's office, examine that laptop without a search warrant by invoking the provisions of the Patriot Act?"

"That's a very specific situation," said Tushy.

"And I'm looking for a specific answer," Monica responded. She looked around and noted that everyone seemed to be holding their breath.

"Well, it's hard to answer. Are you investigating a possible terrorist financing situation, or are you investigating Hutch's death as a possible murder? I might be able to help you with one situation, but not the other. If you're conducting a routine murder investigation, the Patriot Act might not come into play and you'd need to establish probable cause through your normal procedures."

Pruitt said, "May I?" and Monica waved her on. "Senator, this is Detective Pruitt. We can't officially be investigating Mister Hutchinson's death as a murder because the medical examiner has ruled his death as due to natural causes and there was no evidence of suspicious activity at the scene. However, while Mrs. Hutchinson was in possession of the laptop in question there were two attempts to acquire it under false pretenses, one of them being a break-in of her own home. Furthermore, I believe she herself was under surveillance by parties unknown who were waiting for yet another opportunity to steal that laptop from her."

"So there's something on that laptop that someone wants desperately, and you're hoping it will provide a motive strong enough to open an investigation into Hutch's death despite the ME's findings," Tushy concluded.

"The man is sharp as a tack," Zen Master chimed in.

"You said you believe she was under surveillance," Tushy went on. "Do you have proof of that?"

Pruitt said, "Senator, I've been a detective for seventeen years and a police officer for twenty-seven. My intuition is my proof. There's something on that laptop that a lot of people are after and I'm not naive enough to think that Mister Hutchinson's death isn't connected to it."

Tushy paused dramatically. "I believe you," he said after some moments. "If only you had something more concrete, names, account numbers, something we could latch onto. If you did, I know enough people where we could cook something up to do a little peek-and-see into First International's books."

"We do," Harry said suddenly. He held up the envelope Pruitt had given him earlier in the evening. "It makes perfect sense. That's why Hutch wanted to meet with me in New York City. He knew he was in jeopardy and he wanted someone else to have this information in case things went south."

"Who's talking, and what information do you have?" Tushy asked.

"This is Harry, and what I have is a list that Hutch wanted to give me, which I now think might be a list of account numbers. There's just one little problem."

"Which is?"

"They're in code."

"It's probably much more complicated than that," said Tushy. "If it were me, I would also assume that whatever is on that computer is probably encrypted as well."

"Is being encrypted the same using a code?"

"At the end of the day, yes," Tushy replied. "But information and financial records from banks like First International use encryption algorithms which require specific encryption and decryption keys."

"Which we don't know," Harry added.

"Which you might know," Tushy countered. "Otherwise, you would never be able to untangle the information. It would defeat the purpose of Hutch giving you the information in the first place. The key has to be something you know."

"But how do we figure it out?" Harry asked.

Fighting Al said, "Sounds like we're back to nowhere."

"Not quite," said Fish. "Did any of you guys get a chance to talk with Billy Apple at the reunion?"

"Billy Apple—as in Bapple? Talk?" said Al. "The guy went a whole month without talking during his junior year just to win ten bucks."

"Yeah, and he still got more dates than you did," said Ducky. "What about him, Fish?"

"Well, he must have done some talking along the way," Fish concluded, "because Bapple is now Professor William Apple and he's head of the computer sciences department at Purdue."

"Hell, I could have told you that," said Ducky. "He's been at Purdue over twenty years."

"Well," said Fish, "if there's anyone who could help us with this encryption thing, I'll betcha it's him."

"Then I have a suggestion," said Tushy. "Why don't you guys contact Bapple. Maybe he can give you some idea of what it would take to see what's on that laptop. Then, if you come across anything that's as damning as you think it is, call me back and I'll reach out to some people I know at the Treasury Department who would be only too happy to charge in waving the Freedom Act flag. They love stuff like that."

Monica jumped in and said, "Senator, this is Monica again. What if the people from First International Bank want the laptop back?"

Tushy replied, "Didn't I hear the detective say that some bad actors had broken into Hutch's wife's home to try and steal it?"

Pruitt nodded and Monica said, "Yes, that's correct."

"And where is Hutch's wife now?"

"She's spending some time with her son in Chicago," Pruitt replied.

"And where is the laptop?"

"She gave it to me voluntarily for safekeeping," Pruitt replied again.

"And have either you or Monica seen what's on that laptop?" Tushy asked.

"No," Monica and Pruitt both replied at the same time.

"Do the people at the bank know you have it?"

"We don't really know," Pruitt replied. "I tend to doubt it."

"Then I don't see how you have anything to worry about. If anything, you're doing them a favor by taking temporary possession of it from Hutch's wife while she's away, and you're protecting it from people who've already broken into her home to get it. Doesn't sound to me like there's anything nefarious going on there."

It was all smiles around the table and Ducky said, "Zen Master, Tushy, we gotta thank you for your help on this."

Fighting Al jumped in and said, "Tushy, I just gotta ask. How'd you get the name Tushy, anyway?"

"I'm not sure I want to get into that."

"C'mon, Tushy. We're all friends here."

"Well, if you gotta know, evidently I drank too much bubble gum punch at a rush party my freshman year and somehow a photo of me hanging a moon at the John Adams statue made its way onto the message board at the dorm the next day."

"Typical," said Monica.

"I still don't think it was my ass in the picture," Tushy went on. "You gotta promise me that nickname will never be heard again if I decide to run for president."

Chuckling, Tushy and Zen Master signed off and Harry asked, "So, who's got Bapple's number?"

* * * * *

With everyone else gone Harry put the tables back to their original position and brought the empty pitchers back to the bar. Thanking Indigo, he let her know that he appreciated her diligence in giving them their privacy, and he dropped another twenty on the bar but she handed it back. "You don't need to do that. I could tell that finding out how your friend died was important to you. And besides," she added, "it weren't no problem. We only got a few of the regulars in and they were hoping you guys were able to make some progress on the case." Harry took a step back. "It's a small place and it's not hard to hear," she said, seeing his concern. "But don't worry, I set them straight and told them to keep their mouth shut and to talk to me if they came up with anything. You got eyes and ears on the ground now."

Harry reached across the bar and pressed the twenty into her hand. "His name was Hutch," he said to her. "He was a great guy, with a great family, and he would have liked you."

Indigo wiped away a stray tear, smearing her black mascara. "Aw, don't go getting me all mushy now. I have a reputation to maintain with these fluffernutters." She indicated the three remaining customers slumped over their drafts and watching the last inning of the Red Sox game at the far end of the bar.

Harry checked the time, noting that it was after ten o'clock. He pulled up a stool and thought about what their next move would be. Ducky had volunteered to contact Bapple, but it was a foregone conclusion that Bapple would help if indeed he was the right person to do it. If that conversation went as planned, Harry had already determined that he and Denise would drive that laptop out to Indiana if need be. In the meantime, the laptop had to remain in his or Pruitt's possession, he'd determined further, and given the fact that he'd been the center of attention of both the CIA and assailants unknown—both of whom would also be interested in the laptop's whereabouts, he assumed—it was probably best left with her.

He ordered Dewar's neat and sat there gazing absently into his glass as he waited for Denise to come out of the rest room. She came out a minute later and perched on the stool next to him. "What are you doing?" she asked as she put her handbag down on the bar with a distinct _clunk_.

He eyed the handbag, reassured by the fact that he knew what was in it and that she was carrying it. "Drinkin'" he answered.

" _What_ are you drinkin'" she continued.

"Scotch. You want one?"

"Sure," she said.

She normally didn't drink scotch, and it surprised him. He wagged a finger at Indigo and the drink came a moment later.

"Are you still scared?" she asked.

"Only when I think about what we're doing."

"Want to back out?"

He looked at her. "I don't think I can."

She took a tiny sip of her drink. "Hutch wasn't family, you know."

Harry shot her a look. "Not in the official sense. But I just want to remind you that it's because of him that we're together."

"And I guess you're going to say that ultimately it's because of him that we had a family."

"Well, it is, if you follow the logic to its ultimate conclusion."

"Uh-huh. So you're going to see this through to the end."

"Do you want me to back out?"

"You mean, do you want _us_ to back out? Where you go, I go, remember?"

Harry downed half his scotch. "I only want whoever killed Hutch to be brought to justice. How that is accomplished, I really don't care."

"Do you want justice, or vengeance?"

"Back to that again. What if it was me who died the way Hutch did? Wouldn't you want someone to make sure vengeance was done?"

"If it came to you or my family, I would," said Denise. "But I'm not sure your other fraternity brothers feel the same way. I think they stop a little short of the vengeance line."

"I can understand that. It's not as personal to them as it is to me."

Denise took a final sip of her scotch and slid the glass over to Harry. "So you're okay with simple justice if that's all you could get?"

Harry poured her drink into his. "I guess I'd have to live with it." He swung over and gave Denise a kiss on the lips. "I sure am glad you're on my side."

From the end of bar Indigo said, "Aw, you two are so cute."

* * * * *

Harry finished his drink and picked up the manila envelope containing Hutch's cell phone records as Denise slung her handbag over her shoulder. Surprisingly, his cell phone rang—the brand new cell phone he'd obtained that very afternoon that only a handful of people in the entire world knew about. He looked at Denise whose eyes were already locked onto his. His contacts had been transferred from his regular cell phone so Pruitt's name appeared on the screen. "It's Pruitt," he said. "Hello?"

"It's Detective Pruitt," she said directly.

"Yes, I know. What's up?"

"Listen carefully," she said ominously. "I'm assuming you're still inside the bar seeing as there's a car with Jersey plates still parked outside."

"That's correct."

"I want you to ask the bartender if there is a back exit. There should be; I see a narrow alley that goes around back behind the building."

"Detective, what's going on?"

"I'll explain later. Just do as I say, and be sure to stay hidden so that no one can see you from the street. Once you get outside, let me know what you see."

"So you don't want me to hang up."

"That's correct."

Harry held the phone to his chest and said, "Something's up." Denise didn't ask any questions, but she unzipped the main compartment of her handbag and left it that way. Harry called Indigo over and whispered into her ear.

"Through there," she said, pointing to a swinging door.

"What's back there?"

"Just a food prep counter and a walk-in fridge where we keep the kegs cold. There's a back door in the corner where we take in supplies and take out the trash."

"Can it be seen from the street?"

Indigo said, "Hold on a second," and she stepped to a cabinet beneath the register, shielding its contents from the guys still watching the game. She came back with her handbag and pulled some keys from inside. "I use the back door when I lock up at night and I park my car right outside for safety reasons. Here, take it." She pushed the keys toward him. "And take this too," she added. "Just in case." She put a huge, ancient-looking Colt .45 automatic on the bar. "It doesn't look like much, but if you hit something with this cannon chances are it's going down." Seeing his hesitation she added, "If someone comes in here they won't be after us, Harry."

"Take it," Denise said curtly. She looked at Indigo and said, "We must have met in a previous life, sister."

Harry said, "What about you? How will you get home?"

"Here's a card. Just call me later. If I don't hear from you, I'll ask one of the fluffernutters to stay with me and give me a ride."

Harry said into the phone, "Did you hear all that?"

"Yeah," said Pruitt. "Take your time, I got all night."

"Sarcasm? Really? That's not like you, Detective."

"I have my moments. Go already."

Harry gave a nod to Denise and they were at the back door. Opening it slowly and stepping into the night he said to Pruitt, "Okay, we're outside... getting in the car... starting the car... now what?"

Pruitt said, "Take a right when you reach the end of the alley. Just drive away from the bar for a couple of minutes so that you're a good distance away and park, okay? I'll be along shortly."

"What's this all about?"

"You'll find out," Pruitt replied. "Just stay down low inside that car, okay?"

Denise slouched down below the window line. "It smells like wet dog in here."

"Deal with it," Harry shot back as he slouched down as well. Taking a right onto Newberry Street just as Pruitt had instructed, he drove Indigo's tiny Toyota about a mile and pulled into the parking lot of a Stop & Shop supermarket.

"Detective, are you still there?" he asked into the phone. Pruitt answered by pulling up next to him in her unmarked state police car, and he could feel her eyes on him right through the layers of glass between them.

"Stay where you are," Pruitt commanded. "We'll use that car."

Moments later she was squeezing her bulky body into the back seat. Harry turned back toward her, noticing that her eyes were on the .45 sitting on the console next to him, which couldn't have been more obvious. "It belongs to the bartender," he said. "She insisted that I take it, just in case."

"Can you find your way back to the bar but come at from the other direction?" Pruitt asked, not saying anything further about the gun.

"Sure," said Harry, "but are you going to tell us why?"

"You'll find out in a minute. Go, now, before it's too late."

"Too late for what?" Harry asked as he drove back onto Newberry Street.

"When I arrived at the bar this evening, I got there early and I thought I'd go back to the spot where Mister Hutchinson's car was parked on the night of his death and take a look around again. You know, just to check out the scene and satisfy my old cop curiosity that I hadn't missed anything."

"And you noticed something," Harry concluded as he took a right onto Ferry Street.

"Just your wife watching everyone as they arrived." Denise turned and gave her a look. "It's all right, Mrs. Curlander. It pays to be cautious, especially in this situation."

"Which is what?" Denise asked brusquely.

"I'm about to show you," Pruitt replied. "If we ever get there."

"Just one more block, okay?" Harry rounded the final corner on Clinton Street and was approaching Newberry Street again, about four blocks below Slick's.

"It smells like wet dog back here," Pruitt complained as they passed the shoddy duplexes of the old neighborhood. "Pull over," she ordered. In the distance they could see the flashing blue and green beer sign hanging in one of the bar's front windows. "Now turn your lights off and go up one more block, and try to park behind another car."

Harry did just as she instructed.

"Mrs. Curlander, when we were watching that ATM footage earlier this evening, you insisted that ADA Brimton and I leave the room to examine the area where presumably Mister Hutchinson was observed speaking on his cell phone before rushing back to his car. It was an excuse to get us out of the room, of course, but it was effective. Do you remember those moments, Mrs. Curlander?"

Denise looked at Harry who just hunched his shoulders, having no idea where Pruitt was going. "Yeah, sure, I remember," she said. "I went with you."

"And where did we go?"

Denise swung her head the other way and peered into the night. "You know where. We went to the front of that office building over there, the one with the revolving entrance door that sticks out onto the sidewalk. I can see it from here."

"And did you or ADA Brimton observe anything special or unusual?"

"I don't recall that any of us did." Denise sneezed and said, "Ugh! I think I'm allergic to something in here."

"Except that I noticed something, or someone, actually, and that was the second time I'd noticed him this evening. The first time was when I arrived at the bar."

"You saw someone watching us?" Harry said urgently.

"And if I'm correct, I'm about to see him again now, for the third time."

It was suddenly electric inside the car. Harry instinctively reached for the .45, feeling Pruitt's hand on his arm.

"I can't let you do that," she said, matching his intensity. "I'm still an officer of the law."

Harry swung his gaze to Denise, who in turn glanced at her handbag. He turned back to Pruitt. "Where did you see him?" he asked gruffly.

"Do you remember the spot where Mister Hutchinson's car was parked on the night of his death?"

"Sure," Harry replied. "A couple of parking spaces past where the ATM machine is located, opposite side of the street."

Pruitt pointed in that general direction. "And if you follow that line from here you'll see someone in a dark sedan camped out under the street lights just short of that very spot." Denise swung around and gave her a dubious look. "Trust me on this, Mrs. Curlander."

The spot in question was between two and three blocks away, and Harry backed away from the car in front of them so he could get a better look. "Screw this," he said a moment later. "It's too dark." He popped the car into drive and pulled back out onto Newberry Street, staying to the right while a couple of other cars passed. He was just about back to Slick's when suddenly a police cruiser pulled up behind him seemingly out of nowhere, lights flashing to high heaven. Harry hit the brake and said, "Shit." A minute passed before the officer came up and poked his flashlight beam into the car, shining it on all of them in rapid succession.

"License and registration, please," said the officer. "Do you know why I'm stopping you, sir?" The lights from the cruiser lit up the entire street.

Harry looked up and noted the officer's name tag. "Officer Nekel?" he said. The flashlight beam came back and stabbed him in the eyes. "It's me, Harry Curlander, from a couple of weeks ago. Do you remember?"

Officer Nekel took a second and popped the flashlight beam at Denise and into the back seat again. "I do now," he replied. "Why are you driving Indigo's car, and why are you driving down the street with your lights off?" He popped the flashlight beam into the back seat one more time. "Detective Pruitt, is that you back there?"

Pruitt stuck her badge into the flashlight beam and said, "It is, and I can explain. Is it all right if I get out of the car?"

"Are you on the job?" Nekel asked.

"I am."

"Then maybe you can explain why there's a pistol lying on the console in plain sight."

Pruitt said, "Oh boy," and she proceeded to haul herself out of the tiny back seat.

Listening to their conversation, Harry could tell that Nekel was not a happy camper. Pruitt was doing her best to explain, but it all buzzed past him as he kept his eyes focused on the street in front of them. There were two groups of cars parked there, one group of three followed by a couple of empty spaces and then another pair further up almost directly opposite the bank. He could almost feel the presence there. As he sat there listening to Officer Nekel's voice getting louder, the headlights belonging to one of the cars came on.

"Did you see that?" he said to Denise. "The headlights on that car just came on but no one got into it."

The car pulled out onto Newberry Street and it only took Harry a second to recognize it as a black BMW. "It's them," he said as the car got closer. "It's the same car that tried to run me off the damn road." All sense of reasonableness left him in that moment and he took hold of the .45 automatic that was sitting on the console. With every molecule in his body he wanted to fire that .45, and he raised it to eye level but was prevented from doing so when Officer Nekel's hand clamped down on his wrist and wrenched his arm downward. Burning pain knifed through his still tender ribs, but it was nothing like the burn that seethed within him as he made out the face of the driver of the evil-looking BMW as it drove past. The fucker was smiling at him.

Chapter 16... Brother Bapple

"Based on what new evidence?" District Attorney George Wysocki gave Pruitt a withering scowl. "And I can't believe you, of all people, are going along with this. Does Caruso know you're spending time on this?"

Monica looked away, knowing this would be the outcome. Harry looked like he was going to burst a blood vessel. Pruitt said, "I've been pursuing it on my own time, primarily. It hasn't taken time away any of my other investigations."

Wysocki knew that was code for: _Of course I haven't told Caruso. He'd kick my ass all the way to China if he knew._ He just shook his head and speared Monica with another of his crushing glares. Waving a finger between her and Pruitt, he said, "You know, even if either of you had the slightest bit of hard evidence as to how anything you just said relates directly to Hutchinson's death... and even if that was enough for me to agree with you and authorize the investigation you are so desperately seeking, I'd have to seriously debate whether or not you could prosecute this."

Monica said, "Are you suggesting that I'd have to recuse myself?"

"I'm not suggesting it," said Wysocki. "I'm outright saying it. You're way too close to this."

"Are you saying I can't be impartial?"

"I just said it."

"You know, I don't have to be impartial to prosecute a case. I just have to be able to prove it. What about what we just told you about Harry being stalked, about him being run off the road?"

"What about it? It might be enough to get someone to investigate it... _in New Jersey_... if you had an eyewitness, or a license plate number, but here... _in Massachusetts_... you don't even have enough to file a complaint. I mean, were any laws broken? And even if you could file a complaint, can you prove that it was related to Hutchinson's death? No? That's what I thought. Now get out of here, the whole bunch of ya'."

Outside Wysocki's office, Monica crossed her arms and said, "I told you this was gonna happen. I don't know how I let you all talk me into this. You're damn lucky Officer Nekel let you slide. If he'd charged you with unlawful possession of a firearm—which he most rightly could have—I'd be prosecuting _that_ case right now and you'd be facing two to five years in the state prison. Do you know how lucky you are, Harry?" She swung her eyes like cannons and laid into Pruitt. "And you! You knew that gun was in that car, and you did nothing about it?"

"What did you want me to do?" Pruitt shot back. "I knew it wasn't his car."

"Nekel said the gun was right there, in plain sight. If it wasn't for the fact that the bartender chick happens to be his girlfriend...."

"I told him that I had a permit to carry," Harry said weakly.

"Yeah, _in New Jersey,_ " Monica fired back, mimicking Wysocki's tone from moments earlier, "for which Massachusetts does not have a reciprocal agreement." She hesitated for a brief second and then drilled Denise with a look. "Which brings me to you. What the hell were you thinking?"

"Hey," Denise replied smartly, "I didn't know this screwed up state didn't honor Jersey concealed carry permits. And when do I get my gun back?"

Monica's eyes turned into spear tips. "Whenever you get the hell out of my state!" she snapped back. "You know, I'm keeping all your assess out of the fire and I don't need any fake righteous indignation. I'm not in the fucking mood." Everyone looked at their shoes. "You're all damned lucky I love my husband."

"Thank God for Ducky," said Harry. "By the way, do you know if he called Bapple yet?"

Monica pulled back on a right cross to Harry's forehead, but Pruitt held her back.

* * * * *

"What the fuck did you say to Monica this morning at Wysocki's office?"

"It was Pruitt's fault."

"Yeah, well, whoever's fault it was, now she's pissed at me. I'm not gonna get laid for a month."

"You can't get it up anyway."

Ducky tipped his glass and said, "Viagra."

Harry couldn't help but chuckle. It was late Tuesday afternoon and they were back at Slick's if only for the reason that Harry wanted to go back and apologize to Indigo for getting her in trouble with her boyfriend.

"Who knew?" he'd said to Ducky earlier. "She never said anything about her boyfriend being a cop, let alone that it was Officer Nekel. And besides, it was her who insisted that I take that .45."

"You know," Ducky said ominously, "the gun laws in this state are pretty strict."

"How strict?"

"As in unlawful possession of firearm is a felony strict, and the way Monica described it you were stone cold guilty on every element of the law. The whole fucking bunch of you could have ended up in some serious shit."

It was Ducky's way of fishing for an apology from him. "Can you get me off the hook with Monica?" Harry asked meekly. "I know she saved our bacon on this and I want her to know how much Denise and I appreciate her putting herself out there for us."

"Hey, she did more than _put herself out there_. She could get disbarred if the wrong person ever finds out about this." Ducky put his glass down and turned. "I hope that doesn't happen, Harry."

Harry felt a shiver run up his spine. Ducky wasn't ever that threatening. "Yeah, Ducky, I got it. Thanks." Ducky sipped his beer and didn't say another word. "Did you get a chance to call Bapple?"

"We're lined up for seven o'clock, but I'm not sure we should call him back."

That didn't sound good. "Because of Monica?" Harry guessed. Ducky didn't respond but ordered another round. Ducky ordering beers but not talking: that wasn't good. It meant he was working up the nerve. Harry looked at the clock and took the opportunity to ask the bartender what time Indigo was coming in.

The bartender was an older woman this time; could have been Betty White's sister with a bigger ass. "She called out," she said, clearly annoyed. "She's got some sort 'a trouble with her boyfriend. Damn young kids." She left it there and toddled to the other end of the bar to serve a couple of fluffernutters that Harry recognized from the night before. She dropped down a couple of drafts and turned back to stare at him and Ducky when one of them whispered something in her ear. Suddenly, he didn't feel welcome there.

"It's more than just Monica being pissed," said Ducky.

Harry snapped back into their conversation. "You have doubts," he surmised.

"I do," Ducky admitted.

"I thought you were in this all the way. Isn't that what you said yesterday?"

"I'm rethinking my position."

"If you're rethinking and it's more than Monica that's on your mind, then tell me what's got you all tensed up."

Ducky gave him a look. "What if we're wrong and Hutch fucked up? What if he was, like, embezzling money? We're thinking about the Hutch we knew thirty-five years ago, Harry. People change over that length of time. They do all kinds of strange shit and get themselves into all kinds of trouble. What if Hutch got boiled in his own stew?"

Harry had never even considered the thought. To him, Hutch was Hutch, but Ducky had a point. Suddenly, the words Hutch had scrawled out on the envelope Pruitt had given him bubbled up to the surface inside his brain: _Harry, use precaution_. If Hutch had somehow stepped over to the dark side, then why would he issue such a warning? Why would he bring others, and in particular one of his best friends named Harry Curlander, intentionally into harm's way? "I don't think Hutch would ever stab us in the back like that," he said to Ducky.

Looking straight ahead, Ducky said, "I admire your loyalty, Harry, but someday it might bring you down."

"You've been living with Monica too long," Harry said bravely, feeling hypocritical as hell. He'd had his own moment of doubt and introspection the night before but he wasn't about to tell Ducky that.

"Maybe I have," Ducky acknowledged as he picked up a new beer, "but it's served to educate me to a whole other side of human nature." He sipped the beer and put it back down as if he smelled something bad in it.

Harry said, "I'll respect your decision if you want out."

His tone indicating that he'd made his point, Ducky said, "I'll let you know."

Harry sipped his beer, now knowing where to go next in the conversation.

"It's in the car," said Ducky. "Hutch's laptop... I have it in the car. Pruitt gave it to Monica this morning at Wysocki's office and I put it on a charger in case we need to fire it up when we call Bapple later."

Harry smiled. Ducky was back in the game, for how long he didn't know, but he was up at the plate and swinging away. "We?"

"Yeah, we. I called everyone in case they wanted to be here."

"Maybe we should make sure it's working," said Harry.

Ducky took a sip of his beer and ambled out the front door to get the laptop, and Harry pulled out his cell phone—his new cell phone—to see if Denise had texted him. She was back at the Wallingham Inn taking a nap and she said she'd text when she woke up. No sooner had he pulled the phone from his pocket when one of the fluffernutters came over and sat next to him.

"You's the fella was in here last night, ain'chu?"

Harry thought: what the fuck? The guy didn't look real sociable. "Yeah, that's right."

"You was in here with all them other folks, right? Tryin' to find out about that buddy 'a your'n that died a while back, right out there up the street, right? Died inside that fancy Cad'llac car 'a his. Ain't that right now?"

Harry put the phone down on the bar.

"Walter, you leave that poor man alone now, ya' hear?" the Betty White bartender hollered over. "He don't need no old fool like you bothering the bejesus out of him."

Noting the steadiness of the man's eyes, Harry motioned to her and said, "It's okay ma'am. Not a problem." The bartender shrugged and turned away, and Harry looked back into the man's eyes, deep, dark, and unwavering eyes, eyes one wouldn't expect given the man's scruffy exterior and beer-laden breath. "What can I do for you...." He was about to say _old timer_ , but instead he said "... _buddy?"_ The man smiled, and Harry said, "Call me Harry." He shook the man's hand. "What can I do for you... Walter?"

Walter leaned in so that he was literally talking into Harry's collarbone. "Back in '61 and part of '62, I worked as a security guard at the Los Alamos National Laboratory. You know what that is, don'cha Harry?"

Harry did a quick scan of the place, noting that none of the five other patrons were paying any attention to old Walter. "Los Alamos? Yeah, sure. Atomic bomb, Manhattan Project, all that. You were there?"

"After all that stuff. By the time I worked there, they were doing a lot more than that. They were working on all kinds of shit, mostly figuring out ways to kill the Ruskies before they killed us."

Walter eyed Harry's beer and Harry ordered one for him. "And you were a guard there? Were you in the military?"

"Oh fuck no," said Walter. "Los Alamos worked on shit for the government but it was a private gig; still is, I think. Back then, the University of California ran the place and hired eggheads from all over to come in and play with their chemistry sets. There was fuckin' thousands of 'em there."

Harry handed Walter his beer. "But you weren't a scientist."

"Like I said, I was a security guard." Walter swigged his beer. "I hate to say it, but it didn't take much to land the job and the pay was real good if you could stand livin' in that shithole."

Ducky came back from outside and Harry suggested the three of them take a table in the back where they could speak more privately. Walter was only too happy to oblige.

"You's Ducky, ain'chu?" Walter asked. "You's married to that hot tamale lady lawyer, right?"

Ducky shot Harry a sharp look and Harry just shrugged. "Ducky, say hello to Walter." He turned back to Walter. "And you're telling us this, why?"

"Well, it's like I said. They was workin' on all kinds of shit at that time, and one of the things they was workin' on was how to make a gun with no bullets." Walter swigged his beer. "It was all top secret, ya' know."

Harry and Ducky locked eyes. "A gun with no bullets," Harry repeated. "How would that work?"

"How the fuck do I know?" Walter shot back. "I was just a lousy security guard. All I know is that they was workin' on the thing for a long time."

Walter swigged his beer and Harry swigged his. "Tell me more," he said.

"Like what?"

"Like how you know this."

"Well, my job was to guard access to this building, see. I didn't know what they were workin' on inside, just that only certain people with certain passes were allowed in there."

Harry swigged his beer.

"But even though most of those pinhead scientists who went in and out of there wouldn't piss on me if I was on fire, we all went to the same bars after work. You see, the whole fuckin' town had thirty-five churches but only had two bars and people tended to bump into each other a lot when they went there. For the most part, they stayed with their friends and we stayed with our friends, but we recognized each other and everything and we were polite and waved hello and shit."

Harry swigged his beer and said, "So?"

"So sometimes they'd see me nearby and they didn't get all bent out of shape when they was talkin' shop. I minded my own business, but I heard stuff, ya' know?"

"And you heard that they were making guns with no bullets."

" _Thaaaa...t's riiii...ght,"_ Walter sang out. "They weren't guns, exactly, but they were working on some sort of weapon—or weapons," he added quickly. "I think maybe they were working on different things, but I remember overhearing that whatever they was cooking up worked with _waves_."

Harry took a moment and gave Walter a once over. Who was this guy? Once again, Walter's eyes were rock steady, and they were looking right through him. "Waves," said Harry.

"Yeah, some kind of fuckin' waves—frequency waves, or radio waves, some kind of shit like that. I imagine it was some kind of fuckin' spy thing so that they'd be able to kill people from far away and no one would suspect anything. No bullet holes, no blood, like someone just up and died from a heart attack or something." Walter waited a long, dramatic minute and asked, "Ain't that how your friend died?"

Harry just swigged his beer.

* * * * *

Ducky's cell phone was set on speaker and Bapple was coming through loud and clear. "Expertise in modern cryptography requires significant knowledge in the disciplines of mathematics, computer science, and electrical engineering," said Bapple.

Ducky said, "Oh. I thought you were a poly sci major at John Adams."

"I was for a while," said Bapple. "Then I figured out that I didn't want to be a teacher or homeless so I changed my major in the middle of my junior year. I went from being an expert in b-s to getting a B.S. degree."

"Poly sci to algorithms and computer code?"

"Quite the about-face, right? Lucky for me it was the early days in computer science and I managed to squeeze through."

Harry suddenly didn't feel very confident about Bapple's ability to ascertain the information on Hutch's laptop. "And you're now the head of the computer science department at Purdue?" he questioned.

Bapple responded, "Only in America, right guys?"

Those who could make it for the phone call were all gathered in Harry's room at the Wallingham Inn. After his and Ducky's little chat with Walter back at Slick's, he thought it best to make the call to Bapple in the relative privacy of the room. "If we have any more meetings at Slick's the whole damned town will know what we're up to," he'd said.

Detective Pruitt couldn't make it because she was on duty and would be for the next few days. After the bloodbath at Wysocki's office that morning, it figured that her boss would have her on a short leash for a while. Monica was prepping for a rape case that went to trial the next morning. "I doubt seriously that she'll leave her office before nine," Ducky had said. Fighting Al didn't return any phone calls with regards to his attendance, and Fish showed up with someone from his company's IT department named Sally Westerman who supposedly knew a lot about computer security. Harry wasn't too sure about that move at first, but after listening to Bapple for the last few minutes he was starting to think it was a good idea. Denise sat in the corner reading a travel guide.

Suddenly very serious, Bapple said, "Listen, I'll do anything you ask if it helps you find out how Hutch died."

"We were hoping you'd say that," said Ducky. "What do you know about the situation?"

"Only that you suspect there's information on that laptop that will reveal why he was killed." Bapple paused. "You still think he was killed, don't you?"

"Absolutely," said Harry.

"You need to know that if the laptop is encrypted as you suspect, it might require some heavy duty analysis to make sure it's not booby-trapped or something. That might be hard to do over the phone."

"Bapple, this is Fish. I brought along an associate of mine who might be able to help with that. Her name is Sally."

"Hello Sally."

"Hello... Bapple, is it?"

"My real name is Billy Apple. Only these jokers call me Bapple."

Harry said, "Listen, Bapple, if need be, my wife and I will deliver this laptop to you in Indiana."

"We'll see if that's necessary," said Bapple. "Has anyone attempted to get into the laptop up to now?"

"No," Harry and Ducky said at the same time.

"Why not?"

"Several reasons. Not important right now," said Ducky.

"Okay, so you really don't know if it's encrypted or not."

Everyone in the room looked at each other. "Uh, I guess not," said Ducky, and Sally's eyes rolled back in her head.

"Well," said Bapple, "maybe we should cross that bridge first. Sally, would you take that computer from whichever of those geniuses has it and start the thing up."

"Got it," said Sally, and she took it from Ducky as he made a face at Bapple's comment.

"Now, I assume we're dealing with a Windows setup here, so there is probably going to be a login. Does anyone know what that is?"

Blank faces all around. "Evidently not," Sally said loudly.

"Well, there are several ways to obtain that," said Bapple, "but most people simply use something they can remember. Let's go that route first before we mess with the administrator files and password stuff."

Sally said, "Things like birthdays, kids' names, things like that, right?"

"Exactly. Does anyone have any suggestions?" Bapple asked, but no one came up with anything. "Okay, what about his wife? Where is she located right now? People often let their spouses know their login information in case of emergency."

"Suzanne is in Chicago visiting her son," said Harry.

"Do you have her cell number? We could call her right now and ask her what Hutch might have used as a login and password."

"I have it," said Harry. Pulling out his cell phone, he punched up Suzanne's number and she answered right away. After taking a minute to explain what they were doing, he said to the others while Suzanne stayed on the line, "Suzanne said to try this: _March17,1986_ —capital M and no spaces. She said it's their wedding date and she knows he used it as a login for other stuff on their home computer."

Sally typed it in and said, "Holy shit, we're in."

"I told you," said Bapple. "Now, let's go to a couple of files and see if this puppy is really encrypted. Sally, would you go to the File Explorer or the Program Files on the C drive and see if any of the folders will open up without another password. Pick something amusing."

Sally punched a few buttons and said, "Oh."

Bapple said, "What does that mean?"

"That's interesting," she said. "There are no document folders on the desktop. Let me try this again. File Explorer, then go under This PC... let me look at the Documents folder." A moment later she went, "Uh-oh."

Harry said, "That doesn't sound good, Sally."

"I don't think it is," she responded.

Fish slid over and looked over her shoulder. "How about the C Drive or Program Files like Bapple said? Maybe Hutch had stuff buried in there for some reason."

Sally clicked away but everywhere she went she came up empty. "Ah, Mister Bapple sir?" she said.

"Find something?"

"Just the opposite. I don't think you need to worry about this thing being encrypted. I think this computer has been wiped clean."

* * * * *

Deflated and fatigued, they let Bapple off the phone and sat there looking at each other. Saying what they all wanted to say, Harry said, "Fuck."

"Honey? Language?" Denise called from across the room. "Getting ticked off at the world isn't going to make you feel any better." Harry gave her a scowl that said _I don't wanna hear it_. "All right then, but acting like an eight-year-old isn't very flattering for you."

"Sally, are you absolutely sure about this?" Harry asked. "I mean, is there any chance you could be wrong?"

"C'mon Harry," Fish cried back. "The woman is a professional. Don't be a dick, huh?'

Ducky stood up and said, "Hey, both of you. It's shut the pie-hole time."

Picking up his stuff, Fish said, "C'mon Sally, it'll be after ten by the time we get back to Hartford. I'm sorry I ever got you into this."

Almost cheerfully, she responded, "Hey, this is no big deal. I got three brothers that fight more than this at Thanksgiving." She closed up the laptop and said, "Who does this go to?"

"Just leave it," Fish said with a snarl and he headed for the door. Just as he was about to open it, someone knocked.

"Hey, are you guys in there?" It was Fighting Al. Entering, he said, "Sorry I couldn't get back to you about the call to Bapple, but you could've let a guy know you changed the location. Good thing the guys at Slick's had an idea where you went...." He stopped and did a once over on all the sour faces. "What happened?"

"The fucking hard drive on Hutch's laptop has been erased," Harry answered angrily.

"Honey? Language," Denise barked out again.

Al said, "As in everything? We were banking on that thing giving us clues to a lot of unanswered questions."

"Gee, Al, thanks for the update."

Al shot a glance at Ducky and did a palms up.

"He's just pissed," said Ducky. "He's being an asshole with all of us."

Harry wheeled angrily and Denise was on him before he said something he'd regret. "It's not their fault," she said calmly, but Harry speared Al with a venomous glare.

Living up to his nickname, Fighting Al said, "So?"

"What kind of stupid question is that?" Harry fired back. He brushed Denise aside, but knowing her husband's temper when he got like this, she tried to stand between him and Al.

Sally took Fish's arm and whispered, "This is getting good," and he pulled her out of the way before she got swatted like bug.

" _So..._ what else ya' got?" Al spit through his teeth.

Harry tried to shorten the distance between them, but there wasn't any.

"Harry, you're not listening. What else ya' got?" Al repeated. "If you want to get close to your adversaries, you can't go at them head-on or they will see you coming. You've got to go at them from another direction."

It took Harry a second to realize what Al was trying to tell him. He blinked.

"Maybe you could even get to them from the inside," Al went on. "You've got something they want."

A long moment passed and Fish said, "Holy shit. Al is right."

Ducky was the next to get it. "It's all about this stupid computer." He went up and pulled Harry out of Al's space. "Harry, if they knew the laptop has been erased, they wouldn't be going after it."

Harry's eyes bounced from face to face, his anger receding as he was starting to realize what the others were trying to tell him. "The laptop," he said weakly. "We can use it to set them up."

"Precisely," Al quipped as he gave Harry a couple of stern love taps on the cheek. "If you want to catch these bastards, you've got to turn the tables and get them coming to you so that _you_ can see _them_ coming. Badda-bing, badda-boom." Al smiled. "Not only do I know how to fight, I've learned how to fight smart."

From across the room, Sally called out, "Fighting smart is good, but it would be better if you had someone who fights dirty."

Chapter 17... Death At The TipTop Lounge

"And don't forget that we need to call Officer Nekel so I can get my gun back."

"We?" said Harry.

"Okay, I got the message. I'll make the call. Hopefully we can pick it up on our way out of town."

The ride back to Jersey would take almost four hours and Harry was planning on using the time to figure out their next step. The last three days had been at quite productive, while at the same time they had created another set of loose ends. One of them was the white envelope with the words _Harry, use precaution_ written on it. He'd drawn the conclusion that the list of ten-letter gobbledygook words inside the envelope were account numbers written in some sort of code. Now, packing that envelope into his bag, he didn't think Hutch would ever give him something he wouldn't be able to decipher, so the key was out there somewhere. It wasn't in Hutch's laptop, however, that much he knew.

The laptop: another loose end. He wondered if there was any way to recoup what was on that hard drive. Why had Hutch erased it, assuming it was him that did it? And why would he have done it if there wasn't something incriminating on it—something that someone wanted very, very badly. Standing there holding that laptop, it suddenly dawned on Harry that someone could be waiting outside their hotel room right now, waiting to do harm to him and Denise, maybe even kill them, to get their hands on it—that is, if anyone knew he had it. He glanced at the molded case which still contained his Sig Sauer P320 automatic. Taking it out of the case and shoving a fully loaded clip into it, he put it into the outside pocket of his bag. Denise watched him do it, but didn't say a word.

And then there was the phone call Hutch took before he died. If it could be verified that the person in the ATM footage was indeed Hutch, as they all suspected it was, then it was entirely possible that he could have said something to whomever he was talking to that would shed some light on who his murderer might be. They needed to find out who was on the other end of that call.

Finally, there was the conversation with Walter, Harry recalled, which sounded eerily like the conversation he'd had with Doc Eisenberg the day after Hutch's funeral. Harry had not shared Doc's conversation with anyone else, specifically because it sounded, well, pretty outlandish. OSS, CIA, Advanced Research Projects Agency: how did Doc's source, this Doctor Kadam, know about these institutions and what they worked on? Who was this Doctor Kadam, and why should he, Harry, or anyone else put any credence in his story about governments around the world having developed technology aimed at assassinating people so that they appeared to die from natural causes? Even Doc said it sounded "really spooky." Yeah, spooky enough to be true, Harry thought unnervingly, and Walter's story was strikingly similar right down to the time lines and the technology. Something else to consider was that the stories came from two totally disconnected sources. Coincidence? Harry was beginning to think there was no such thing as coincidence in this affair.

"Officer Nekel said we can meet him at the Wallingham police station in half an hour," Denise said as she put down her cell phone. "He says if we're involved in another firearm violation in Massachusetts after this, we're on our own."

"All we can ask for," Harry said as he zipped his duffel bag. He knew he'd be in violation of the statute with his own weapon as soon as he got in the car. He slipped on his jeans—the same jeans he'd been wearing for last three days—and asked Denise to tie his running shoes for him. His ribs were aching again, the result of Nekel having wrenched his arm when he tore Indigo's .45 out of his hand. "After we go to the station, I'd like to go back to the spot you three girls looked at yesterday."

"I thought—"

"Humor me," said Harry. Walter's and Kadam's stories were sticking like wallpaper inside his head.

They checked out of the Wallingham Inn and were at the police station in ten minutes. Officer Nekel was already there in his street clothes and he gave Denise her pistol back, along with a lecture. He was entitled, thought Harry, and they headed back to Newberry Street after Nekel made sure the weapon was in their trunk and not readily accessible. The street was busy on this beautiful Wednesday morning and people carrying lattes were zipping to and fro. Harry pulled up to a metered spot just a few spaces away from where Hutch's car had been parked on the night of his death, and also within a few spaces of where the black BMW had pulled out the night before last. He could still envision the driver's face and his contemptuous sneer as it rolled past him.

"What are you looking for?" Denise asked.

"I'm not sure, exactly. I was hoping something would come to me." Having said that, Harry looked up and across the street, wondering to himself: _If I was an assassin here to kill someone with a weapon that shot high frequency waves of some sort, where would I be located?_ "From what we saw on the ATM video, where is the spot where Hutch stopped and went back to his car?"

Denise pointed through the windshield. "Half a block up, in front of the revolving door that sticks out onto the sidewalk."

Harry exited the car and leaned in through the open window. "If you see anyone in a black BMW come near me, shoot them," he said, indicating his duffel bag in the back seat. It was meant to be funny, but it wasn't. He made his way up the block and stopped directly in front of the revolving door Denise had indicated. Analyzing the area, the sidewalk was wide at that point, Harry noted, and it wasn't like anyone could have popped out of some alley or from behind a tree to surprise Hutch; no, if Hutch turned around on this spot, he must have been told to do so, which means he must have known the person he was talking to on the phone. It also means he knew he was in danger. Otherwise, why would he have headed back to the car at all, assuming his intent was to meet the rest of the brothers for the reunion at Slick's, which was still a block away? Not only that, Hutch was no pussy. He would have confronted anyone, so why would he have gone back to his car and made himself a sitting duck unless he thought that locking himself inside would have prevented him from being harmed?

Harry walked back to the car as quickly as his aching ribs would let him, and pulled Hutch's laptop from the duffel bag. Turning it on, he looked at the icons on the desktop. There were the usual icons for Word and Excel, PowerPoint, and other apps, but there was no icon for a backup program like Carbonite or some other similar service. But certainly the contents of the laptop were backed up somewhere, probably on the bank's own backup system, Harry surmised. That meant that if Hutch had erased his own laptop, he did so because he didn't want that one device, that specific laptop to fall into the wrong hands. He would have known the information he erased was not permanently lost, but still available on the bank's system. There was only one person who could have known as much about what was on Hutch's laptop as Hutch did.

"What the hell has got you all wound up now?" Denise asked.

Harry shut down the laptop and stuffed it back into his duffel bag. "Do you have enough clothes to last another couple of days?" he asked as he popped the car into drive.

"Why?" Denise asked. "Aren't we going home?"

Harry squealed rubber down Newberry Street and said, "We're going Boston."

* * * * *

Checking in with Mary back at the office, Harry said, "And please tell Karen and Jack that I'll be gone for the rest of the week. How are they doing, anyway?"

"Nice of you to inquire, Harry. They're working their butts off."

Uh-oh. Mary sounded a little peeved. That wasn't like her. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"Well, something happened on the Gordon case."

The Gordon case was the biggest lawsuit ever brought by Curlander and Curlander. It was a breach of contract case where the owner of a horse farm in Upper Freehold was suing a developer for damages when runoff from a new housing development poisoned the water supply on the farm. Several valuable horses had to be put down after the developer failed to comply with contractual obligations that would have prevented the catastrophe. The suit probably meant about a million bucks to Curlander and Curlander and Harry had been the lead on the case up to now. "What happened?" Harry asked, almost not wanting to hear the answer.

"The developer produced another copy of the contract which is different than the one we've been working with. It's thrown everything we've done into a total tizzy."

That was Mary's way of saying they were now in a clusterfuck. "Why didn't anyone call me?" Harry demanded.

"I did call, and so did Karen, and all we got was your voicemail. Is there something wrong with your cell phone?"

Harry swallowed hard, realizing that he'd forgotten to inform the folks back at the office that he and Denise were using new phones with different numbers and that he'd turned his regular cell phone off. "Yes, there is," he replied curtly. "I'll explain later. I've got another cell phone number you can use."

"I can see that on the caller ID," Mary shot back, again not bothering to hide her annoyance. "And why are you heading toward Boston?"

Taken aback for a moment, Harry looked at his phone as if that would answer her question. "How do you know that's where we're headed?"

"The GPS on your regular cell phone is still working. I can see your location on my computer screen as we speak."

"But the phone is turned off," Harry explained.

"It doesn't matter. The GPS feature still works if the phone is turned off and even if we change the privacy settings on the phones. It was one of the features we liked about these phones when we signed up for this plan."

"It was?"

"Yes, it was. We knew we could always find each other if we had to—you know, in case of emergency or something. We talked about that."

"We did?"

"Yeah, and it was you who was the most adamant about the idea."

"I was?"

"Yeah, you were. What's going on Harry? Why don't you want us to know where you are?"

Wanting to escape the current topic, "What about the case?" Harry asked bluntly.

"Karen got a continuance to give us time to examine this other version of the contract, but that means a whole other round of interviews and depositions. We've only got two weeks, Harry. You're the lead on this. Are you coming back in time to complete this work before the new trial date?"

Harry's ears were suddenly burning and he could feel his heart beating faster. "Tell Karen to stay on the case full time and get Jack to pick up on Karen's load."

"Jack is already on it, Harry, but he's up to his eyeballs. He worked all day Sunday and he's been here 'til ten o'clock the last two nights."

"Then call Norm Tellison and see if he can give us a few days. Hopefully his case load is down and he'll be able to help us out."

"That will cost us a fortune," Mary protested. "Are you sure about that?"

"Just call Norm," Harry ordered. "Everything will be fine."

"All right," said Mary, her voice lilting higher. "If that's what you want to do, but when are you coming back, Harry? We need you around here and you've been essentially out of commission since your fraternity friend died. That was almost three weeks ago."

The lump in Harry's throat was as big as a baseball. "I'll be back soon, Mary. Everything will be fine, you'll see. I have all the confidence in the world in all of you." It sounded fake, and he knew it.

"We'll do the best we can," Mary said skeptically. "Do you want us to use this new cell phone number if we need to get hold of you?"

"Yes," Harry replied, "and I'll have Denise text you her new cell number as well."

"Denise has a new number too?" Mary asked inquisitively. "Why—"

"Gotta go," said Harry, cutting her off. "I'll have Denise text that number right away." He tapped the end call button and looked at Denise in the passenger seat. "I feel like a total ass."

* * * * *

They found the U.S. headquarters building for First International Bank on Boylston Street near Boston Common, and parking proved to be a thirty-two-dollar bitch. Being early afternoon, the street was jammed with people going or coming from lunch, and they decided to grab a bite around the corner from the bank building coincidentally near Newbury Street, spelled differently than the Newberry Street in Wallingham with which they'd become so familiar. They both ordered New England clam chowder and salad and moments later their cell phones were out. Harry's job was to contact Fighting Al, while Denise was to find out if Jerry Brennan was going to be in his office that afternoon. Al didn't answer on the first try and Harry tried twice more.

"Jesus Harry," Al blurted without any greeting, "I'm at lunch with a client. Whatever it is, can't it wait?"

"It'll only take a minute."

"Shit, Harry, hold on a second." Al was back a moment later. "What?"

"The phone number, the number belonging to whomever Hutch spoke to before he died?"

"Is that a question?"

"Yes."

"What about it?"

"I need you to find out who that number belongs to."

"I already did that, Harry. As I recall it was one of the numbers I highlighted in yellow, one of the numbers that couldn't be tagged to anyone."

"Yeah, I know. Not good enough. We need to know, and I know you have ways."

"Gee Harry, I really appreciate the confidence you have in me, but what the fuck, huh? What if it was one of those burner phones, you know, prepaid, untraceable, like that?"

"Even if someone paid cash, a person had to buy it, right? Someone with a face and a name?"

"And you expect me to find out who that was."

"Right."

"It could have been purchased anywhere, months ago even."

"And I know you can find that out." Harry paused. "If the tables were turned and you asked me, I'd do the same for you, Al."

Al said, "Damn it. You must have some Fiorello blood in you. Only my grandmother could make me feel this guilty."

Harry smiled. "You're the best, Al."

"Save it. I'm gonna have to call in a lot of chits to make this happen."

"Just keep thinking that it's for one of us," Harry responded. "Try to get back to me in a couple of days."

"A couple of days?"

"Yeah, is that a problem?"

"Hey, Harry?"

"Yes Al?"

"Up your ass, Harry."

"Oh, stop it, Al. You're making me blush." Harry ended the call and waited for Denise to finish with hers. "Well?"

"Jerry is in meetings all afternoon, but he'll see us at the end of the day. We have an appointment with him at six o'clock."

"That's great, honey. How did you wangle that?"

"I told his executive assistant that I was from Curlander and Curlander and we were filing a $200 million lawsuit against the bank in connection with Hutch's death. She put me right through to him."

Harry grinned. "You're amazing, but I already used that on him when I met him at Hutch's wake."

"Yeah, he mentioned that, and he remembered you and Fish both."

They made room for the chowder and the salad after which Harry said, "I'm surprised he didn't refer you directly to their legal department."

Denise stirred her chowder. "I think he wanted to, but I guess he changed his mind when I told him we were the same two people he followed all the way to Bridgeport after the funeral."

* * * * *

So this is where Hutch worked, thought Harry as he sat on what had to be a ten-thousand-dollar couch. It was one of two leather couches in the waiting area outside Brennan's office, which was different than the general reception area with the inch-thick glass entrance doors and huge _FIB_ initials etched into the glass. The place was a sea of glass, leather, and chrome with spears of sunlight glinting powerfully through floor-to-ceiling glass walls. Harry made the mistake of getting too close to one of those walls and his half-digested clam chowder lunch started gurgling inside his stomach.

"Some office," said Denise. "Did you see that FIB takes up the top six floors of the building?"

Harry just grunted, wondering if Hutch was comfortable working in such ostentatious surroundings. It just wasn't his style. "I'll betcha Hutch made a lot of enemies in this place," he muttered under his breath.

Denise said, "What?" but he was saved from repeating as Jerry Brennan came out of his office and extended his hand.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," said Jerry. "We'll take the small conference room down the hall if that's okay with you."

Harry shrugged and said, "Yeah, sure," wondering what the hell was wrong with talking in Jerry's office. They took a small room with a single table and four chairs, and the air was close in there. Jerry took a seat but didn't make eye contact, instead dropping glances from spot to spot as if he was looking for something—probably something like a hidden microphone, Harry thought instinctively, noticing there was no phone or other communication device in the room. Harry got the distinct impression that people at FIB used this room when they didn't want others to know what they were talking about.

Jerry pulled back nervously on a clump of his reddish hair. "What can I do for you, Mister Curlander? Surely you're not serious about that lawsuit."

One of the guy's thumbs was shaking, Harry noticed, and... was he sweating? Old Jerry didn't look too good; looked like he was about to come apart at the seams. "I'm very serious, Mister Brennan. Mister Hutchinson died of a severe myocardial infarction shortly after being examined by one of your physicians. If there was something wrong with him that should have been detected, Mister Hutchinson might still be alive and I think we can make a reasonable case of malpractice or incompetence, or both, against both the examining physician—and the bank."

"I don't understand," Jerry said nervously, the bags under his eyes suddenly draining of color and making him look ghost-like. "We're not doctors. How can you possibly hold the bank liable for what happened to Todd?"

Once again Harry remembered that Hutch was Hutch only to his close friends. To the rest of the world he was R. Todd Hutchinson. "The bank could be liable if there was something wrong with Mister Hutchinson's heart and the bank was aware of it—which it should have been if it obtained a copy of the physician's report after the insurance physical. If so, there is no way Mister Hutchinson should have been under such extensive pressure that it became a threat to his life." Harry paused dramatically. "Don't let my jeans and running shoes fool you, Mister Brennan. Curlander and Curlander has prosecuted many cases like this over the years and we know what we're doing. We're confident that the punitive damages to the family could be in the hundreds of millions."

Jerry literally choked on his own inhale.

"I need to know what Mister Hutchinson was working on that caused him to have that heart attack."

Jerry went into a sudden tailspin, his eyes travelling everywhere. "You have no idea what you're talking about," he spat out.

Harry leaned in, elbows on the table. "Then why don't you enlighten me? What are you hiding, Mister Brennan?"

Abruptly, Jerry got up and knocked his chair over behind him. "We can't talk here. Not now. Meet me at nine o'clock tonight." A drop of sweat tracked down his cheek and splashed onto the table.

Harry looked at Denise who was just as nonplused as he was. "Where?" he demanded with as much bravado as he could muster.

In a virtual panic Jerry said, "Give me your cell phone number and I'll text you the location as soon as I make sure we won't be followed."

"Why would we be followed?"

"I can't talk about that now. Just give me your number."

Harry did so and Jerry left the room hurriedly. He looked at Denise and said, "What _the hell_ was all that about?"

* * * * *

Jerry's text didn't come for another two hours. When it did, Harry noted that the location was in Saugus, ten miles north of Boston at a place called the TipTop Lounge. "Sounds charming," said Denise. Right. It was a skanky little place off of a skanky stretch of Route 1 called Broadway at that point, and the first thing they noticed was that a couple of letters were burned out and the flickering sign spelled out _Ti-Top -ounge_. Harry didn't think that mattered a whole lot to the regulars at this dump. He parked and they navigated around some broken beer bottles that littered the parking lot, noting the wonderful bouquet coming from the dumpster just a few feet from the front entrance. Harry took hold of the swinging door handle which was barely held there with a single screw, not daring to take hold of the stained door itself. Once inside, it became evident that the proprietors didn't think the state smoking ban inside bars and restaurants was important.

"Stay behind me," Harry said to Denise, noting that not a single person looked at them. Clearly this was a place where people didn't see anything, and didn't want to be seen. Denise held his arm as he did a scan of the place looking for Jerry. A stringy-haired waitress with an obvious meth habit came over and asked, "Are you Harry?"

"Yeah."

"In the back," she said, and she moved off quickly when a biker type blowing smoke through his nostrils snapped his fingers at her.

They moved past a couple of fat guys wearing sleeveless flannel shirts who seemed to be negotiating with a couple of fatter hookers, stepping deliberately toward where they imagined "the back" might be. Again, no one made eye contact and a couple of people—supposedly—actually looked the other way. It was suddenly obvious that they were passing the bathrooms, and they moved into another room with a few high-backed booths and some battered tables in a horseshoe arrangement.

"Over here." It was Jerry's voice, and it came from one of the booths in the far corner.

Harry did a brief check-out dance, noting that they were the only ones in the room. Tentatively, he and Denise slid into the booth opposite Jerry who was wearing the same suit he'd been wearing that afternoon. Harry took one look at him and recognized all the telltale signs, just as he had with the stringy-haired waitress. "How long have you been doing meth?"

"I'm in detox."

"Doesn't look like it's working." Jerry's eyes were like black marbles, dilated to the max.

"What would you know about it?"

"Enough to know that you're binging and that it's a fast slide to the bottom from where you are now."

Jerry took a quick swig from the bottle of beer he'd been sliding from one hand to the other. "That lawsuit thing is a bunch of bullshit, isn't it?"

"What makes you think that?"

Jerry didn't answer, but looked at Denise and said, "If you're smart, you'll get out of this before it's too late—for both of you." She said nothing, but squirmed in her seat.

Hitting Jerry right between the eyes with it, Harry said, "Hutch's death was no heart attack."

"I figured that," said Jerry, looking down at the table.

"What else do you know?"

"I know your friend Todd, or Hutch, or whatever you called him, was an idiot. He couldn't leave well enough alone. He got himself killed, is what I know."

Harry nearly came out of his seat, but Denise held him back. He reached across and grabbed Jerry's lapel. "Tell me what you know, you bastard. Hutch was my friend!"

Jerry shoved his hand away. "With friends like that, pal, you don't need enemies."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Your _friend_ , as you call him, is about to get you killed."

Harry retreated, and he could see Denise out of the corner of his eye ready to jump across the booth and pick up where he'd just left off. He put his arm out and held her back.

"There were other ways," Jerry went on without further prodding. "But he had to go to the feds. He had to be all high and mighty and proper—the dumb fuck. All we had to do was to create another layer of transactions. We have plenty of banking partners all over the world that would have been more than happy to reinvest that money into legitimate businesses, and they wouldn't have asked a fucking million questions about where it came from." Jerry wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "It would have been virtually untraceable."

Harry gave him a second. "So you know the bank is laundering money."

Jerry offered a smile one would give a four-year-old. "I'm the fucking CFO. I looked at the same audits, at the same reconciliations as Todd did when he was CFO; it was only a matter of time before I figured it out. He just couldn't get with the program."

Harry glanced at Denise and he tried to alleviate her concern by taking her hand, but it didn't seem to work. He redirected back to Jerry. "The program—so it's common knowledge that the bank is taking dirty money."

Jerry shook his head. "Not common knowledge, no. The operational people have no clue, but the financial people at the very top, the CEO and the CFO, if they know what they're looking at, they're bound to see it." Jerry swigged his beer. "All your friend Hutch had to do was pay attention to what happened to Brendan Phillips and he'd still be alive."

Denise sucked in some air and covered her mouth. Likewise, Harry reeled back in the booth.

"He blew it," Jerry said snappishly. "All he had to do was play ball."

"Play ball with whom?"

Jerry shook his head. "I don't know specifically, but they're everywhere, and if they want something they'll let you know, trust me."

In his mind's eye, Harry suddenly pictured a black BMW. "Do you know if Hutch told anyone about what he'd discovered?"

Jerry snapped his head up and stabbed Harry with a vague stare. "Don't you know?"

"Know what?"

Jerry just chuckled and looked down, shaking his head back and forth. "Oh my God. It's unbelievable." He chuckled some more.

"What's unbelievable?"

Jerry looked him in the eye. "That day, at the wake, when you and that other guy laid this lawsuit thing on me for the first time, you didn't have any idea of any of this? Todd hadn't given you any information or account numbers at that point?"

"If that's a question, no, but I have a feeling that's what he was planning. Why?"

Jerry leaned back and let out a belly laugh now. "Because that's why they're after you too. Don't you see? You were Todd's backup plan. He wanted someone else to have the information so that if something happened to him it could still get to the feds." Jerry waved his hands hysterically. "Some friend he was. He put you and your entire family in danger. Wait, no, not danger, he put you on a death list, and you don't even have the fucking information!" Jerry's laughter echoed off the walls.

Harry waited for him to regain his composure. "You said they're after me. Are they after you too, whoever _they_ might be?"

Tears suddenly pooled in Jerry's eyes. "It's already over for me. I don't know how, but I think they've got someone monitoring my calls and emails and they know every move I make." Jerry reached down and pulled out a small automatic pistol from inside his jacket. "I've been carrying this to protect myself, but sooner or later they're going to get me too."

Seeing the pistol, Harry stiffened as his adrenaline level shot up immediately. Denise put a hand on his arm and spoke for the first time. "What about your family?" she asked softly.

"I'm not married," Jerry replied. "But if I was, my family would be in just as much danger as I am." He paused and took a breath. "That's how they work, you see. If you don't do what they want, you suffer more because your family suffers. They're animals."

Harry took a moment. If what Jerry was saying was true, he wondered how Hutch had hidden all this from Suzanne who'd never given the first indication that she knew Hutch was in danger. He'd shielded her from it completely. "After the wake, why did you follow me halfway back to Jersey?"

Jerry exhaled and looked up. "I was supposed to set you up."

Harry's features hardened. "Is that right?"

"Do you remember the dark-skinned dude that was with me?"

"That was my next question."

"He was one of them. He'd just gotten done warning me that as CFO I needed to get those accounts out of the spotlight and get them cleared of any more scrutiny from the government. He said that was his deal and if I didn't cooperate I was going to suffer the same fate as the real Brendan Phillips and your friend Hutch. When you and your other friend foolishly came up to us and started asking questions and threatening that lawsuit, he told me to follow you after the funeral and find out where you lived."

"You were going to follow me all the way to New Jersey?"

"He didn't care how far I had to go, but when it became apparent that you had detected me following you, I called him and simply gave him your license plate number so he could figure it out from that. That's when you walked past me outside that rest stop."

Harry felt the hair on the back of his neck start to tickle. "So the part about him knowing Suzanne was a ruse," Harry concluded. "But why did you introduce him as Brendan Phillips?"

"I was hoping you'd know that the real Brendan Phillips was already dead. It didn't work, and now I have no choice." With that, Jerry put the barrel of the pistol under his chin, and fired.

Chapter 18... Saugus

"Kill him as soon as possible."

Repeatedly, this had been the Mushir's order and at this point it almost made sense. However, the Mushir did not have all the information and as satisfying as it would be to get Mister Curlander out of the way, it would not be wise to move forward on that order without giving the Mushir the complete picture. The repercussions of moving forward too quickly could be more catastrophic than enduring the agonizing delay. "I have discovered the identities of several of the others with whom he has been speaking."

"Why is that important?"

"Because up to now the deaths of Mister Phillips and Mister Hutchinson have not been suspicious or brought attention to us. Killing Mister Curlander now would surely cause these people and others to associate his death precisely with what we are trying to hide."

"Who are these others?"

It was the question he'd been trying to avoid for the last week. "Most of them are ordinary citizens, friends of his that were all members of the same fraternal organization in their youth."

"What does this mean, fraternal organization? What is such a group?"

"It is a brotherhood."

The Mushir went silent for some moments, a sure sign of concern. "A brotherhood can be a most dangerous association. Brotherhood is for life, and it relies on honor. The bonds between its members can be stronger than family, stronger than the fear of death itself."

"I understand, Mushir. The late Mister Hutchinson was also part of this brotherhood; he was joining Curlander and these same others for a celebration on the night of his death."

The Mushir seemed to take this revelation without panic. "If they are ordinary citizens, how will Mister Curlander's death draw attention to our situation? They have no knowledge of the accounts."

It was another good question. "Because there are two women he has also been visiting that are associated with this group, one of which is a prosecutor and one of which is a detective. Should Curlander die now, by any means, accidental or otherwise, I fear that it would be too much of a coincidence for either of them and they are bound to pursue officially what he has been pursuing on his own." He waited a few seconds, but the Mushir did not respond. It was hard to tell what that meant.

"Are we certain that Hutchinson gave Curlander our account information?"

The Mushir was going to the heart of the matter. "Our last intelligence indicated that they met in New York City a little over a month ago for that very purpose."

"How do we know that?"

"From our sources inside the bank that have been monitoring the bank's email server. Several emails went back and forth between Hutchinson and Curlander with regards to this meeting."

"What do you think we should do?" the Mushir continued.

Despite his best effort at avoiding it, he knew the Mushir had just set him up again. Whatever happened now would be his fault. It was possible that Curlander was in possession of their account information and aware of the whole setup of shell firms and offshore accounts they used to distribute funds to their cells worldwide. If so, he had to be taken out of the picture as soon as possible, regardless of the ramifications. However, the fact that Treasury investigators weren't already pouncing on their account records indicated Curlander might not have actually gotten possession of Hutchinson's laptop, for which they'd been searching desperately themselves. The risk of waiting was too great, however, and either way getting rid of Curlander was the best option. "As soon as we verify the location of Mister Hutchinson's laptop, Curlander will be dead."

"Why do we have to wait?"

"Because he might be the only one who knows its location, or he may be in possession of it himself. If we kill him before finding that out, it might still fall into the wrong hands and all of the work and expense we've put into this will have gone for nothing."

The Mushir said, "I see your point," but the reluctance in his voice was evident. "What about the prosecutor and the detective?"

"They will be easy enough to find if we need to eliminate them. I will let you know if we need to assemble another team to take care of that, but I am hopeful that we won't have that discussion. It will bring much more focus on our mission."

"What is your next step?" the Mushir asked.

"Mister Curlander is on the move again. I have tracked him to a place north of Boston called Saugus. He has been stationary for several hours and it will take me some time to catch up to him and find his exact location."

"What is the significance of this place called Saugus?"

"At this point I do not know, Mushir, but I will find out."

"This Mister Curlander is proving to be a very sly and evasive target. I suggest you find the location of that laptop soon."

"I understand."

"You have said that before, and still we are in the same place."

"I understand your frustration, but we must face the possibility that we may never find that laptop. What then, Mushir?"

"You should hope it never comes to that. Find this Mister Curlander again, and we will decide what to do then. I'll be waiting for your call," said the Mushir, and he was off the line.

He put down his phone and looked at the sun climbing in the sky, wondering if this was the last time he would see it. The Mushir was much too agreeable and that spelled trouble.

* * * * *

Sitting across the table from Harry and Denise in the grungy interrogation room inside the Saugus police station, Catherine Pruitt pulled a blue file folder out of her flowered carry bag and opened it. She didn't look happy. "Tell me what happened."

"Nice bag," Harry said smartly.

Pruitt speared him with a glare. "My granddaughter made it for me."

Knowing he'd just been a turd head, Harry said, "Oh." Unfortunately, he wasn't in the most sociable of moods either.

"Are you going to make me repeat myself?"

Harry said, "We were here last night for hours. We've already told the police everything we know."

"Humor me."

"How did you find out about all this?" Harry asked.

"I got a call from the detective I met last Friday who was investigating the break-in to Mrs. Hutchinson's home."

"Isn't he in Cambridge?"

"He is, but somehow he got wind that a higher up from First International Bank offed himself at a meth shooting gallery here in Saugus. He remembered that Mister Hutchinson had worked at the same bank and put two and two together and called me to say that I might want to get up here and take a look into the situation." Pruitt paused and gave Harry the eye. "And lo and behold, here you are. Somehow I'm not surprised that you're involved with this."

"What, are all you guys out of the same mold? For the tenth time, we were not _involved_. We were just sitting there and the guy decided to make a brain fountain out of his head."

Denise said, "Ugh, stop it Harry. I think I'm gonna be sick."

"Who was he?" Pruitt demanded.

"What makes you think I knew him?"

"Don't play with me, Mister Curlander. I've got a lot of other investigations I should be working on and I keep getting roped back into this one."

"Well it is your case," Harry shot back mercilessly.

"I'm trying to make it a case!" Pruitt exclaimed. "Now, what about the suicide victim?"

"What about him?"

"Look, who's asking the questions here?"

"I don't know. Who is?"

"I am, Mister Curlander. Let's get that straight."

"So you want to know about the suicide guy."

Pruitt slammed her hand on the table. "Yes, damn it. The suicide guy. Tell... me... who... he... was... and what happened!"

"Okay, fine. You don't have to get all huffy about it."

"Mister _Curlanderrrrrr...._ "

"He was the CFO at the bank, okay? His name was Jerry Brennan and he succeeded Hutch into the position. This makes the third guy from the bank that's died around this non-case in the last two months. Are you still gonna tell me there's nothing to investigate?"

That took Pruitt by surprise. "What do you mean, this is the third guy? Who else died besides Mister Hutchinson?"

Harry suddenly realized she didn't know. "Do you remember the phone conversation we had when I was in the hospital last week?"

Pruitt seemingly punched a rewind button in her head. "I do, but you talked about several things in that conversation."

"You might recall that one of them was that I met someone at Hutch's wake who was introduced to me as Brendan Phillips. Do you remember that name, Detective?"

"Vaguely."

"Brendan Phillips was the CEO at the bank."

"Was? Are you telling me he's the third man who died?"

"He was the first, actually. Died about a month ago, maybe six weeks. Not sure of the exact date. Wanna know how he died?"

Pruitt sat back in her chair and started twirling her pen. Her eyes narrowed. "Tell me."

"Severe myocardial infarction—just like Hutch."

Pruitt stared blankly at the blue folder spread open in front of her. Brushing back a tuft of grey hair, she said, "Why would someone pretend to be the dead CEO of the bank?"

"He wasn't. It was who Brennan introduced the man as Brendan Phillips hoping I'd know it wasn't really him. Brennan was trying to tip me off that Hutch had not died naturally, but had been murdered—just like Brendan Phillips had been murdered."

Pruitt shifted her attention to Denise. "Mrs. Curlander, what do you think?"

"You're asking me?"

"Yes. I think you have great instincts."

Denise shot Harry an _I-told-you-so_ look and replied, "One of the things Mister Brennan said before he...." She couldn't say it.

"Killed himself?" Pruitt said for her.

Denise nodded. "He said the man he introduced as Brendan Phillips was one of _them_."

"Them," Pruitt repeated.

"As in the people who own the accounts at the bank. He was also the one who tried to run Harry off the road back in New Jersey."

Harry said, "Do you remember the black BMW we were stalking last Tuesday night? Do you remember how it pulled out and passed us after we got pulled over by Officer Nekel?"

Pruitt said, "How could I forget?"

"The guy driving that BMW is the same guy we're talking about now. He's been tracking me this whole time."

Trying to put it together, Pruitt said, "You talked about _them_. Was Brennan one of _them_ also?"

Harry said, "Absolutely not. He was being threatened as well."

"How do you know?"

"Because he told us so. He was being pressured to get those accounts _'out of the spotlight,'_ were the words he used. Otherwise, he thought he was going to be next on the hit list—literally— and suffer the same fate as Hutch and the real Brendan Phillips. I guess he couldn't take it anymore and decided to take the express train to the big bank vault in the sky rather than wait for the inevitable."

"Harry, really," said Denise. "Why do you have to talk like that?"

Pruitt said, "Wait. Are you telling me Mister Brennan was aware of what was happening at the bank?"

"Not _was happening_ , Detective, according to Brennan it _is happening_ , although I'd bet that whoever owns those accounts is moving quickly to find another place to put their funds now that they've killed the top three officers there."

Pruitt continued, "Did Mister Brennan give you any insight into the accounts themselves, where the money is coming from, anything like that?"

"No, nothing. He popped himself before we ever got to that."

Demurely, Denise said, "Honey?"

"Yes dear?"

"When are you going to tell the nice detective about the why these horrible people are trying to kill _you_?"

"Oh... yeah. I was gonna get to that."

"Honey?" she said again.

"Yes dear?"

"Now would be a good time to do that, sweetheart, before I come over there and beat you with a stick." Denise smiled sweetly and Pruitt gave him a stare.

Harry swallowed hard. "I was Hutch's backup plan. They think he gave me all of the account information before he died so that if anything happened to him someone else would be able to bring them down."

"Oh. I can see how that might have slipped your mind," Pruitt said sarcastically. "Does anyone besides you know Mister Brennan is dead?"

Harry exchanged glances with Denise. "Possibly not," he said. "We know he wasn't married, and we haven't told anyone. As far as we know, besides the cops who were on the scene, the only people who know are in this room."

"What about the people in the bar?"

"I don't think they're gonna say anything. Those freakazoids got their own problems."

Pruitt nodded. There were a couple of other people who knew, one of them being Detective Lopez from the Cambridge PD, but she could handle that. "We know something they don't," she said as she broke out a sinister little grin.

* * * * *

"As in the Saugus that's outside of Boston? What the hell has gotten into you?" Caruso was more than a little upset. "Haven't we already talked about this?"

Pruitt took a deep breath and felt herself exhaling shakily. Going off assignment in Caruso's squad was no trivial matter. "There have been a couple of developments." She held the phone about a foot away and waited for the rest of the storm to come around.

"Developments? Really? And how would you know that, Detective? Surely you haven't been working this case after having been told _multiple times_ to drop it."

"Well...."

"Well, what?"

"I've sort of been poking around on my own time. I haven't spent a minute of the squad's time or money on this since you said that."

"Until now."

Caruso wasn't buying it. "I'd like you to reconsider."

"What are you, nuts? Have you seen our case load? Have you seen your own case load? Reconsider what? Is there any new evidence indicating that this Hutchinson guy died of something other than a heart attack?"

"No."

"Has the DA decided to pursue this for some reason that I'm not aware of?"

"No."

"Then why the hell should I reconsider? This isn't like you, Catherine."

"I know."

"Oh, well then, as long as you know. Then I guess everything is all peachy keen and we can all tippy-toe around and work on whatever we want to work on." Caruso paused for a second, but only because he ran out of air. "What the hell, Catherine. This isn't TV. What about your other assignments? What about the nursing home investigation?"

"Can't Medina pick up on that for me? He's been chomping at the bit to get in on it anyway. You know that."

"Medina is a bull in a china shop, Catherine. There's a reason you've been assigned to that case—and why am I explaining this to you? I ought to suspend your ass."

"But you won't," she said bravely.

"Don't be so damned arrogant, _Detective_. Give me one good reason why I shouldn't do exactly that."

"I've already told you, there have been some developments, that's why."

Caruso took a moment and let his stack, which he'd blown sky-high, come back to earth. "You've got thirty seconds, Catherine. It had better be good."

"As of yesterday, another top executive at First International Bank where Mister Hutchinson was president has died. That's the third one in the last six weeks. The first one died just like Mister Hutchinson did: severe myocardial infarction. He was the CEO. The one who died yesterday put a Taurus revolver under his chin and pulled the trigger. He was the CFO. Three top executives of a major international bank are all dead, all within a six-week period. That's no coincidence, Barry, regardless of what the medical examiners have said."

There was total silence on the other end of the call. "Take a couple of days and let me know what you find out. I'll put Medina on the nursing home investigation."

"Thanks Barry."

"You owe me."

* * * * *

Denise was snoring lightly in the other bed but Harry couldn't seem to doze off. He glanced at the clock, noting that it was quarter after two in the morning and he'd been in the same position for the last two hours. Inside his head, the pieces of this puzzle were starting to fall in place. He likened it to the puzzles he worked on at his grandmother's house when he was a kid. It was an odd memory, but there was always a puzzle in progress at Nanna's house, and the one he remembered most was The Tower of Babel. It covered Nanna's entire dining room table and he remembered the rush to get it completed by the Sunday before Thanksgiving so she could use the table for Thanksgiving dinner. He remembered those autumn afternoons when he and Curly tried to piece it together while his mother and Nanna drank tea and talked in the kitchen. At first each piece was meaningless, but after a while he began to see more and more of the picture and it became easier to determine where each piece fit. This was like that, and while lots of pieces of this puzzle were still missing, he was pretty sure he'd find them eventually.

As of the last couple of days, one section of the puzzle that was starting to come together was how the bad actors that were after him knew where he was. Having discovered that someone could still track a person's cell phone even if it was turned off explained how the BMW could be showing up wherever he went. If that was the case and they were tracking his cell phone signal, he had to figure out how to use that to his advantage.

Another important piece was Hutch's laptop. They—whoever _they_ were—didn't know that the laptop's hard drive had been erased. Similarly, _they_ didn't know Jerry Brennan had killed himself. That put two critical puzzle pieces in his pocket, and the picture could not be completed without them.

Finally, the white envelope Suzanne had given him might be the most important piece. When that was put in place, the FinCEN people would be able to move in like the storm troopers and take down the whole structure of shell firms, offshore accounts, and paper companies that had been set up to launder who knows how many millions of dollars being used to finance evil and illegal activities. If only he could find the key to decipher those account numbers.

Lying there in that hotel room, he was becoming more and more concerned about his own safety, and Denise's too, of course, despite the fact that they were both armed. Pruitt had addressed the issue by picking this particular hotel for them to stay in, with her being the only person on the planet who knew where they were. Her objectives were different than his, however. Pruitt wanted to convince her boss to put her on the case full time. It was by the book, and she was thinking like a detective who had to accumulate evidence in a certain way in order to eventually ensure a conviction. He wasn't bound by any such rules or procedures. His objective was to kill the motherfuckers.

* * * * *

It was Friday morning and Monica Brimton thought to herself: _TGIF_. She dropped her mocha caramel macchiato on her desk and immediately dipped into her email. Twenty-three of them loaded up and no sooner had she begun weeding out the ones she could delete immediately than her phone rang. It was still before eight o'clock and when the phone rang that early it was usually pretty important.

"ADA Brimton," she said tersely.

"Monica, Catherine Pruitt here."

"I hope you're calling about something other than the Hutchinson case—which doesn't exist—but somehow I doubt it."

"Caruso gave me a couple of days to look into it."

Leaning back in her chair, Monica said, "He authorized time on it? Based on what? Did the ME change the COD on Hutch?"

"It had nothing to do with that. Another senior executive at the bank where Mister Hutchinson worked has died. Committed suicide the day before yesterday."

Monica's posture went to elbows on the desk now, hunching over the phone. Immediately, she thought back to the conversation with Harry and Denise at the Quattro Fratelli restaurant in the Bronx the previous Saturday. That's when Harry told her that the former CEO of the bank had also passed away a few weeks earlier, also having died from a severe myocardial infarction. "Who was it?" she asked.

"Fellow named Jerry Brennan. He was the CFO."

Brushing back a handful of dangling hair, Monica said, "That's the third officer from the bank who's died in the last few weeks. That's no accident."

"Highly doubtful," said Pruitt. "According to Mister Curlander, the man was being manipulated and threatened by the people who own those accounts at the bank. I guess he just couldn't take it anymore."

"Wait, Harry was there? I thought he went back to Jersey."

"He was there, all right. He's onto something, Monica, and I think he's in extreme danger, him and his wife both."

"And so are you," Monica countered.

Pruitt took a moment. "I hear you," she said, "but I'd like to get to my reason for calling."

"Shoot. Oh, sorry. Bad choice of words."

"Do you have any pull with anyone at the Essex County DA's office?"

"I know some people. Why?"

"Do you have enough juice to get Mister Brennan's suicide put on ice and classified as a John Doe temporarily? If it's possible, I'd like to use that information to pull these people into the open and try to get an ID on them."

Her mouth suddenly very dry, Monica sipped some coffee and said, "I don't know what Harry's got you roped into, Catherine, but you need to be careful. You have no idea who you're dealing with."

"I'm well aware of that, Monica, but people are dying."

* * * * *

Having slept restlessly, Harry bit into a donut and squirted a blob raspberry jelly right onto his t-shirt. It only added to his annoyance level which was cruising into the red zone and it was only nine o'clock in the morning. "What do you mean, we can't leave the room?" he barked through his powdered-sugar mustache. "That isn't going to work. This place isn't exactly luxurious and we're starting to smell like the carpet."

"We can't risk exposing you. It's not safe."

"Who's we?" Harry shot back, but Pruitt didn't answer. "Exposing me is how we expose them."

"Using you as bait is out of the question. Three people have already died because they knew about the accounts; you could be the fourth. It's too risky."

"I'm _supposed_ to be the fourth. That's why we need to go through with this plan."

"I didn't know we had a plan."

"Of course we have a plan. At least I do. I don't know what the hell you're thinking." Pruitt bristled and he poured it on. "How the hell are we going find out who these people are if we don't lure them out? We need to turn the tables and instead of them coming after me, it needs to be us going after them. Besides, if I'm right, they can track my location and I'm not about to become a sitting duck."

Looking over her coffee cup, Pruitt asked, "What makes you think they can track your location?"

Harry walked over to the small round table on the other side of the room and picked up one of two cell phones there. "This," he said, showing the phone to Pruitt. "I think they've got this cell phone number and they're tracking me through the GPS. My guess is that's how they found me to run me off the road, and that's how that bastard showed up outside Slick's Monday night. I should have blown the fucker's head off when I had the chance."

"Language please," Denise called to him.

Pruitt said, "Pull the battery out of the phone and it will stop pinging its location."

"Yeah, I know that now, but now I want to use the GPS signal to my advantage."

Pruitt was starting to get the picture. "You want to draw them, or him, to a specific location."

Harry shoved more of the donut into his mouth. "Bingo, Detective."

"So what?"

"What d'ya mean, so what? Then we got him."

"And how do we have him?" Pruitt responded. "What crime would he have committed, or what proof would we have that he killed Mister Hutchinson? That's still what this is about, isn't it?"

Harry paused uncomfortably. Reinforcing Pruitt's question, Denise asked, "Is it, Harry? The detective asked you a question."

Harry sipped some coffee and bought himself a moment, but the question seemed to swallow him. "It's about me too, okay? They tried to kill me, goddamn it, and I'm not about to turn the other cheek and hope this will all go away. If they're gonna screw with me, then I'm gonna screw with them."

Pruitt looked at Denise and said, "Aren't you going to try and stop him?"

Denise started packing her bag and said, "On the contrary. We know what we're going to do, Detective. What are you going to do?"

Pruitt just shook her head. Looking at Harry, she said, "I hope you love her very much, because she's about to get you killed."

"I do," said Harry as he looked back at Denise. A moment lingered as they locked eyes.

"Tell me where you're going," Pruitt demanded.

"Anywhere but here," Harry shot back. "I'm not making myself a target."

"I could stop you," Pruitt warned.

"Yeah, how?" Harry challenged. "We haven't broken any laws."

"Except carrying a concealed weapon in Massachusetts without a proper permit." Her eyes travelled to Harry's duffel bag which was sitting on the bed.

"How did—"

"I'm a detective, Mister Curlander. I see things. And where is that little number you've been carrying?" Pruitt snapped at Denise.

Defiantly, Harry said, "Go ahead. Take us in. Someone has been trying to kill me and I have a right to protect myself. I'd bet a judge might just agree with that. If not, I'd post bail and be back on the street in a couple of hours. Is that what you really want to accomplish?"

"Of course not. I'm trying to keep you alive."

"Then you need to go along with my plan."

Pruitt picked up her things and headed for the door. "Listen you two, I can't stop you from whatever you're going to do. You want to go out and paint a bull's eye on your back, that's up to you, but don't say I didn't warn you." She yanked the door open and turned back one final time. "It's time for you to go back to New Jersey."

If anyone in that motel was still asleep, they probably weren't after Pruitt slammed that door. Harry looked at Denise and said, "Do you think she's really pissed, or is that all an act?"

"Oh, she's pissed," said Denise. "No doubt about it."

Chapter 19... The Travel Plaza

Having checked out of the Avalon Motor Inn despite Pruitt's warning not to do so, Harry and Denise took a booth at the Hilltop Diner in order to plan their next move. Asking to sit away from the other patrons, they kept their eye on the parking lot as best they could as they sat hunched over Harry's cell phone—his new cell phone, the one that supposedly only a couple of people knew about. His old cell phone with the New Jersey 732 area code sat on the table in front of him.

"Maybe Detective Pruitt was right, Harry. If we pull the battery out of that phone, there will be no way for anyone to figure out where we are."

"If we pull the battery they'll know we're on to them. If we're going to turn the tables, we have to let them think they have the advantage."

"I don't know, Harry. What if—"

"Listen, let's call Suzanne like we'd planned and we'll talk about this later."

* * * * *

"Yes, the visit to Bobby's has been good in a lot of ways, but it's been depressing at the same time. Bobby is trying so hard to make me comfortable that... well you know how it is. Rather than taking my mind off of Hutch, it just reminds me of why I came out here. I miss him so much, Harry."

He could hear the heartbreak in Suzanne's voice. "Still, I'll bet that seeing your grandchildren has been nice."

"Oh, for sure," Suzanne agreed, and then she hesitated. "Listen, Harry, not to be rude, but you've never been good a small talk. Do you want to tell me why you're taking time to call me on the Friday afternoon before Memorial Day when you could be heading for the beach?"

Denise was sitting in the booth next to him with her ear to the phone. Upon hearing Suzanne's last comment, she took the phone out of Harry's hand and gave him the elbow, obviously not concerned about his still-healing ribs right now. This needed a little more tact. "Suzanne, Denise here. First off, we want you to know that we love you, sweetheart, and we're doing everything we can to find out what happened to Hutch."

"We? Are you involved in it too?"

"If you had been aware that someone was trying to kill Hutch, wouldn't you have gotten involved?"

Emotionally, Suzanne said, "So Harry's suspicions about Hutch's death have been right all along. Are you also trying to tell me that what happened to Hutch could happen to Harry? Harry, is that true?"

Calmly, Harry took the phone back. "I'm afraid so, Suzanne. At least it looks that way."

"But why?" Neither Harry nor Denise answered the question and Suzanne picked up on it. "Is it because of your association with Hutch? Oh my God, did he get you into this somehow? Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry."

"Now don't go there, Suzanne. Hutch did nothing wrong. He would never have knowingly put me in jeopardy, but...."

"But what? What is it Harry?"

"We need your help."

Suzanne started sniffling and Denise put a hand on Harry's arm. "Let her get it out," she whispered so that Suzanne wouldn't hear.

Harry nodded and waited for Suzanne to come around. She was the first step in his plan and he couldn't afford for her to think that he and Denise had gone off the deep end. They needed to sound composed and rational, as if hunting down someone who'd committed multiple murders was a normal and rational activity.

"What do you need?" Suzanne asked shakily.

"We need you to send an email."

"That's it?"

Trying to sound as casual as possible, Harry said, "Yes, that's it."

"To whom?"

"Jerry Brennan, at the bank."

"And what do you want me to say?"

Suzanne's voice was still shaky. Thinking Denise would have a more calming approach, Harry signaled her to continue the conversation with Suzanne. Instead of calmness, however, Denise barreled ahead like a torpedo. "We're trying to nail the bastards who killed Hutch, Suzanne. They need to suffer for what they did to him—and to you, and your family. Do you want to get the bastards, or not?"

The sniffles suddenly stopped. "Absolutely," Suzanne replied, her voice more resolute.

Mission accomplished, Denise smiled and signaled for Harry to continue. "You know that some people are desperate to get hold of Hutch's laptop, right?"

"Of course."

"We need you to send an email to Jerry Brennan indicating that you still have that laptop and that you want to get it out of your house. Tell him that you're leaving on a trip and that you want someone to come and pick it up this coming Monday."

"Monday is Memorial Day."

"You just say Monday. My guess is that someone besides Jerry will email you back and say that picking it up on Monday is not a problem. You just agree to whatever they say as long as it's picked up on Monday." Harry gave it a moment. "Would you like me to write the email and send it to you so you can copy and paste it?"

"That would probably be helpful," Suzanne replied. "That way it can say precisely what you want it to say. One question, though."

"What's that?"

"Would it be better if the email came from the computer in my home rather than from Bobby's computer here in Chicago?"

The idea hit Harry and Denise like a punch to the head. Saugus to North Cambridge was a half hour drive. "Where did you leave the key to your house?" Harry asked.

* * * * *

The rain was coming in buckets. Suzanne told them she'd given a key to one of the neighbors before her trip, but that there was also a key hidden outside the house in case anyone ever got locked out. She started sobbing again when she realized that anyone was just her now, but she'd been explicit: the key was under the fourth patio brick from the left nearest the back porch steps, second row; it would be in a little plastic bag. It wasn't that easy.

They were completely soaked by the time they found the key and made it into the house. The old wood floor planks creaked with every step, which would have sounded charming under normal circumstances, but sounded spooky now. They took off their waterlogged shirts and dropped them on the floor mat near the front door so as not to drip all over the place. Harry took one look at Denise and said, "Let's make love."

"Here? Now? Are you crazy?"

"Yeah, I am. C'mon, they'd want us to." He pulled Denise into his arms, his hands slithering all over her wet body. "Now. Right here."

"On the floor, like dogs?"

"Yeah, right on the floor."

"Harry, what's gotten into you? Are you... _oh my_. You are, aren't you?"

"Yeah, I am." Her pants were down. His lips crushed into hers. His pants were down, onto the floor, then he and Denise were down too. It happened in a moment and went on for what seemed like forever while the storm thundered outside. When they were done and the rainwater on their skin was replaced by sweat, they both laughed like high school kids who'd just ripped one off in the basement while her parents were watching TV upstairs.

Denise said, "Harry, you're dirty."

Harry looked up and said, "Thanks, Hutch. I needed that."

"How are your ribs?"

"Funny, they don't hurt a bit... oooh, until now."

Slapping him on the ass, Denise said, "Over the hill old fool."

Harry smiled a smile of familiarity. "It was good though, wasn't it?"

She smiled back. "Yeah, it was real good, but lying here on this wet floor is getting less and less romantic. Help me up so I can find a towel and clean up this mess."

Harry helped her off the floor and was back into detective mode in an instant. He'd been in this house a number of times over the years, and he knew Hutch had maintained an office off the dining room. Heading there, he was suddenly aware of how humid it was in there and he assumed that Suzanne had turned off the air conditioning. He found the thermostat and clicked it to auto and he heard the AC unit jump to life outside the house. Entering the office room, he stopped and stared at two computer monitors there, one of them on a large oak desk, the other smaller monitor on a small writing desk against the windows that looked out onto the patio. That was the one he wanted, for it would be the one that probably carried Suzanne's email address.

He fired it up and waited for the startup cycle to complete, noticing the date and time. It was Friday, May 24th, 2:27 p.m. Still sweating, he called to Denise to look in the fridge and see if she could find him a cold beer. He needed to get moving on this. It being the Friday before Memorial Day, it could be entirely possible that people would be checking out early from work to get a jump on the three-day holiday weekend. If what Jerry had told him was true, someone was monitoring Jerry's email address. What he didn't know was whether that person, or people, was inside the bank, or outside. He couldn't take the chance that whoever it was would leave early.

The computer was old and slow—probably had some spyware on it, Harry figured—but the desktop finally came up without having to enter a password. Thank God for that, he thought as he found the Outlook icon. Easy enough so far. He double clicked it and up comes the inbox, easy-peasy. Then, he froze. Not easy-peasy after all. "Shit," he said as Denise came in with his beer.

"What's the matter?"

"I don't know Jerry's fucking email address."

"Do you have to curse? How can Hutch not have Jerry's email address?"

Harry thought, _duh!_ He changed seats and went through the same drill with the machine on the other desk. It wasn't as easy this time. He found the Outlook all right, but he didn't see Jerry's email address in the contacts listed there.

"Shit," he said loudly.

"There you go again," Denise scolded. "What's wrong now?"

"Hutch didn't have Jerry's email address in his contacts list."

"He probably knew it by heart," Denise responded.

_Duh!_ again.

"Do you remember Hutch's email address?" Denise asked. "Jerry's will probably follow the same format. You know, like first initial, last name... at... something."

"You're right," said Harry, "but I think I used Hutch's personal email address whenever I corresponded with him."

"Check the bank's website," Denise said. "Maybe you can get it from there."

"I doubt it, but maybe you're right," said Harry, and he clicked the icon for Internet Explorer. He'd tried this before, he remembered, when he was looking for information on Brendan Phillips, and when the Explorer home page came up he typed _First International Bank_ , adding _HQ Boston_ into the search bar to refine the search. As the listings appeared, he spotted a website down the page that had the words _corporate office_ in the description. As he'd suspected, it was just a landing page and there were no email addresses listed there, but there was a _Contact Us_ button. He clicked on that and noted that there was a general information email address: info@FIBinternational.com.

"Bingo," he said. "I've got the domain address."

"What's that?" Denise asked, taking a swig of his beer.

"It's the company part of the email address. If I try a search on Jerry's last name at that domain, I'll bet I can find his email address. Makes sense, right?"

Denise shrugged. "I guess."

Harry went back and typed _"_ Brennan@FIBinternational.com _"_ into the search bar, in quotes, so that the search would pick up anything using that exact combination of letters. It was actually quite amazing, he thought, that out of zillions and zillions of pieces of information, in a few seconds he could find an email address if it contained the combination of letters he'd just entered. Sure enough, one of the results was a summary of attendees at a banking industry conference held in Buffalo about a year earlier. The list was for communication purposes in case any of the attendees wanted to correspond with each other after the conference. Plain as day, there it was: _jerome.brennan@FIBinternational.com_ .

"Bingo," Harry said again. "I got it."

"You're welcome," said Denise, taking credit for the discovery.

Harry smiled and wrote down the address when, suddenly, he said, "I wonder if there's anything on here that might shed some light on who Hutch's killer might be." He went back to the search engine home page.

"What are you doing now?" Denise asked, looking over his shoulder.

"Let's see...." said Harry, his voice trailing off. He just clicked on the search engine logo and up comes another page where one of the buttons indicated _Search History_. "I hope there's no porn in here," he said, clicking on it. There wasn't, and it was unremarkable, except for one search that Hutch had conducted titled _isograms_. "What's an isogram?" he asked.

"I have no idea. Click it and let's find out." Harry did and the first listing was from Wikipedia. "What's it say?"

"It means two things, one of them being that an isogram is a word or phrase without a repeating letter."

"So?"

"So, I don't know," said Harry, and he went back to the search history. Slowly, he perused the listing of what Hutch had searched for most recently, and he noted a couple of other searches containing the word isogram, they being _7 letter isograms_ and _10 letter isograms_. Harry clicked on the _7 letter isograms_ , and up come sites giving examples of such: _toenail, elation, routine,_ and a long list of others.

"Why would Hutch have been looking at this stuff?" Harry said under his breath, and he moved to the search for _10 letter isograms_. Like the previous search, up come the listings, one of them indicating _favorite 10 letter isograms_. "I didn't know there was such a thing as _favorite_ ten-letter isograms."

"Click on it," said Denise, intrigued as he was.

Harry did, and up come the examples: _algorithms, birthplace, bankruptcy, fornicated_.... "Hah, fornicated... sound familiar?" he snorted, and Denise popped him one in the back of the head. He went on to read a few more of the other examples: _importance, microwaves, obfuscated, palindrome, precaution_.... He stopped. Precaution. _Harry, use precaution_. It was the message on the outside of the envelope Suzanne had given him. He realized now, in an instant, that while the words _Harry, use precaution_ were instructions, they weren't instructions in the way he had interpreted them. Inside his head, bells were going off.

"What are isograms used for?" he asked excitedly, not waiting for an answer. Back to the search engine page, into the search bar he typed _uses of isograms_. Seconds later, it was there on the screen in front of him: _Isograms can be useful as keys in ciphers... Ten letter isograms are commonly used to represent numbers or prices... the first letter representing a 1, second letter a 2, and so on_. Harry leaned back in the chair. _Harry, use precaution_. "Holy shit," he said. "Hutch was giving me the code, not telling me to be careful."

Wide-eyed, he looked at Denise, who said it first. "He was giving you the code for the account numbers."

* * * * *

"Harry, where the hell are you?" Ducky asked urgently. "I thought you were back in Jersey."

"Denise and I are at Hutch's house in North Cambridge."

"What are you doing there? No, wait, I don't want to know. Listen, you need to be careful, okay? I heard from Monica that the bank's CFO killed himself the other day. That's got to be connected to this, Harry."

"It is. That's why I'm calling. And how did Monica find out about that?"

"Evidently Pruitt called her this morning. What have you got her roped into?"

"Who, Monica?"

"No, Pruitt. She asked Monica if she could arrange to have the CFO's death classified as a John Doe. What's that all about?"

Harry took a moment and shifted the phone from one ear to the other. Pruitt hadn't filled him in on that little tidbit. "I'm not sure," he said, moving on to why he'd called Ducky. "I need your help."

"Really? There's a surprise."

"C'mon Ducky, stop dicking around." Harry could feel Ducky's hesitation and he waited for him to respond. They'd had this conversation before and despite Ducky's previous insistence that he was into this investigation "all the way," his doubt was palpable.

"Monica told me that Pruitt's boss has allowed her to look into the case," Ducky said out of the blue.

Pruitt hadn't said anything about that either, but that wasn't a surprise to him. When they'd spoken earlier that day, they weren't exactly seeing things eye-to-eye on things. Looking back on it, he had to admit that it really didn't matter what Pruitt said that morning; he probably wasn't going to hear it anyway. "What are you trying to say, Ducky?"

"I'm trying to tell you that now that she's on the case, you should let her do her job. You got what you wanted, the cops are on it, it's time for you to back away."

Ducky had a point. Getting the police to investigate was indeed the original intent. "I don't think I can," said Harry.

"Do you have a death wish? Why not?"

"I sent an email from Suzanne's computer to Jerry Brennan's email address at the bank."

"And?" said Ducky, his tone indicating he knew there was more to come.

"I pretended to be Suzanne and said that I was going on a trip, and could someone from the bank pick up Hutch's laptop on Monday?"

Ducky instantly understood the implications. "That's the laptop that someone has already tried to steal from Suzanne's house, the one that the bad guys think contains everything Hutch knew about the illegal accounts."

"That's right." Like a spider waiting for something to get caught up in its web, Harry left it there and waited for Ducky to catch on. It didn't take long.

"Oh, shit. Oh shit oh shit oh shit. You're using the laptop as bait to see who shows up at the house, and then you're planning on... what? What exactly are you planning?"

"Well, plan is such an inflexible word sometimes."

"Are you, like, nuts? Harry, these guys kill people, and they've already tried to kill you once. What are you thinking?"

"Well, that's where things get a little fuzzy. I was hoping maybe you and the other brothers would help me figure it out."

"Me and the other brothers."

"Yeah, you know, Fish, Fighting Al—"

"Yeah, I know who the other brothers are. And once we get the other brothers to agree to this crazy-ass scheme of yours, what then?"

"You said _we_."

"What?"

"Just now, you said, 'once _we_ get the other brothers to agree.' Does that mean you're in?"

"I also said, _'what then?'_ Why don't you answer that question before we go much further?"

"I can't answer that until I know if I have any help or not. Are you in with me, Ducky? You once said you were in all the way."

"You bastard."

That was close enough for Harry. "What about the other brothers who were at the reunion? I was hoping you could convince them to help us out as well. What'dya say Ducky?"

"Damn it, Harry. I'll make some calls."

* * * * *

"Do you have any plans for tonight?"

"It's already tonight. What did you have in mind?"

Harry looked at his watch, noting that it was already past six o'clock. "Why are you still at the office on the Friday night before Memorial Day?"

Al said, "I'm a dedicated lawyer. What can I say?"

"You can say you have no life."

"Yeah, well, that too. Why are you calling, Harry? I suppose it's to see if I got anything on that cell phone number."

As it was with Ducky, Harry felt that he was wearing thin on Fighting Al. It would probably be the same with the other brothers, he figured, none of them thinking this little inquiry into Hutch's death would get to this point, that it would become so... _inconvenient_. "I was hoping you'd made some progress on that and maybe we could talk about it over dinner."

"Are you still in the Wallingham area?"

"No, I'm in North Cambridge at Hutch's place."

"Jesus, you and Denise get around, don't you? How's Suzanne?"

"She's not here. She's in Chicago visiting her son Bobby."

"Well, okay then, I guess."

Al seemed to lack his normal edge. "Sounds like I caught you at a bad time. Would you rather talk about it over the phone?"

" _No!_ Not on the phone."

_That_ wasn't normal. "Yo, Al, dancing around the edges of something doesn't work for you, man."

"Story of my life. Listen, it's about that phone number."

"Yeah, figured that. You're still dancing, Al."

"Listen, shut the fuck up for a second and let me tell you what I got to tell you."

There was the Fighting Al he knew and loved. "I'm listening."

"Look, I found some stuff out." Harry didn't press. "I found some stuff out but I'm not so sure it's something I want to talk about over the phone."

That was a long way to go for a guy as ballsy as Al to simply repeat himself. "What would you suggest?"

"This ain't gonna be easy."

"What ain't gonna be easy?"

"Cambridge is an hour-and-a-half from me, Harry."

Al was going in circles. "So we can meet in the middle. Do you know a place?"

"There's a spot a couple of my clients have been known to use when they don't want to be noticed."

Harry guessed he was now in the same category as Al's clients. Chilling thought. "Which is?"

"There's a travel plaza in Framingham on the Mass Pike going west. That's not far from where you are now. Park near the dog walk area. I can meet you there around eight o'clock. Can you make it?"

"Yeah, sure," Harry replied, wondering what all the intrigue was about. "You're scaring me, Al."

"You should be, Harry. What are you driving?"

"Uh, we're using my wife's car right now. Mine is still in the shop."

"Yeah, okay. So what is it?"

"A silver Audi A6."

"Have you been driving that car since the accident?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Not good. Do you have access to another vehicle? If you're at Hutch's place, where is Hutch's car?"

"The Mercedes? I don't know, in the garage, I guess. I can check."

"Do that. And you need to pull the batteries out of your cell phones so check for any directions before you leave and print them out, got it? I'll see you at eight."

Harry pushed the end call button and felt his heart beating rapidly in his chest.

* * * * *

They felt naked the entire way to Framingham, which took all of forty-five minutes. Both their phones were sitting in the car's cup holder with the batteries nearby as if some great catastrophe was about to happen and they'd need to snatch them up in an instant.

"What did we do before cell phones?" Harry asked, surprised that he seemed more insecure and dependent on the thing than Denise.

"We actually had to _talk_ —to _each other_ ," she replied, and he knew that was a dig at him. He'd never been a chatty sort, and to him the term _sharing his feelings_ had always meant answering with words instead of grunting when she was firing questions at him like a machine gun.

Contrarily, the one cell phone he left intact was his original cell phone, the one with the New Jersey 732 area code. That phone he'd left on and fully charged, battery in place and GPS enabled. If anyone was tracking that phone as he suspected, there was no way he was going to let his trackers know that he was aware of them by trying to hide his location. It was a reverse logic sort of thing. Fighting Al was so insistent that they come to the travel plaza undetected, however, that he didn't dare take that cell phone with him.

The one pleasant thing about the drive was the car. Nice machine, thought Harry. Hutch's car exuded strength and refinement, and sitting in that leather driver's seat Harry could almost feel Hutch's presence. So could Denise, evidently. Harry could tell she was creeped out.

They reached the travel plaza and found what they assumed was the dog walk area, seeing as there were people there with dogs. Harry figured he needed to be vigilant, and after a couple of minutes of people watching, he turned to Denise and said, "Do you realize how many really fat people there are in this country?"

She didn't answer, but pointed back past him. "I think this is for you."

He was startled to see some kid standing there with his hat on backwards, waving at him to lower the window.

"Some guy just gave me ten bucks to deliver this and said you'd give me another ten when you got it."

Harry looked past the kid but Al was nowhere to be seen. "Fuckin' Al," he griped, as he dug a ten spot out of his pocket. The kid handed him a bag from the ice cream store inside the travel plaza, inside of which were two old-fashioned frozen Drumstick ice cream cones—and a note. "Nice touch," said Harry, handing one of the cones to Denise.

"I haven't had one of these since I was a kid," she said, suddenly giddy.

Harry unfolded the note, which read, _Go into the ice cream store and go to the door past the men's room on the left. Knock three times, knock, knock..._ pause _... knock._ "Again with the cloak and dagger stuff," Harry complained, and he turned to Denise before exiting the car. "Are we locked and loaded?" he asked, referring to what was in her handbag.

"We are if you want us to be," she said.

"I think we better be. Al wouldn't get this dramatic for nothing."

Harry unwrapped his cone and exited the car, trying to look casual. They made their way toward the entrance doors to the food court, almost fighting their way past the seemingly endless parade of douchebags who were looking at their phones as they bounced like pinballs off people going in the opposite direction. "This is like bumper cars," Harry said. With aggravation now adding to their already heightened sense of apprehension, they made it to the designated door past the men's room. _Knock, knock..._ pause _... knock_. They heard a couple of bolt locks being unlatched and the door swung open.

The guy at the door had no neck and his eyes pointed in different directions. "C'mon in," he said casually. "We's been expectin' yous."

Harry took Denise's arm and stepped past their eloquent host. "This don't look like the back room of no ice cream store I've ever seen," he said, spotting Fighting Al sitting at the far end of what had to be a twenty-foot conference table. Identical tufted-leather executive chairs surrounded the table, with subtle track lighting casting a soft glow in front of each chair. The chair Al was sitting in looked like a throne, and behind him hung a massive tapestry of Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel ceiling.

Once they were safely inside, no-neck relocked the door behind them and turned to Al. "You be needin' anything else right now, Mister Fiorello?"

Al said, "Thanks Tiny. I think we're good."

Pointing to the phone on the conference table, Tiny said, "I'll call you on that phone if I sees anythin'," and he disappeared through another door that looked like a panel in the wall.

Al pointed to a clock on the wall, which read 8:15. "Right on time. I appreciate that. Did you guys eat?"

Not knowing what to make of the whole situation, Harry said, "We're fine, Al. Thanks for desert." Then, gesturing at his surroundings, he asked, "What is this place?"

"Oh, this," said Al, feigning normalcy. "Like I said, it's a place some of my clients use when they conduct private business in the Boston area."

Right, thought Harry, private business, like how to make sure that longshot comes in at Suffolk Downs. "So this room—"

"You don't need to worry about anyone listening," said Al, "which is why I thought it would be a good place to talk about that phone number."

Harry rubbed his hand along the back of one of the leather chairs, thinking it was the softest leather he'd ever felt. "What's this gonna cost us, Al?"

Al smiled a knowing little smile and his eyes crinkled at the temples. "Hello Denise. How are you doing with all this?"

Steadfastly, Denise replied, "That depends on how you answer my husband's question."

Al nodded and said, "You're a lucky man, Harry. It must comfort you greatly to know you've got someone in your corner no matter what."

Harry said, "It goes both ways, Al." Then, he looked at Denise and said, "But I am a lucky man."

Al took a moment, seemingly contemplating something. As if defending himself, he said, "I play it straight, Harry. I'm a believer in the law, and while my clients may not be the cream of society, the law protects them as much as it protects you and me. I bend no rules and I make no excuses, and I operate to the letter of that law. If my legal opponents cannot provide the burden of proof they need to make their cases, then I win. If my clients have broken the law and I cannot refute the charges _according to the law_ , then my clients suffer the consequences—and they know that. Like I said, I make no excuses." Al tilted his head and looked Harry in the eye. "It's a different code of honor, but I can stand up for what I do, Harry. I'd like to think that it's what makes me one of the brothers."

Harry wondered how long Al had been looking to get that off his chest. He wondered further why it was important for Al to say that now. "You didn't answer my question, Al, and I didn't fall off the turnip truck yesterday. What's this gonna cost us?"

"You're a smart guy, Harry, and you're right—there's always a payback, but in this case it's not gonna cost _you_ anything. You have my word on that."

"Why are you doing this?"

"I'd like to ask you the same question," Al replied. "I've wanted to ask that for a while now."

"Hutch was one of us. I want to find out who killed him and bring the bastard to justice."

"Would you do the same thing if it was me that died in that car?"

It was a legitimate question, one that Harry hadn't been prepared for. "If any of the brothers died the way Hutch did, and the authorities failed to investigate like they did with Hutch, yeah, I think I might go down this road again, but Hutch was a special friend to me. I gotta be honest with you, Al, it would depend on the circumstances."

Al nodded. "Honest answer. Fair enough."

"What about you, Al? Do you want to find Hutch's killer and bring him to justice? Up to you, man. I don't want to pretend like I'm some sort of moral high ground here. I'll understand either way."

"You're fuckin' A goddamn right I do," Al replied, "but maybe for different reasons." He looked at Denise and added, "Oh, sorry for the cursing, Denise. I know you hate that."

She waved it away and Harry went on, "Then tell me you found out who was on the other end of that phone call when Hutch died. If that person wasn't Hutch's killer, he knows who is."

"I think I got us closer," Al said. "A lot closer."

"Why all this?" Harry asked, indicating the surroundings.

"Just listen and you'll know," Al said. "But people are dying over this and I needed to make sure we were in a secure environment. It's for my own benefit as well as yours." He indicated a couple of chairs at the table. "The phone number we're talking about belonged to a burner phone. If that phone was purchased with cash, it's literally impossible to know who purchased it."

"So Hutch probably wasn't talking to someone he knew," Harry concluded.

"Not necessarily," Al responded. "But whether or not that was the case the person who purchased it probably didn't want the conversation traced back to him."

"So we're dead in the water."

"Again, not necessarily," said Al. "While it may not be possible to ID the person who actually purchased the phone, it is possible to determine when the phone went online, and it's also possible to determine who received calls from that phone, and when."

Harry smiled. "And you have that information."

Al smiled back. "I'm working on it, but getting that information comes with a lot of risk, maybe too much risk."

"Why?"

"Because the program we need to obtain that information belongs to the NSA."

Harry's eyes got real wide. "NSA, as in National Security Agency."

"That's right," Al verified. "And hacking into that network is a big time no-no."

More than a little surprised, Harry asked, "How do you know this?"

"I told you before Harry, I know people. Why don't we just leave it at that? Besides, we may not need to go there."

"Because?"

"Because some burner phones need to be activated using another phone, either another cell phone or a land line. In order to activate the burner phone, the purchaser calls an activation number, which more than likely is a call center in India. In order to activate the phone and establish a phone number, the purchaser has to give the operator the phone's IMEI number."

"What the hell is that?"

"IMEI is short for International Mobile Equipment Identity. It's a unique number used to identify your phone, sort of like a license plate number for your car, and it is usually located under the battery cover. It will tell you who manufactured the phone, and it's used to connect the phone to the right network. The call center operator will ask for this IMEI number, and will also ask the purchaser for his or her name and address so that a phone number and area code can be assigned based on that address. Essentially that it, no other information is required."

It was Denise who picked up on it first. "Are you saying that somewhere in the world there's a name and address associated with the phone number we're talking about?"

Al said, "Possibly."

Harry jumped in and said, "Wait a minute. What if the purchaser didn't care about the damn area code? What if the purchaser gave a bogus name and address when activating the phone?"

Al replied, "That's the chance we take, but most people know that burner phones that are purchased with cash are virtually untraceable so they might slip up and give their actual name and address when activating the phone. If they did—and I know this is a big if—then we can check to see if there are any credit cards associated with that name. If they didn't, we can then do another check to see if any additional minutes were purchased at some other time."

"How would that help us?" Harry asked.

"You can purchase what are called top-up minutes two ways. You can go into a store and purchase cards with additional minutes which are then loaded into the phones using a code, or, more conveniently, you can purchase additional minutes online."

"And if the dumbass purchased the top-up minutes online, then he or she would have had to pay with a credit card, which might be traceable to the name and address used when activating the phone."

"It might be traceable to something," said Al. "Even if the name and address are both fake, and even if the credit card was obtained with bogus information, someone is paying that credit card bill. In addition, if the minutes were purchased online, you might even be able to trace the IP address of whoever purchased them."

Harry looked at Al and said, "Al, you're a genius."

"Not me," said Al, "but I know a couple of freelancers who can pretty much get past any firewall on the planet. Actually, for them, this wasn't that tough."

Harry leaned on the conference table and took aim on Al. "Are you telling me they came up with a name associated with that burner phone?"

Al pulled a piece of paper out of the inside breast pocket of his blazer and laid it on the table. Harry picked it up and unfolded the paper.

Up to her eyeballs in the suspense, Denise said, "Harry, who is it?"

Harry put the piece of paper back down on the table and said, "CIA Special Agent Darryl Breckenridge."

Denise said, "I told you he was slimy."

Chapter 20... Bob's Barbeque

They made the uneasy ride back from Framingham to North Cambridge in complete silence. As they neared the neighborhood Harry spotted a Dunkin' Donuts shop that was still open and wheeled the big Mercedes into the parking area, cognizant to back into a parking spot with nothing blocking their exit in the event that they needed to leave in a hurry. Thoughts like that were becoming regular occurrences lately, and he was starting to scare himself. Looking straight ahead, "I don't think you should be going back to that house," he said to Denise. He could see her turn and he felt her eyes on the side of his face.

"Me? What about you?" she fired back. "If the sideshow your friend Al just put on is any indication, you're the one who should be worried."

"I think maybe you should stay in a hotel tonight. I'll drive you there and pick you up first thing in the morning."

"You know, sometimes I think you have scrambled eggs up here." She knocked him in the head. "No phone, no car, yeah right. That will make me feel secure."

She had a point, but he continued, "I think it's too dangerous—"

"Harry, forget it. Nothing doing. Let's go check my car and see if they took the bait."

Before leaving to meet with Fighting Al at the travel plaza, they'd had the foresight to put both their cell phones with the New Jersey 732 area code into Denise's car and drive it away from Suzanne's address to a spot where they'd be able to observe it without being observed themselves—hopefully. If anyone was pinging those phones and in turn using GPS to track them physically, this might be an opportunity to spot them. Harry turned to Denise and said, "I love you, sweetheart. I don't know if I could ever forgive myself if anything ever happened to you."

"And I love you, Harry, which is why I can't let you go off on this mission and just wait around to see if you come back. This is the way I want it."

Harry knew it would be useless to argue further. "As long as we're here would you like some coffee?"

"Sure, why not."

They got two coffees and decided to split a Boston Kreme donut. She ate the filling and he ate the donut as they sipped their surprisingly good coffee, each of them keeping an eye on the parking lot the whole time.

"Do you think they're out there somewhere?" Denise asked as she licked some custard off her finger.

"I've got the heebie-jeebies like someone is," Harry replied. "I feel like I'm in a fish bowl."

They talked and held hands and all the while Denise kept her handbag containing her Walther .380 on her lap.

Denise said, "You know you have to solve this, don't you?"

"I do," said Harry. "Is that still upsetting to you?"

"It was, for a while, but being in that house earlier today, feeling how empty it seemed, I couldn't help but think how awful it will be for Suzanne to go back there. I don't know if I could take being in that situation. It's either you or them, Harry, and I'd much rather it be them."

Harry looked into his wife's eyes. "So we're good?"

"As long as you agree that if we fail, both of us will go down together."

Harry smiled and sipped his coffee. Taking her hand again, he said, "Maybe when we get back to the house we can do an encore performance to the floor show we put on this afternoon."

She pushed his hand away. "Oh, now you're going from being Dirty Harry to just being a dirty old man."

Harry chuckled and looked at his cell phone, noting that it was going on ten-thirty. "Let's go see if anyone is in the neighborhood." Suddenly serious, they noticed a couple of cars sniffing through the parking lot while they finished their coffee. Neither of them pulled in to a parking spot. "I wonder what they're looking for," said Harry.

Plopping her handbag on the table, Denise said, "Trouble."

Harry said, "Easy girl," and they hopped back into Hutch's Mercedes, making their way back to where they'd parked Denise's car. The Hutchinson's house was at 91 Clifton Street across from Russell Field, but Denise's silver Audi was one block over on Jackson Street. Inside the glove box sat both cell phones that used their home-based 732 area code, and they were quietly signaling their location as part of their normal operation. Jackson Street was narrow, with cars parked on the street in front of almost every house. If anyone was on Jackson Street stalking that Audi, they'd be noticeable if one knew to look for them.

Harry parked on Clay Street, one block further east from Jackson Street and two blocks from Clifton Street. "Maybe we should have parked the Audi further away from Suzanne's house," he said.

"What difference would it make?" Denise responded. "As long as it doesn't reveal our exact location, how would anyone know where we're staying."

Harry said, "How do you think we should do this?"

"You sit tight," Denise said as she opened her door. "I'm going for a little walk." Leaning back into the car, she added, "It's you they'll be looking for, Harry, not me."

It was enough to stop any further objection on his part and she disappeared up Clay Street into the night. There was no moon and no street lights, and the intermittent porch lights that burned cast a dim glow that barely penetrated to the sidewalk. She walked north on Clay Street and turned left toward Jackson Street, figuring that if anyone had tracked the cell phone signal and was watching the Audi, given its position she would have more opportunity to spot them if she came from that direction. Walking slowly, conscious of the sound of her own shoes on the sidewalk, she tried to stay hidden by any large trees there and made a point to navigate into dark spots where light was at a minimum. She spotted the Audi which was facing away from her, and stopped. Her heart raced. Wishing she could be outside herself to determine how visible she was, she took a step forward. A cat squirted across her path and she nearly jumped out of her shoes. Her eyes darted from one car to the next, all of them looking like dark lumps regardless of their color—except for her Audi. That, she thought, looked like it was glowing. Thinking her imagination was getting the best of her, she took a deep breath and took a step, then another, her hand inside her handbag clutching the handle of her pistol the whole time. Soon, she was past the Audi, and she made it to the next corner where Jackson Street met Dudley Street. If she took a right, she knew she'd be almost back to Suzanne's house on Clifton Street. Instead, she took a left, went back to Clay Street and walked completely around the block and came up on the Audi again but on the same side of Jackson Street as it was parked on this time. Again, she held her breath as her eyes hopped from one car to the next, looking for any sign that someone was inside any of them. Knowing it was her imagination, she could almost hear the phone signals emanating from inside the glove box. She saw nothing and heard nothing, no one walking a dog, no TV noise, no one having conversation, nothing. If someone was tracking Harry, they weren't on this street at this moment. As such, she figured it was as safe as it was going to be to go back to Suzanne's house, but for some reason it still didn't feel right to her—like she was an expert in such things. _Get hold of yourself, girl_ , she scolded, but she knew she and Harry would both sleep with one eye open tonight. Stealthily, she went back to Clay Street where Harry was waiting nervously inside the Mercedes.

A half a block away, parked near the southeast corner of Jackson Street and Dudley Street, Catherine Pruitt said into her phone for the third time, "Are you sure that phone signal is coming from this street?"

Her technical support specialist answered also for the third time, "I'm telling you, Detective, you're right on top of it. It's across the next intersection and half a block away at the most."

"Thanks," she said as she watched Mrs. Curlander walk west on Dudley Street for the second time in the last fifteen minutes. "What is that woman doing?" she asked herself aloud. She put down her binoculars and waited another fifteen minutes and called her tech specialist back. "Charlie, can you tell me when I'm on it?"

"No problem," said Charlie. "It's straight north of you, maybe fifty yards up."

Pruitt put her unmarked cruiser into drive and rolled ever so slowly north on Jackson Street and through the stop sign at the corner of Dudley. All the while, Charlie was on the cell phone with her saying, "Slowly, little more, almost on it, little more... there! Stop, you're right on it."

Pruitt stopped dead in the middle of Jackson Street, spotting a shiny Audi immediately to her left. Using her flashlight, she lit up the numbers on the Jersey plate and said, "Charlie, run this plate for me, will you?" It came back a minute later as registered to Denise Curlander of Point Pleasant, New Jersey. "Thanks Charlie."

Pruitt had recognized the neighborhood, of course, having been to Mrs. Hutchinson's house on Clifton Street, but what was Harry Curlander's cell phone doing inside his wife's car, and why was it parked on the street a block away? Surely, the Curlanders were staying at the Hutchinson residence; they could have parked in the driveway. "I wonder what's going on," she said to herself as she debated whether to continue watching the Audi or go to the Hutchinson's house and find out what they were up to. If she had waited another eight minutes she may have answered her own question when someone driving a black BMW pulled up next to the Audi and checked it out.

* * * * *

"You're awake," said Harry. "I made some coffee."

Denise shuffled over to the coffee pot and poured herself a cup, taking a minute to orient herself as if she was coming out of coma. "Yesterday had to be the longest Friday of my life," she said. "What time is it?"

Harry pointed to the kitschy carrot clock on the wall and said, "Ten after seven."

"Too early," Denise moaned. "Why aren't we still in bed?"

"I couldn't sleep," Harry answered. "Not after yesterday."

"Which part of yesterday? The part where Detective Pruitt told us we could die, or the part where your friend Al told us we could die?"

"For me it was the part at the coffee shop last night. I couldn't shake the feeling that we were being watched." He paused and sipped some coffee. "I think someone is out there."

"What do you want to do about it? Wasn't luring them to us part of your plan?"

"Sort of, but I don't think we want to give away our location until we're ready. I've closed all the blinds and I don't think we should turn any lights on, and we need to stay away from the windows. I also put Hutch's car back in the garage."

"What about Suzanne's car? Where is that?"

"It's not in the garage, so I assume it's in long term parking at the airport."

"So we're trapped like rats," said Denise.

"Not exactly." Harry indicated his Sig Sauer P320 which he had now placed on the counter. "From here on out, I think we both make sure we have a chance to protect ourselves."

"Amen to that," said Denise. "What's on tap for this morning?"

"First, I want to check Suzanne's email box to see if we've gotten verification that someone _from the bank—_ " Harry made quotation marks in the air with that comment— "...is coming on Monday to pick up Hutch's laptop. Second, I need to touch base with Ducky to see if he's gotten hold of the brothers and what the status of that is."

"And the objective of his contacting the other brothers is... what?"

"We need to know where that laptop goes. If we can organize a surveillance team to see where they take it, combining that with the account numbers which we are now able to decipher, we'd have enough evidence to turn this whole thing over to...." Harry stopped.

"What's the matter?"

"Who do we turn this over to? Who will follow up on all this to ensure that Hutch's killer is found? Should it be Pruitt? Or Monica? Or should we go directly to the FinCEN people, or give the information to Tushy and rely on his influence to get FinCEN on the case?" Harry noticed the look on Denise's face. "What's the matter?"

"I hate to say this, but after everything we've been through in the last three weeks, would you trust any of those people to take this to the finish line and find Hutch's killer?"

"Actually... I'm not sure," Harry admitted.

"And then there is the other issue."

"The other issue?"

"Yeah, stupid, the other issue... _you!_ If someone else takes over this investigation, who knows how long it will take for them to make progress on it. In the meantime, whoever killed Hutch still thinks you have the account information—"

"Which now I do."

"And you could still end up like Hutch while someone else takes their sweet time getting up to speed." Denise gave Harry a real serious look. "Like I said, I really, _really_ hate to say this, but there's no easy way for us to get out of this—not now."

Harry got up and took a stand at the kitchen window. "Do you think we ought to call the kids and let them know about this?"

"I don't know," said Denise. "Let me think about it."

* * * * *

Dear Mr. Brennan,

My name is Harry Curlander and you might recall that we met at Todd Hutchinson's wake. As I mentioned then, Hutch and I have been close friends since college, and I remain close to his wife Suzanne. I am writing this email from Hutch's personal computer in his home, and I am here because we are taking Suzanne on a trip which will hopefully help her recover from his passing.

The reason I am writing is because Suzanne mentioned that she has asked you to have someone come to the house on Monday to pick up Hutch's laptop, which belongs to FIB. Suzanne is not very good with computers, and she asked me to make sure there was nothing personal on that laptop before it went back to the bank. As I was going through the various files, I came across one particular file titled FinCEN File which contains some information Hutch had accumulated. It looked quite serious and I wanted to bring it to your attention. Hutch has made some allegations in this file that there are some money laundering activities going on at the bank, and he outlines an entire structure of accounts involved in this scheme. To me, it looked quite damning and I wanted you to know so that you could get your hands on this laptop as soon as it got back to FIB.

I don't know if this information is accurate or what Hutch was going to do with it, but I thought you would want to look at it seeing as you are the CFO at the bank. I will be here in Cambridge with Suzanne in case you wanted to contact me before we leave for Logan Airport on Monday evening. I'm sure you have the phone number to the house. Please confirm that you will send someone to pick up the laptop at noon on Monday.

Sincerely,

Harry Curlander

Harry waited until Denise was finished reading his handiwork. "What do you think? Should I send it?"

"Gee, what if your suspicions are right and Jerry's email is being monitored? If you send this, you'll be telling them exactly where we are."

"That's what I'm counting on. Between the email we sent from Suzanne's computer and this one, do you think this will flush them out?"

"It might flush someone out, all right, but what if they show up to do more than just pick up that laptop? We're all alone here, Harry. There's a difference between trying to identify Hutch's killer and committing suicide."

"Yeah, I thought about that. I sure hope Ducky made those phone calls and was able to get some of the brothers together."

"And what if he didn't, or what if he struck out?"

"Then I guess we could just not be here on Monday." Without waiting for further comment, he clicked the send button, and it was gone.

"You sent it, just like that."

"Yeah, like I said, we could just not be here Monday if things don't work out."

"Harry, there's a lot of time between now and Monday. What if they decide to come a little early?"

"Oh. I didn't think of that."

"Yeah, I know."

* * * * *

"Did you get hold of any of the brothers?" Harry asked. He was on the land line talking to Ducky.

"Yeah, almost all of them, but it's not as easy as you think. It's Memorial Day weekend. Most of them have plans with the family and they're not about to drop everything to go all the way to Boston to play Dick Tracy with you."

"Maybe I should give them a call."

"Ah, I don't think that would do any good," said Ducky.

"Why not?"

"They've been talking to each other, Harry. They've all heard what you've been up to, and quite frankly they think you're fucking nuts."

"Oh. All of them?"

"Most of them."

"But we've got to find out where that laptop ends up. Dollars to donuts it doesn't end up anywhere near FIB headquarters."

"You might be right, Harry, but then what? You're not planning on doing something even crazier than what you're already doing, are you?"

"Like what, storming the place all by myself?"

Ducky chuckled, but it wasn't because he considered the question to be funny. "Actually, that's not far off. Whoever these people are, they've already tried to kill you once, Harry; they will probably try again if they know where you are."

"Yeah, well, that's the thing."

"Uh-oh, what's the thing?" Silence. "Jesus, Harry, what did you do? Wait... you set them up, didn't you? You had no intention of turning this case over to that Detective Pruitt or anyone else. Somehow, some way, you arranged it so that they'd be coming after you."

"Well, sort of."

"How sort of, Harry?"

"Well, do you remember how I told you that I pretended to be Suzanne and sent an email to Jerry Brennan in order to set up the pickup for the laptop?"

"Yeah, and did it work?"

"Like a charm. We got an email back about an hour ago that said someone would be coming on Monday."

"Okay... go on."

"Well, I sent another bogus email, from Hutch's computer this time, indicating that Hutch had outlined the entire money laundering operation and that he, Jerry, should get his hands on that laptop right away."

Ducky took a moment. "But Jerry is dead."

"Yeah, but nobody knows that. Jerry's email is obviously being hacked, and whoever is monitoring it now thinks their whole scheme is about to blow up."

"And that you know about the accounts," Ducky added. "You left that part out."

"Yeah, well—"

"You know, Harry, I've learned that's it's usually not good when you start a sentence with _yeah, well...."_

"Yeah, well, I kind of also indicated that I would be at the house on Monday when someone comes to pick up the laptop. I set them up, Ducky. I've turned the tables and now I've got them coming to me, just like Al said when we were at Slick's, remember?"

"Yeah, but they're coming to you to _kill_ you, Harry. Fuckin' A, let's not forget that part."

"Yeah, well, now you can see that I could really use some help here. Do you think that would get some of the other brothers to show up?"

"Damn it, Harry. Sit tight and I'll get back to you. On second thought, don't sit tight. You need to get out of that house."

* * * * *

The man was very clever, it seemed, and quite good at misdirection. Whether it was intentional or not was hard to tell. Putting his cell phone into his wife's Audi and parking it away from the Hutchinson residence indicated that he was trying to mask his location, while at the same time he'd revealed his location in an email to Mister Brennan. However, that too could have been a deception. Now, looking at the Hutchinson residence, there seemed to be no sign of movement inside, no lights going on or off, nothing. That would be unnatural if he was in there with Hutchinson's wife as he'd stated in the email to Brennan, especially because he'd used the word _we_ when he indicated they'd be leaving for the airport on Monday evening. _"We are taking Suzanne on a trip,"_ he'd stated, which meant he probably wasn't alone in the house with Mrs. Hutchinson, but was there with his wife, who seemed to be by his side almost always.

With a direct vantage point from the athletic fields across the street, even without binoculars one could see that the driveway was empty. Very sly, Mister Curlander, and without knowing it you've just bought yourself, and your wife probably, another few days to live. Even if he was in the house, the aftermath of killing him now would cause more problems than it solved, especially with the collateral damage of having to kill his wife and perhaps Mrs. Hutchinson as well. No one would think that Curlander dying would be a coincidental occurrence, not now, regardless of how or where he died, or whatever any medical examiner might say with regards to his cause of death. With Hutchinson, there had been weeks to plan his murder, for they knew his itinerary well in advance and were able to pick the spot to perform his execution. This was different, and any team of assassins was bound to leave traceable clues regardless of the weapon used to kill Curlander, for it could not be by the same method as Hutchinson. No, the time wasn't right, but it would have to be soon. One thing seemed to be certain, however: Curlander was aware of their activities at the bank. Based on the email he'd sent to Brennan, Brennan would be on the lookout for that laptop shortly, but he would be easy enough to control; he had been up to now.

Have a nice weekend, Mister Curlander. We will see you on Monday. By that time we should have a plan for your going away party.

Partially hidden by the visiting team dugout on the south baseball diamond on Russell Field, Detective Pruitt saw the black BMW appear out of seemingly nowhere and drive slowly out of the complex. Watching it, she wondered if it was the same car Curlander almost shot at outside Slick's five days earlier, but there were a lot of BMWs rolling in and out of Russell Field on this Saturday morning. She raised her binoculars to see if she could catch the plate number, but it took a right on Clifton Street toward Rindge Avenue before she could focus. She did notice that the license plate was a pale yellow color, however, just like the plate she'd seen the night before on Mrs. Curlander's Audi. That car was still parked on Jackson Street, and it carried a New Jersey license plate. Massachusetts plates were white.

* * * * *

We should have bought some donuts last night," Harry complained. "What's to eat in this place?"

Denise walked into the old-fashioned pantry alcove off the kitchen and eyed what was on the shelves. "Not much," she said. "Suzanne probably didn't do much shopping lately, knowing she was going on a trip and all. We got some pasta sauce, canned soup, and some tuna."

"I could do some pasta for lunch. How about that?"

"Oops, no pasta. Just pasta sauce. How about some soup?"

"What kind of soup?"

"Minestrone."

"Canned minestrone? Ugh."

"Tuna?"

"I guess. Do we have any bread?"

Denise went to the freezer. "We've got some frozen bagels. What d'ya think?"

"Got mayo?"

Denise opened the other door on the fridge. "Got mayo, and some hot peppers."

"Tuna with hot peppers on a bagel? Some lunch." Just then the phone in the kitchen rang and Harry picked it up. "I think this is Fish," he said, looking at the caller ID. "Hello?"

"This is Fish."

"How'd you know I was here?"

"Ducky."

"Ah. What's up?"

"I hear you've set yourself up as bait to get the scumbags to come to Hutch's house on Monday."

Harry responded, "I'd like to think I've got the scumbags set up to reveal their identities and blow their whole money laundering operation on Monday."

"Whatever. I hear you can use some help."

Harry hesitated. "I gotta tell you up front, Fish, there could be some trouble, but yeah, I could use some help. You remember the laptop Sally looked at back at Slick's, don't you?"

"Hutch's laptop—of course. Ducky said you managed to set it up so that they think it contains information that would reveal their whole setup. How the hell did you do that?"

"Long story, but I think that's where I could use your help."

"I'm listening."

Harry took a deep breath. He was going to start the next sentence with the words, _"If I'm not dead_ , _"_ but thought better of it. Instead, he said, "I think we'd like to know where that laptop ends up. It sure as shit isn't going back to the bank, but wherever it goes, it could lead us to straight to Hutch's killers."

"I see. So assuming you're not dead after you turn it over, you would like someone to track the thing." Fish used the words instead, and his tone was matter of fact, like he could have been ordering take-out. "I might be able to handle that. Would you mind if I brought Sally along again?"

"Fish, I told you. There could be some real trouble. I don't know if you know it, but another executive from the bank is dead because of this whole thing."

"Yeah, I know. The CFO guy we met at the wake. Ducky told me. I thought Sally could help with something else."

"And what's that?" Harry asked, his curiosity peaked.

"She's right here, Harry. Let me put her on."

"Hello Harry. Fish has explained the whole thing to me. About the reply you received indicating someone would be showing up on Monday to pick up the laptop.... They guy you sent the email to is dead, right?"

"Dead as dead gets."

"Then he couldn't have read the email or written the reply."

"Uh, obviously. We think someone is monitoring his email."

"Right. That means someone hacked into it, and they wrote the response from another IP address. If we can figure out what that is, that's another way to track where these guys are located. If I were you, not only would I have someone following the laptop, I would have someone camped out wherever the hacker's IP address is located to see if it all ends up being in the same place. You're a lawyer; that would be evidence that Hutch's death and this CFO's suicide are connected, wouldn't it? Wouldn't that point to conspiracy and extortion, and other bad stuff?"

Harry was almost speechless. "And you can do this?"

"Find the hacker's IP address? Piece of cake. The best part is that we can do that now, before anyone picks up the laptop. You could have the location staked out ahead of time."

"You're talking like you're on _Law & Order_ or something."

"Yeah, isn't that cool?"

"Should I forward you the email reply that supposedly came from Brennan?"

"That's okay, I can do it from there when Fish and I come up. We can be there this afternoon."

Harry hesitated and said slowly, "Listen, Sally, maybe you didn't hear what I said to Fish a minute ago, but this could be dangerous. I'm not so sure it's a good idea for you to come along. I wouldn't want to—"

"Hey, Harry, I'm a big girl. Besides, I think Fish is kind of cute and I like hanging out with him. Do you want to say anything else to him before I hang up?"

"Yeah, tell him to bring a pizza."

"Will do."

"Oh, and one more thing. Don't park near the house and call me beforehand so we can figure out how to get you in here without being seen." Harry hung up and said, "Fish and Sally gettin' it on? I'll be damned. Go Fish."

* * * * *

"Where have you been staying?" Caruso asked.

"I took a cot at the barracks in Revere for the last two nights," Pruitt replied. "I need to buy some underwear."

"Too much information, Pruitt. Tell me what you've got so far."

When Caruso said she'd have a couple of days to look into the situation, she was hoping he wasn't being literal. Wrong. It was almost two days exactly and he wanted his update. "Curlander is throwing off some serious deception moves and it looks like he's playing offense instead of defense."

"How so?"

"Well, there's no doubt that he knows he's a target, and I think he's figured out that his cell phone is being tracked."

"What makes you think that?"

"He put the phone into his wife's car and parked it on another street, away from where he's staying but nearby. Assuming his stalkers don't know his exact location, it would be easy enough for him to lay some surveillance on his own car without them knowing he's watching. Pretty slick. He's rigged it so that he can see them coming."

"If he does spot who's after him, do you think he might turn right around and follow them?"

"I would, if I were in his shoes. Wouldn't you?"

Caruso said, "Yeah, I would, but I'm a cop and he's not. He could end up getting his ass blown off."

"Do you have a suggestion?" Pruitt asked, not sure if she really wanted his opinion.

"You might have to get in the middle of it, and you might need some help. I'll call over at Troop A headquarters and see if they've got an extra body to put on this with you."

"Actually, maybe you can get one of the locals. There's a Detective Lopez on the Cambridge PD that put me onto this. I think he might be willing to help."

"I'll see what I can do," said Caruso.

* * * * *

"What time did they say they were going to be here?" Denise asked.

Harry replied, "The only thing Sally said is that they could be here this afternoon. I told them to call first so we could figure out how to get them into the house without being seen in case someone is watching. Any ideas?"

Denise looked at the carrot clock and stepped to the side of the kitchen window that looked out to the street and Russell Field beyond. Parting one tiny corner of the mini blinds that were in a tight closed position, she said, "Maybe it would be easier for us to meet them somewhere rather than them trying to sneak in here in broad daylight."

It made sense. 91 Clifton Street was at the corner of Clifton and Dudley Streets, and it was the biggest house on the block. As such, it was as if it had two frontages along each street with the main entrance on Clifton. Jackson Street was one block over to the east. A long driveway lined with marble curb stones flanked the house and led to a large detached two-car garage that hid pretty much the entire back yard. A four-foot hedgerow on the Dudley Street side bordered the sidewalk there, and it took a ninety-degree turn at the property line and formed a privacy barrier between the back yards of the Hutchinson house and next one over, which was situated at the corner of Dudley and Jackson Streets.

"You know, we could get to where our car is parked on Jackson Street by going out the back door and walking through the hedgerow separating this back yard from the one behind us. If anyone is watching, they probably wouldn't be able to see us."

"What about the neighbors?" Denise asked. "They might not take too kindly to two strangers walking through their back yard and they might call the cops."

"Unless they're at work," Harry responded.

"Harry, it's the Saturday before Memorial Day. They're probably not working."

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh."

"I guess I'm losing track of my days."

"More than likely it's Alzheimer's," Denise responded.

Suddenly, they heard a knock—from the very back door they were discussing. Harry picked up his Sig Sauer pistol which he now kept only a few feet away at all times. "What the hell?" he said lowly. Knock, knock, knock. Gingerly, he made his way from the kitchen into the family room and the hallway beyond, which led to a back vestibule/mud room. Through the stretched curtain on the back door there, he could see the fuzzy outline of someone wearing a baseball cap. Behind him, Denise hid behind a coat rack, her Walther PPK gripped in both hands in a ready position. Harry pulled the gauzy curtain aside just enough to see some dude smiling at him, his nose almost pressed to the door glass. The dude waved at him all neighborly like.

Harry put the Sig Sauer behind his back and pulled the door open a few inches. "Yes?"

"Oh, hi," the dude said. "Is Suzanne here? I'm her neighbor Bob from across the way." Old Bob tossed his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the house on the other side of the hedgerow.

"Sorry, she's not here right now," Harry replied, wondering immediately if it was wise to have said that. He could see the quizzical look on Bob's face as Denise stepped up from behind the coat rack. "We're just visiting—old friends of the family," Harry added. "We thought Suzanne could use some company over the holiday. You know, take her mind off things, given the situation and all."

Old Bob seemed to know exactly what Harry was referring to, and his picket fence of a smile got even wider. "Well good," he said. "Glad to see her get up and about. Listen, I don't want to interrupt your visit, but when she gets back why don't you all come on over if you have a chance. We're having a big barbeque over there and you all are welcome to step on over. Suzanne knows the way right through the hedge back there." Bob thumbed over his shoulder again.

"Yeah, sure, will do," said Harry. "She'll be back soon."

"Good, good," said old Bob. "And tell Suzanne to not worry about bringing anything. Got enough food to feed an army."

"Sounds good," said Harry, and he thought suddenly that he might as well press his luck. "I know we've got other family friends coming by later, but I'll let her know for sure."

"Well bring 'em along," said old Bob. "The more the merrier." Bob was suddenly very serious. "Too bad about Hutch, isn't it? There wasn't a finer man on the planet."

That rang a bell. "You knew him as Hutch," Harry observed. "Only his close friends called him that. I think everyone else called him Todd."

"He insisted on it," said Bob. "We've been neighbors for twenty-five years. Our kids grew up together."

Harry said, "Huh. You don't say." He swung around and dropped a look on Denise. "I'm surprised we've never met somewhere along the way."

Good old Bob suddenly got very serious and his eyes got all squinty. They focused on Harry for a second and bounced over to Denise, burning into her. "You're the one driving that silver Audi parked up the street from my house, aren't you?" His picket-fence smile gone now, it was replaced by a picket-fence snarl. His eyes came back to Harry, settling on him like crosshairs. "What did you say your name was?"

Harry tightened his grip on the Sig Sauer as he felt old Bob try to push the door open, forcing it against his foot. "I didn't," said Harry.

Old Bob turned into cold Bob. His facial expression hardening even more, he said, "Now I know Suzanne is in Chicago visiting her son for a while, and I've got a Glock .357 aimed at your balls, so why don't you tell me who the fuck you are and what the hell you're doing here before I turn you into a eunuch and call the cops."

Bob didn't look like he was kidding, thought Harry. From behind him, he heard the faint click of Denise's PPK. "No," he said, putting his left arm up, stopping her. "My name is Harry Curlander." He swung the door open all the way, noting with a twinge of anxiety that Bob did indeed have a Glock automatic aiming at him. From the looks of the thing, had he fired it would have put a bullet through him and Denise both, no problem. "I've been investigating Hutch's death and I'm here to find out who killed him." With that, he let his right hand come out from behind his back, letting the Sig Sauer hang at his side.

Seeing the two weapons now, Bob did nothing to ease the tension and kept the Glock in place. "Harry? The same Harry that Hutch knew from his college days? That Harry?"

"Right."

"Well c'mon, man. Why didn't you say so? Hutch must have mentioned your name to me a thousand times."

Bob finally lowered the Glock and Harry felt his heart finally start to slow down.

Bob resumed with, "What do you mean, you're here to find out who killed him? Suzanne said Hutch died from a heart attack—isn't that right?"

"Not exactly," said Harry, noting that Bob looked really confused. "Listen, if you knew Hutch like you say you did, there's something you probably ought to know about how he died." Taking a deep breath, he added, "Listen, do you mind if we put the guns away now?"

"Oh, yeah, sure. It's just that I've been seeing a lot of action around the house the last couple of days, and I knew Suzanne was in Chicago and everything, well, I just didn't know what to think." Bob finally lowered his weapon.

Harry picked up on what Bob just said. "What do you mean, you've been seeing a lot of action around the house the last couple of days?"

"Man, there's been strangers crawling all up and down this neighborhood. What do you mean, I ought to know about how Hutch died?"

Suddenly, from behind him, Denise spoke for the first time. "Harry, it looks like Bob really is having a barbeque next door."

Harry turned to her and he could see her eyes focused off into the distance. Indeed, they could hear music and people partying away on the other side of the hedgerow.

"That could help us, don't you think?" Denise went on.

"Help you how?" Bob asked.

Harry said, "Would you like to know how Hutch really died, and would you be interested in helping to catch his killers?"

Bob said, "Hutch and Suzanne are godparents to my fourth child, and I risked my neck coming over here like this. Does that answer your question?"

"Then we would like nothing better than to go to your barbeque, and I'll explain the whole thing to you. By the way, a couple more of Hutch's friends really are coming into town later. Is it okay if they come as well?"

Bob looked at him sideways. "I assume they're also involved in this so-called investigation of yours."

"It's not a so-called investigation," Harry responded. "It's the real McCoy."

"I guess," Bob replied as he turned and headed toward the back hedgerow. He stopped when he noticed that both Harry and Denise held on to their weapons as they followed him across the patio. "You're not taking those with you, are you?"

Harry said, "Maybe I should explain now." He indicated a couple of patio chairs.

"Maybe you should," said Bob.

Harry pointed to the BC initials on Bob's baseball cap. "Boston College?"

"Yeah. Is that a problem?" Bob asked, seeing the look on Harry's face.

"I'll have to deal with it," said Harry.

"Just like Hutch," said Bob. "You cocky John Adams boys must be all alike."

* * * * *

Sitting on a lounge chair on Bob's patio, Harry nursed his beer and kept his eyes on the Hutchinson house a back yard-and-a-half away. Denise was off with a group of ladies talking girl talk and he was glad that she got a chance to take a break from him. They'd been side by side for several days now he chuckled to himself that no matter how magnetic he was—right— she could use the change of pace. Obsessed is what he was, absolutely fixated on this whole thing with Hutch. Looking back on the phone conversation he'd had with Ducky that morning, he was beginning to understand the comment when Ducky said the other brothers think you're fucking nuts. He probably was—in a way. But in another way, he needed to protect himself. Unintentionally, Hutch had put him literally in mortal danger—and who was going to protect him? The answer was simple—nobody, that's who.

The police were no good to him. First off, they weren't in the crime prevention business. He was like the abused wife who begged the police for protection, but until she was actually assaulted by the husband, there wasn't much they could do. Yeah, well, by that time she'd be dead. He had to protect himself, and as long as Hutch's killers believed that he had knowledge of their money laundering accounts, which now he did, his life could end at any time. Second, he still had no hard proof—of anything, not at this point. That he would have once he turned over the deciphered account numbers to the FinCEN people, but that evidence would come out only after FinCEN completed its investigation. Again, his conclusion was the same, which was that he could be dead by then. Any way he sliced up this scenario, the picture was still the same, which was that he needed to play it out—and he needed the other brothers to do it.

Bob came over to him and said, "You know, Harry, I've only known you for a couple of hours, but it looks like you've got something on your mind?"

Bob had proven to be an admirable guy, and come to find out that he and his wife Laura had been as close to Hutch and Suzanne as anyone. That was why he'd marched over to the Hutchinson house, weapon in hand, to find out what the hell was going on over there. While admitting that he was more than a little unnerved when he discovered that he wasn't the only one armed in that little encounter, one had to admire the fact that Bob had the stones to take action. Having told him the whole story of how Hutch died and the subsequent investigation—or, more accurately, the lack of it—Harry replied, "I'm wondering what's happening with the other brothers."

"What do you want to be happening?"

"I want them to be on their way here to join me in cornering these killers."

"That's not the way the real world works, pal. These guys have lives, and families, and responsibilities. They're not about to take the risk of losing that, not even for Hutch. He was a fraternity brother, Harry, not a blood relation, and that's the reality of it."

"Yeah, well, not for me."

"Yeah, well, if what you've told me is true, you're the only one whose life is on the line. Hutch should never have put you in that position."

Harry considered the statement. "That wasn't his intent. He only intended for me to have the information because he knew he could trust me."

"Still...."

"Listen, I know where you're coming from, and in most situations I'd agree with you, but we're a different group. You'll see."

Bob nodded and said, "You have great trust in your fellow man, my friend."

Again, Harry considered Bob's comment when his phone went off. It was Fish's number on the caller ID. "Yeah," Harry said curtly.

"This is Sally. What do you want on your pizza?"

Chapter 21... Waiting It Out

It was 6:00 p.m. on Saturday. Lopez limped up to Pruitt's car and leaned in to the open passenger side window. "This better be good," he said. "I had a free ticket to the Sox game tonight."

Pruitt said, "Don't be so grouchy. What happened to you?"

"I turned my ankle playing softball last night."

"Can you function?"

"I'm here, ain't I? And on my own time."

Pruitt needed the help, but the last thing she wanted was to babysit someone. "As of this morning, so am I."

Lopez opened the door and slid into the passenger seat. "A week ago you cut me off at the knees on the breaking and entering call and now you're pulling strings to get help with surveillance on the same house. What's going on, Detective?"

Pruitt reached down to the cup holder and handed him a Styro cup. "Here," she said. "I'll bring you up to speed. I figured you for a black with sugar kind of guy."

Lopez smiled ever so slightly. "I'm listening," he said as he took the coffee. Twenty minutes later he said, "So the bank guy who did himself at the dive bar in Saugus is linked to this after all."

"It is," said Pruitt. "Thanks for letting me know about that. If it wasn't for you connecting the dots I might never have gotten this far."

"It sounds like this Curlander guy and his fraternity buddies might be walking into an ambush. Do they have any idea who or what they're facing?"

Pruitt replied, "They might have some idea of who, but I don't think they have any idea of how many, or how serious the situation really is. If it's true that Hutchinson and the former CEO were killed to keep the accounts from being discovered, another murder or two won't make any difference to these perpetrators."

Shaking his head, Lopez said, "And you couldn't get anyone to look into this case? What's up with that?"

"The ME said Hutchinson's death was due to a heart attack. There was no basis for an investigation, and the only reason it's gotten to this point is because of Curlander and his fraternity brothers."

"So your goal is to stop them."

"Right now I'm just trying to figure out what Curlander and his wife are up to. I've tracked the signal from his cell phone and it's coming from inside his wife's Audi which has been parked on the next street over for the last twenty-four hours, maybe longer."

"The guy's got his wife with him?"

"Where he goes, she goes, and if I was after Curlander I'd be more afraid of her than I am of him. Talk about protective, that woman is fierce—and she's armed. So is he, by the way."

Lopez sipped his coffee as he tried to put it all together in his head. "But why would he park the car away from where he's staying? And why would he leave his phone in there? Wouldn't he need his cell phone?"

"I don't think he left it there, I think he put it there—purposely. I think he knows someone is tracking that GPS signal, that being someone besides me, and I don't think he knows I'm on to it. Somewhere along the way he must have picked up another phone."

Lopez got it immediately. "He's using that cell phone signal to attract the bad guys."

"But he doesn't want them to know exactly where he is. By locating the car close to the house he hopes to be able to spot them, but if they don't know where he is exactly, to them he could be anywhere. Not a bad plan." Pruitt sipped some coffee. "This morning someone in a black BMW with Jersey plates pulled up next to the Audi and checked it out. Did I tell you someone ran Curlander off the road back in Jersey after Hutchinson's funeral?"

"Yeah."

"That car was also a BMW, and I suspect the same car was tailing us in Wallingham last Monday night."

Lopez's eyes got real big. "That's no coincidence. Do you think Curlander knows that the guys who are after him are here?"

"If he doesn't, he will soon. I think his plan is working."

Lopez shifted in his seat and gave Pruitt a once over. Knowing that her boss had contacted his boss to ask for him specifically, Lopez figured the woman had some pull within the state police investigative units, so he'd called a couple of guys he knew in their Middlesex unit. They'd heard of her all right, and outside of the fact that they'd hurled their verbal jabs at her by calling her the "grandma with a gun," they said she was probably the best investigator out of the Franklin/Hampshire unit and had solved a number of high profile cases in the western part of the state, including the capture of a drug kingpin out of Greenfield that was distributing as much heroin between the Connecticut River and Albany as was flowing into Harlem and the Bronx combined. "You know," he said as she lowered the visor to block the late day sun, "you could have gotten some help from the Middlesex unit. Why didn't you call them?"

"I don't think so," Pruitt said as she turned away from whatever she was watching and stabbed him with a look. "I've been nursing this case like a baby for the last month. I'm not about to serve it up to those arrogant pinheads so they can scarf it up like wolves."

"But you're letting me in on it," said Lopez.

"Yeah, well, I owe you one. Do you think you want in, or not?"

Lopez grinned and sipped his coffee. "I'm in," he said. "What do you need?"

"First off, I need you to keep your patrol cars out of this neighborhood. I think some of the residents have been noticing me and calling it in to you guys."

"I'll let dispatch know we're on site."

"Then I need you to spell me for a few hours. I've been watching that house for most of the last forty-eight hours and I need some sleep—and a shower."

"Can do," said Lopez. "Where are you going to do that?"

"I've been using the state police barracks over in Revere for the last couple of nights."

"That's way too far." He fished his keys out of his pocket and pulled one off the ring. "Here, use my place. It's only ten minutes from here."

Pruitt said, "You sure?"

"Not a problem," Lopez replied. "I live alone—divorced," he added when he saw her inquiring look. "I hope you don't mind that I gave the cleaning lady the decade off."

"I'm sure it will be just fine," Pruitt said thankfully.

"So what are we looking for?"

"Well, if Curlander is setting a trap like we talked about, you'd figure he'd make himself visible to the people he's trying to attract."

"But he's not," Lopez surmised.

"Not at all. There's been no movement in or out of that house since I've been here. No lights coming on or off, no shades moving, nothing. I'm having a hard time figuring out what he's up to."

"Are you sure he and his wife are still in there?"

"The Audi hasn't moved in that whole time and no one has come out that front door or out of that driveway, but it's possible that they may have gotten past me somehow." Pruitt activated her phone and showed it to Lopez. "This is a picture of Curlander and his wife. If they're out and their car is still here, that means they're on foot or using another vehicle. Just be on the lookout."

"Will do. Send that picture to my phone, will you, and I'll text you my address. Help yourself to whatever is in the fridge."

* * * * *

The sun was low in the sky and Harry shielded his eyes as he spotted Fish coming across the patio, pizza box in hand. Sally was right behind him.

"It looks like the first of your reinforcements have arrived," said Bob.

Fish came up and said, "Sorry we're late, Harry." Seeing that the barbeque was in full swing, he put down the pizza box and gave Bob a look. "It looks like you already ate."

"Fish, he's good," said Harry, knowing exactly what Fish was thinking. He went on to relate how Bob had been as close to Hutch over the years as any of the brothers had been. "Fish, he wants to help us." Fish was clearly wary, his expression tight and guarded. It was one Harry hadn't seen before. "Fish, what's the matter, man? Is everything all right?"

"He's nervous," Sally answered for him as she jumped right into the conversation. "He thinks what we're doing could be dangerous and he's got the yips about involving someone else—specifically me." She stuck her hand out to Bob and added, "Hi, I'm Sally. I'm Fish's... uh, friend."

All eyes turned to Fish. "It's true," he said bluntly. "It's one thing for me to continue on with this crazy scheme, it's a whole other thing to put other people in harm's way." He turned to Bob. "I hope you're aware of that. What about your family?"

Bob pointed across the patio where his wife and Denise were sitting in a couple of sling chairs talking face to face. "I think Harry's wife is taking care of that now," he said, and indeed his own wife glanced over at him as soon as he said it. Bob continued, "I don't plan on getting myself killed over this, but I think I'd like to help you guys out. Hutch was a great friend, and if what you say is true, his killers should be brought to justice. If anything, Suzanne deserves that."

Fish didn't respond, but flashed a look at Sally, who said, "There are a lot of good people in the world, Fish, and they want to help. Why don't you let them?"

Harry said, "Bob made the observation that whoever wants Hutch's laptop might not wait until Monday to come and get it."

"What's that based on?" Fish asked.

"There's a jogging path I use regularly in the athletic fields across the street from Hutch's house," Bob replied. "In the last couple of days I've seen two different vehicles parked there that looked kind of fishy to me—ah, no pun intended."

"Fishy... how?" Harry asked.

"Well, normally when someone drives into the park to use the jogging path, they just pull into in the parking area next to the baseball fields, you know, facing forward. These two cars didn't park in the parking area, but along the maintenance road and parked so that they were turned around and facing Hutch's house. I thought that was kind of odd but I brushed it off. Later in the day yesterday, however, when I was walking the dog, I see what I think is one of those cars pulling up to what I now know is your silver Audi that you parked up the street from here. The car that I think is from the park rolls up next to it, hangs there for a while like it's checking it out, and then pulls off. Looking back and thinking about both of those situations now, it definitely seems weird."

"Did you notice the make on either of those cars?" Harry asked.

"Not really," Bob answered. "It was from a distance, and one of the cars I saw from the side and it could have been anything. They're all shaped the same these days. All I know is that it was a dark color, and I couldn't even tell you if there was someone inside. The car I saw on the street was larger, like an American car, but older. I saw it from behind and thought maybe it was a cop car or something, but I was fifty or sixty yards away on both observations and really can't provide any more details."

Fish said to Harry, "So you're thinking whoever is interested in Hutch's laptop might already be in the neighborhood."

"It wouldn't surprise me," said Harry.

"So what are you doing here?" Fish went on.

"Hiding in plain sight."

Bob said, "Far be it from me to tell you guys what to do, but it doesn't sound like it's a good idea for Harry to go back into that house until you can find a way to protect him."

"That's why I told you and Sally to come here instead of Hutch's place," said Harry. "I could be miles away as opposed to across the back yard as far as the scumbags are concerned."

Fish looked skeptical. "So what's next?"

Harry said, "We contact Ducky to see if he was able to get some of the other brothers together. We now have a new base of operations."

Sally opened the pizza box and said, "Extra pepperoni. Anyone want a slice?"

* * * * *

Sitting alone now, munching another slice of pizza and taking the final swig of her third Bud Light, Sally whipped out her smart phone to check the time. Having listened to all the concern and consternation about everyone's safety, she couldn't help but think that another important aspect of this crazy plan would be to find out who had hacked through the bank's firewall and was monitoring the email account of at least one member of said bank's senior management. That person, or people, she figured, would be at the core of this conspiracy that had cost one of Fish's best friends his life. She also figured that this person, or people, would either not be far removed physically from the conspiracy leaders, or at minimum would have a direct IP link to their location. Discovering this information was why she'd come along with Fish on this Memorial weekend Saturday afternoon, and now she saw the opportunity melting away. She walked over to where Fish, Harry, and Bob were rehashing the same conversation they'd been having for the last hour.

"I hate to interrupt you three girl scouts, but we need to get into that house before the sun goes down." She pointed across the back yard to the Hutchinson's house.

The girl scouts all looked up at her—blankly. Only Fish had the nerve to respond. Shielding his eyes from the sun which was now below the tree tops and glinting powerfully through the branches, he said, "What does the sun going down have to do with anything?"

Sally cracked open another can of Bud Light and looked at Harry. "Didn't we want to find out who is monitoring this guy Brennan's email? I thought that was part of this big trap you're trying to set up."

Harry said, "Yeah, we do. So?"

She let out an exasperated sigh. "So... since I've been here all you've been talking about is staying away from that house." The girl scouts all looked at each other now. "I don't think you geniuses are getting this. If we do this IP search after it gets dark, just the glow of the computer monitor could be detected from outside unless we black out the windows or something. If you want to keep up the illusion that the house is unoccupied, we need to move now, before it gets dark and there's still enough time to do this." She swigged some more beer and stood there with her hand on her hip.

Noting her condition, Harry asked, "Are you sure you can do this?"

"Nothin' to it," she slurred as she waved her can dramatically. "You ready, or what?"

Harry looked at Fish. "Are we?"

Fish got up and said, "I guess," but Sally put a hand in his chest.

"Fish, honey... I got this. Hold my beer, okay? C'mon Harry, l'ess go. Show me where this computer iss located."

Five minutes later they tiptoed onto Hutch's and Suzanne's office room as if someone would hear them, and they stood there for a minute staring at the two computers. Suddenly serious, Sally asked, "Which one of these are we dealing with?"

Harry pointed to Suzanne's machine.

"It's right in front of the freakin' window," Sally whispered.

Harry said, "Why are you whispering?"

"Oh, right. We've got to disconnect this monitor and get it down on the ground below the window level."

"Why don't we just pull the shade?"

"No!" Sally exclaimed. "If someone has been watching this house, more than likely they'd be using binoculars."

"So?"

"So that means they'd be able to tell if someone pulled the shade down and they'd know that someone was inside."

Harry said, "That's right, I forgot. How do you know all this?"

"I read a lot of spy books." Harry helped her disconnect the monitor, get it off the desk, and reconnect it on the floor below the windowsill. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Sally pulled the keyboard close to her and said, "Tracing the IP address from an email is fairly simple. You just find the IP address from the email header and then use a whois search or an IP lookup to trace it back to its source."

Harry said, "I have no idea what you just said."

"Just watch." Sally looked into Suzanne's inbox and found the email that supposedly came from someone at the bank verifying that a representative from the HR department would be coming on Monday to pick up Hutch's laptop. The email address was FIBinternational/HR.com. "First, you just open the extended headers. That's the stuff here that looks like a keyboard puked all over the message."

Harry went, "Uh-huh."

"Then in Options you click the Dialogue Box Launcher and go to the Received section."

"Okay then."

"Next, once you're in the Received section you'll see From, which should be the IP address that we're looking for. See it here? It's 66.221.137.945. We copy that onto the clipboard."

"Of course. What else would you do with it?"

"You're a real smartass, aren't you Harry? Now it's time to go to the Command console." She clicked a couple of keys and the screen suddenly went black.

Harry said, "Shit. You lost it."

"Relax, cupcake, it's supposed to do that. Now we come to the moment of truth. Here, right next to the flashing cursor, we type in whois 66.221.137.945." Sally did that, smiled, and took Harry's hand. "Now press Enter. Hutch was your friend. As soon as you press Enter, the information will be sent out to a database, queried, and then returned with the registration information for that IP address."

"What does that mean? Will we know who killed Hutch?"

"You'll know the IP address of who responded to your email to Brennan, as well as the internet service provider, the city where this dirtbag is located, as well as his latitude and longitude, his area code and zip code. That's as far as we can get without a court order and some help from someone in law enforcement. They have special software that can zero in on the exact name and exact street address. My guess is that it will have nothing to do with the HR department at the bank." Harry choked down some emotion and pressed the Enter button. Moments later the information came back. Sally looked at it and said, "Fish said one of your other fraternity buddies is married to a district attorney."

Harry looked at Sally and said, "That would be Ducky's wife Monica."

"Then get Monica to make a couple of calls. The exact name and address of the person who hacked Brennan's email is tied to this IP address."

Harry took a look at what came up on the screen and noted that the IP address was located in Washington, D.C.

* * * * *

Harry and Sally returned to Bob's barbeque to find Fish sitting alone and on his cell phone.

"You heard me correctly," Fish said into the phone. "Do not go to Suzanne's house. Right... Jackson Street... just look for the house that's having the big cookout; can't miss it." He ended the call and said, "That was Ducky. He's almost here. How'd it go over there?"

"Not what I expected," Harry replied.

Sally sat down next to Fish and took back the beer he'd been holding for her for the last fifteen minutes. "Whoever it is that hacked into Brennan's email is located in Washington, D.C." she said.

"What do you think that means?" Fish went on.

Harry said, "You don't want to know what I think. It sounds crazy even to me."

"How could it be any more crazy than everything you've discovered so far?"

"Because I'm starting to think our own government is involved in supporting terrorists," said Harry. "It makes sense."

"That's insane."

"Not so insane," Harry countered. "The person Hutch was talking to on his cell phone just before he died? It turns out that it was a CIA agent named Breckenridge."

"How do you know that?"

"Through one of Fighting Al's connections. We've met this agent, Fish. He came to our house and told me he was trying to protect me from the very people that we think killed Hutch and that we are now trying to stop."

Fish shook his head. "Okay, let's assume one of Al's shady connections is correct and Hutch was talking to this Breckenridge dude. Is that proof that our government is supporting terrorists?"

"No, it's not," Harry answered, "but that means he knows who they are. Why don't he and the CIA stop them? Why are they letting these terrorists continue to exist? Plus Denise thinks he's slimy, and she's never wrong about these things."

"Oh, c'mon Harry. I love Denise, but you're going to base your argument on her intuition? Really?"

"And maybe Hutch's trips to D.C. weren't initiated by the Treasury Department," Harry went on. "Maybe he initiated those trips himself. According to Brennan, Hutch went there to blow the whistle."

"You're imagining things."

"Am I? You were with me when we first met Brennan at Hutch's wake. Do you remember the guy who was with him?"

"Of course."

"What did he look like?"

"Dark complexion, dark hair, why?"

"Brennan introduced him as Brendan Phillips hoping we would know that Phillips was a bald, pudgy, white guy. Brennan was giving us a clue, trying to tell us that the guy was one of them."

"Them."

"Yeah, them. Brennan said he'd been told by this guy to get the accounts out of the scrutiny of the government because that was his deal. That was the word he used: his deal. Don't you see? Dark complexion, terrorists, D.C., deal—put two and two together, Fish. Someone from our government is trying to protect these guys, and those accounts."

Sally, who'd been quietly listening to the whole thing, suddenly tapped Fish on the arm and said, "I think your friend Ducky just arrived."

* * * * *

It was 8:30 p.m. Having watched the line of parked cars extend on Dudley Street in both directions and now spill around the corner onto Clifton Street, a little voice in Lopez's ear told him something was wrong with the picture he was watching. The Hutchinson house at 91 Clifton Street was quiet, too quiet, he felt, if anyone was in there. The house on the other side of it, however, was a beehive of activity with a hell of a back-yard party happening since he'd taken over for Pruitt. The sun was almost down and he decided that a change of vantage point might be beneficial. He started his car, swung out onto Dudley Street and took a left on Jackson, moving slowly between the parked cars that lined both sides of the street due to the festivities at number 88 Jackson. His stomach growled as he got a whiff of grilled chicken and thought about how good that would taste with a cold beer right about now. The silver Audi with Jersey plates that Pruitt had told him about was still in its spot, he noticed.

He took a left at the top end of Jackson Street and then took another left back onto Clifton and approached his surveillance house from the opposite direction. People were out on their porches and chatting in their front yards on this Saturday night, with kids playing catch in the street and a dog darting back and forth trying to catch their ball before they did. Nice. Russell Field was on his right now, and he coasted south on Clifton, stopping quickly when the ball got away from one of the kids and rolled across the road into the yard of one of the houses that bordered the park. That's when he noticed the dark sedan inside the complex, not in the regular parking area where cars normally parked, but on the service road positioned between two houses and facing out so that it had a perfect view of the Hutchinson residence, the same house he was surveilling. Hmm, he thought.

Lopez waited for the kid to retrieve his ball and continued down Clifton Street past number 91, parking behind a pickup truck so that he couldn't be seen from the car he'd just spotted. Getting out on the passenger side, he aimed his binoculars and discovered what he thought he would, which was someone with his own set of binoculars aimed at the Hutchinson house. Quickly, he popped back behind the pickup. The car was a black BMW, just as Pruitt had described, and he knew then and there that what he'd said to Pruitt earlier was right. Someone was here to kill Curlander.

* * * * *

Harry, Denise, Fish, Sally, Ducky, and Monica had their own little gathering going on, but Bob didn't seem to mind. The barbeque was winding down and the few late guests were collecting their coolers and casserole dishes and getting ready to extend their thanks to Bob and his wife Laura.

Bob came over and dropped a plate of drumsticks on the patio table. "Eat up," he said. "Nothing worse than leftover grilled chicken." Before leaving, he turned to Harry and asked, "Is everyone here that you thought was coming?"

Harry turned to Ducky and Ducky said, "Al said he was working on something for us and that he'd try to make it if he scored—whatever that means—but it doesn't look like he's going to show."

Bob said, "There's plenty of beer left, help yourselves. I'm gonna do a little cleanup and I'll be back in a few." With that, he lit a couple of patio torches for them and disappeared into the house.

"Helluva guy," said Ducky. "Does he know what's going on?"

"Yeah, he does," said Harry. "At least most of it. He said he's with us on this."

Monica hadn't said much since she'd arrived with Ducky, but it wasn't hard to tell that she wasn't thrilled with the idea that this amateur investigation was escalating. "And what exactly is this?" she asked, but it was hard to tell if she aimed the question at Harry or her husband.

Addressing the question, Harry replied, "I don't think we can answer that until we know how many of the other brothers show up." He looked at Ducky.

"They said they'd try, Harry. That's all I can say."

Chapter 22... The Brothers Assemble

"How did you sleep?" Bob's wife Laura asked. Without even asking, she dropped a mug of coffee down on the counter in front of him.

Harry tried to rub what felt like a bucket of sand out of his eyes. "Not very well, I'm afraid." He sipped his coffee. "I'm really sorry about imposing on you like this."

Laura pulled some dishes out of the cabinet and said, "You're not imposing." She took a moment and went on, "I had a long talk with your wife last night."

"And?" Harry asked, sensing that she had more to say.

"Is it true about Hutch, and now you think the same people are after you as well?"

It dawned on Harry that she might not be so happy about him being there. "Listen, I didn't mean to put you in any danger. Denise and I will be out of here—"

"Harry, stop," she said, waving her hands. "That's not what I meant." She paused. "Is it also true that you and your fraternity brothers are trying to find out who did it?"

"I'm afraid so," Harry replied, not knowing where she was going with the conversation. "But I think my friends would like to back off and let the authorities handle it." Laura pulled a pan out of the oven and the kitchen was suddenly inundated with cinnamon smell. "Are you concerned about Bob getting involved with this?

Putting some silverware on the counter, she shook her head. "I've been married to Bob for almost thirty years and I've learned that Bob's gonna do what Bob's gonna do."

Still trying to figure out where she was headed, Harry asked, "Is that good or bad?"

"In this case, it doesn't matter what I think. This is all about Suzanne. She deserves to know what happened to her husband, and I wanted to let you know that we're here to help—both of us. I admire what you're doing. Just don't go out and get yourself or anyone else killed over it. I'd be pretty ticked off if that turned out to be Bob."

She took the long way to get there, but Harry finally got the message. Suddenly, Bob blew into the room with the family dog, a big, old-looking chocolate Lab.

"Did you tell him?" Bob asked.

"I was just about to," said Laura.

"Tell me what?" said Harry.

"We took the dog for a walk like we usually do on Sunday mornings, and I remembered what you said about planting the cell phone inside the Audi."

"Someone was watching Audi?"

"Someone was watching Hutch's house. We're sure of it."

Harry was all ears. "How do you know?"

"Uh, the fact that they were facing the house and had binoculars pointed straight at it kind of gave it away. Good thing you didn't go back there last night."

"You're sure about this?"

"We passed the car twice to make sure we weren't imagining things," said Laura.

"What kind of car?" Harry asked. His nerves were tingling.

"The first one was a BMW," said Bob. "Just sitting there as if the guy thought he was invisible. I mean, he was really obvious."

"Damn it," said Harry. "He's here. Did you get a good look at the guy?"

"Didn't get that close," said Bob. "Didn't want to be blatant about it, you know?"

"Yeah, of course.... Wait... what do you mean, the first one?"

Bob grinned. "There was a second car parked further down on Clifton watching the house from that direction. It was like a ninety degree triangulation thing. I didn't get close enough to see if it was a man or a woman inside, but there was a third car, Harry, and I'm pretty sure the person driving that one was a woman."

Harry took a moment and said, "Old, young?"

"Couldn't tell," Bob replied. "But the second car is gone now. That's where me and Snickers just came from." He pointed at the dog. "I suggest you get your crew assembled."

* * * * *

"Yes, Mushir, I am aware that this has gone on too long.... Yes, the team is being assembled as we speak.... No, I have not seen him, but by Mister Curlander's own words we will see him tomorrow and we will have that laptop in our hands by one o'clock. If all goes according to plan, he will be dead shortly thereafter.... Brennan? He has not returned my calls and the people at the bank say he has not been at work for the last two days.... Yes, Mushir, I understand that he has outlived his usefulness, but don't we need him to— Yes, Mushir, he will be next.... I understand, no more excuses.... Yes, I understand that there can be no witnesses.... Then they will all have to die."

* * * * *

Fighting Al arrived at quarter to ten and did just as Ducky had instructed. He parked his car almost three blocks east of the Hutchinson residence and walked back to his destination at 88 Jackson Street. Knowing what he did about the situation, he didn't question the stealthy procedure. Before he even got to the doorbell, some tall guy opened the front door for him and said, "Hi, I'm Bob ."

Eyeing the guy's Boston College baseball cap, Al said, "I'm Al Fiorello. Is Harry, uh...."

"In the kitchen."

Al made his way in and the pleasantries went quickly. Taking a cinnamon bun when it was offered, he looked guardedly at Harry when Bob pulled up a stool and sat with them at the counter.

"Al, it's okay," said Harry, taking a minute to explain. "He's here to help us."

Just like Fish the night before, Al looked less than pleased. His voice a coarse whisper, he said, "Harry, what are you thinking, bro? Do you remember the last time we met?"

"Al, I'm not senile. We met just the other day—at the ice cream shop."

"Right. And do you remember the initials of the government agencies that came up in that conversation? We can't be bringing innocent people into this." Al shot Bob a serious scowl and said, "Sorry Bob. I'm sure you're a great guy and all, but hey... no offense, okay?" Bob said nothing, his eyes like stones. Back at Harry, Al went on, "What if this thing goes south? This isn't like getting caught trying to fix a parking ticket."

Bob said, "Are you implying that our own government would come after us for trying to find out who killed Hutch?"

Al didn't reply.

"Al, what's going on here?" Harry asked.

Al looked from side to side. "That burner phone, the one that was used to call Hutch just before he died?"

"Yeah, the one that was being used by that agent Breckenridge...."

"Right. I was able to get some other numbers that received calls from that phone around the time Hutch died."

"Well fuckin' A, Al. That's what we've been after!"

Again, Al glanced at Bob. Not knowing how much he should say in front of the man, he said, "Harry, you're not getting it, man. We tapped into some databases that aren't exactly for public consumption to get that information. Some of those receiving numbers belong to other burner phones...." Al paused dramatically. "... and the calls went to Langley, Virginia." Al let it sit there so that Harry could absorb the full scope of what he'd just revealed.

Bob processed it faster and asked, "How many calls are you talking about?"

"In the days before and after Hutch died, a lot."

Bob kept probing. "How did you get this information?"

Al said, "I don't know specifically, and I don't want to know. All I can tell you is that it's reliable." He looked Bob in the eye. "I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't ask me any more questions about that."

Bob nodded but continued. "What about calls that weren't made to people at the agency? What can you say about those?"

Al pushed the cinnamon bun aside and pointed at Bob's baseball cap. "Boston College?" he presumed.

"Yeah, so?" Bob challenged.

"Did you belong to a house there?"

"Sigma Chi."

Al looked at Harry. "BC and a Sigma? Harry, are you sure about this?"

"Stop messing with the man," said Harry. "Bob and Hutch were tight."

"Whatever you say, Harry, but just knowing this information can be risky." Back at Bob he added, "I don't want to be putting you or your family into a situation you might regret later."

Bob took in Al's intensity and said, "Eyes wide open, Al."

Acquiescing, Al said, "This is where it gets a little more interesting. There were other calls that didn't go to the CIA but to another burner phone—located in Qatar."

"Qatar," Harry and Bob both said at the same time.

"Yeah, Qatar. As in state sponsored terrorism Qatar."

Summarizing for his own benefit, Harry said, "So we've got a CIA agent talking to his own people and to someone else in Qatar, all of it on untraceable burner phones." He paused. "I wonder who was setting up whom."

Al said, "Whether he did it on purpose or not, Hutch got caught in the middle of it and paid the consequences." Not able to shake his trepidation over Bob's presence, he directed his attention that way once again. "It's obvious that the people on either side of this thing don't have a sense of humor about it. Are you absolutely sure you want to get involved?"

Bob said, "I think if the situation was reversed and I was dead, Hutch would jump in up to his eyeballs." It was answer enough and Al finally looked away. Bob, however, was unyielding. "Did all of the calls go to phones located in Langley or Qatar?"

Ominously, Al replied, "All but one."

Harry said, "And?"

"As of this morning, one of them is here... in Cambridge."

Harry bet himself a nickel that the phone Al was talking about was inside a black BMW.

* * * * *

Ducky and Fish arrived after Al and they came together at 11:00 a.m. Along with Harry, that made four brothers. The significant others, which were Denise, Monica, and Sally, made seven. Bob and Laura made nine. Thanks to Al, however, Harry was thinking that Bob and Laura shouldn't play much of an active part in the operation outside of offering their home as a staging area. That in itself was proving to be valuable, but this was a brother thing. Some of them gathered over coffee in the family room while Bob and Laura ran a couple of errands as an excuse to give them some space. There was nothing to do now but wait, and none of them were good at it. It was a nice day and Monica decided to walk the dog. Al was flipping channels on the TV which was making Sally crazy; Denise was like a statue at the front window watching the clouds pass overhead; Fish finished reading one National Geographic cover to cover and picked up another one. Harry and Ducky were in the kitchen.

"When do we go over the game plan?" Harry asked.

"I say we wait to see if any of the other brothers show up," Ducky replied as he watched Harry pace back and forth. "It would be better if we knew what the team looked like."

Harry nodded and said, "Right, gotcha," but he continued to wear a path on the kitchen floor. "Do you think any of them will come?"

* * * * *

"I don't think they're in there," Lopez said into his cell phone. "I've been on my share of stakeouts, and I'm telling you that house is empty. What about the Audi?"

"It hasn't moved," said Pruitt. "I wonder where the hell Curlander and his wife could be."

"One thing is certain, we're not the only ones looking for them. That BMW was coming and going and changing spots all night."

"Yeah, I'm looking at it right now," Pruitt responded. "Whoever is in it probably had to go and find a place to pee every few hours. I'm tempted to go over there and roust the guy."

"You do that and you'll be signing Curlander's death warrant. They'll just pick another time and place. Are you sure he's in that house?"

Her frustration evident, "Where else would he be?" Pruitt asked.

"Maybe he's been staking out the Audi. Wasn't that your original theory? That he stuck his cell phone in there to lure his attackers into the open?"

"It's plausible," said Pruitt, "but he would have had come back to the house at some point to pee, wouldn't he?"

Lopez said, "All this talk about peeing is making me float. I think I'll take five and do that myself. There's a McDonalds on the other side of the park. Where are you? Do you want me to bring you back a coffee or something?"

"No, I'm fine. Go take your pee break."

"There you go again. And speaking which, here comes someone with that brown Lab dog again." Lopez paused. Like most experienced detectives, he didn't like anything that seemed out of the ordinary or at all coincidental. Things like that made him itch. "Tell me something, Pruitt. Do you have a dog?"

"With the hours I work? No way. My daughter has a dog," Pruitt added, figuring Lopez was driving at something.

"What kind of dog?"

"I don't know, some mixed breed they got from the pound. Part retriever, part Lab, I think. Why?"

"Big dog, right?"

"Yeah, pretty big, I guess."

"And how often does your daughter's dog have to pee in one morning?"

"I think they take him out once in the morning and again in the afternoon. What's up with the dog questions, Lopez?"

"This dog I'm watching has been taken out three times since I've been in this spot, each time by a different person. Seems to me that dog has to pee a lot."

"So?"

"So each person takes the dog past our surveillance house, but then goes in a different direction: one time into the park across the street, another time up Clifton Street, another time passing the house from the other direction. Then it's always back to the starting point."

"Which is?"

"That would be the house that backs up to our subject house, the one that had the big cookout party yesterday. Do you remember it?"

"Yeah, sure, the one on the corner of Jackson and Dudley."

"And here she comes back again," said Lopez. "Let's see what she does. Okay... she stopped walking... now she's waiting ... looking around... letting the dog pee in front of our house at 91 Clifton... looking around again... that's it, take your time... let the dog sniff.... There's definitely something going on with this dog walk thing, Pruitt. Where are you parked? Can you see what I'm talking about from where you are?"

"I'm half a block down, "said Pruitt. "I'm starting the car now and heading up to that corner. I'll be there in thirty seconds."

Lopez waited. "Can you see them? Red top, blue jeans, big ass brown dog...."

"Yeah, got it," said Pruitt, adding quickly, "Oh... my... God."

"What is it?" Lopez asked.

"The woman walking that dog does not live in that house," said Pruitt.

"How do you know?"

"That's Monica Brimton."

"Who the hell is Monica Brimton?"

"She's the ADA in my home district, and she's married to one of Curlander's buddies. We just found out where Curlander and his fraternity friends are located, Lopez, and you can bet they're up to something, all right."

* * * * *

Just as the clock struck noon, Harry said, "You wanted proof, right Monica, not conjecture. That's what you said eight days ago at Quattro Fratelli. Now I know what you just saw is not proof that Hutch was murdered, but is it proof enough that someone is trying to kill me?"

All eyes were on Monica, pressing on her. Ducky, however, was across the room messing around with his cell phone. "I'm getting there," she said tactfully, "and I know that my burden-of-proof rhetoric is the last thing you want to hear, but will you allow me to ask you a couple of questions? Please?" she added when she saw the exasperated look on Harry's face.

"I guess."

"First off, how sure are you that it's the same car that ran you off the road in Point Pleasant?"

"Oh c'mon, Monica. I didn't actually check the VIN number if that's what you're asking, but a black BMW... with Jersey plates? It has to be the same guy, and he's not here by coincidence. He's here because he tracked my cell phone and he's watching that house because he knows that's where Hutch lived. Don't you see? The phone signal is coming from a block away, but he's putting two and two together and figuring that's where I am. He's here to try to kill me again, and it could be the same guy who killed Hutch." Harry could see her hesitating. "What good are laws if they don't protect people? Does someone else actually have to die first before you'll consider doing something?"

"Unfortunately the law—"

"Screw the law for once, Monica. Are you in the protection business, or are you in the punishment business?" Ducky was hardly paying attention, Harry noticed, figuring he would try and defend his wife. No one else was saying anything either and it looked like Monica was on her own in this one.

"I'm not sure I understand the point you're trying to make," she said.

"I was hoping you could use the law to help protect me, but if you're in the punishment business I'm not interested in dying first so you can punish someone for breaking it."

Finally looking up from his phone, Ducky said, "Harry, I'm sure that—"

"Ducky, it's okay," Monica said to him, and she turned back. "What is it you want to accomplish, Harry?"

Her voice was low and soft, and it caught him by surprise. "What I want...." he began, thinking this was the first time he'd actually thought about something besides revenge, "... is to finish what Hutch started. That's what he would have wanted. I want to find a way to bring this whole thing crashing down and get all of the people involved in it to pay for the crimes they've committed. That's what I want."

"Okay," said Monica. "I got that out of you. What is it you're asking me to do as part of that?"

It dawned on Harry that she was asking two different questions. "Sally?" he called. "That IP address we discovered—"

"It's 66.221.137.945," she called back from memory. "I'll write it down for you." She did and handed it to Harry.

Harry choked back some emotion and said, "This IP address belongs to the person who hacked into Jerry Brennan's computer at the bank and was monitoring his email. We know the general location of this address is Washington, D.C."

Monica said, "Okay."

"It's my understanding that as a district attorney you have access to software that will give you this hacker's exact name and street address. That person will be at the center of this whole affair and will likely know everyone else involved in it, including the person who is sitting in that BMW out there and trying to hunt me down." Harry glanced at Denise as he uttered those last few words, then he handed the slip of paper to Monica. "Once we know this hacker's name and address, we can give that information to Tushy Wilcox who will be more than happy to get the folks over at FinCEN to knock on his door."

Monica smiled. "And the probable cause for getting that to happen will be the hack through the bank's firewall and into Brennan's email."

"That's right," said Harry. "This is the setup for FinCEN we've been looking for, and it'll be the biggest bust of your career."

As if they were watching a tennis match, all eyes turned to Monica. "But that's not why I'm doing this," she said to Harry.

"So you'll do it?"

"Yeah, I'll do it, but not because of what you just said. I'm doing it because Ducky is my husband and if he was in the same situation as you, I think you would do everything possible to help him."

Harry looked at Ducky who still seemed to be ignoring them. "I would," he said. "Without a doubt."

Monica said, "I'm not sure I understand it all, but you guys are lucky to have each other." She looked at Ducky, expecting some reaction, but he was still tapping away on his phone. "Ducky, did you hear what I said?"

"Huh? Yeah, lucky," said Ducky. "Real lucky."

"Who the hell are you texting?" Harry called to him.

Ducky looked up from his phone. "It's nothing," he said. "Don't worry about it."

* * * * *

They came from all over. Of the seven additional brothers that had attended the reunion, six of them heeded Ducky's call and dropped whatever plans they had for the Memorial Day weekend to lend a hand to a different sort of family, the brotherhood of Zeta Chi. Hutch had not died as a result of any myocardial infarction, Ducky had revealed to them—he'd been murdered. With the memory of the reunion and the image of Hutch's body slumped over inside his Mercedes still vivid in their mind's eye, he'd gone on to describe to each of them individually, in great detail, the incredibly complex tale of the crime that Hutch had discovered and how it led to his death. Sorrow, frustration, and anger all bubbled up in those conversations, but the primary emotion to surface was guilt, primarily because Ducky played Hutch's death like the Ace of Spades—the death card—and none of them wanted any part of it.

"Yeah, I know it's not your fault that Hutch died," Ducky had said when the conversation turned that way with each of them. "And I know you can't help it that the medical examiner ruled it death by natural causes, but Harry's neck is on the line now. Are we going to let him die too?" It worked. Doc Eisenberg took an early morning flight from Chicago. Bapple from Indianapolis. Zen Master took the train from Philly. Bones and Spike lived within driving distance and had come in the night before. Stokes was ninety minutes away from North Cambridge in Providence, and all of them were gathered in his family room late Sunday afternoon waiting for Ducky to call with instructions.

"What do we know about this?" Spike asked as he watched Stokes' eighteen-year-old daughter prance by on her way to the pool.

"Hey, square ass, that's my daughter you're looking at," Stokes warned when she cleared the room.

"Yeah, I know," said Spike. "I can't believe that came from you. You're starting to look like Rodney Dangerfield in your old age."

"She clearly takes after her mother's side of the family," said Zen Master.

Stokes shot back, "Ya' know Spike, I never figured you for the pony tail look. What shade of grey is that, by the way? Squirrel-tail or dirty snow?"

Doc just shook his head. "C'mon guys, can we get serious here?"

Bones was the first to admit it when he said, "You know, from the way Ducky described the situation, it sounded like there are some seriously dangerous people involved in this thing. Is anyone besides me a little nervous about what we might be getting into?"

"What are we getting into?" Stokes asked. "I'm still wrestling with the idea that Hutch was murdered like Ducky said."

Doc said, "Let me tell you about a conversation I had with Harry a couple of days after the reunion. Harry called to give me the information about Hutch's funeral.... He probably called all of you guys as well...." Grunts and uh-huhs all around. "Well, as part of that conversation he asked me if it was possible that someone like Hutch could die of a severe myocardial infarction out of the blue like that, with no warning signs whatsoever. I told Harry that sounded unusual all right, but I was a pediatrician and cardiology wasn't my specialty. As you might imagine that went over like a lead balloon with Harry."

"Good old Harry," said Zen Master. "He always was kind of single minded about things."

Resuming, Doc said, "Well, true to form, he leaned on me to check around with any cardiologists I might know and dig for an answer. Let me tell you what came from that. I guarantee this will creep you out." Doc went on to describe what he'd found out from Doctor Kadam and that he'd relayed the story to Harry the day after Hutch's funeral. When he was done, the other five brothers were all looking at him as if he had two heads.

Bones said, "You're shitting me, right Doc? Are you really trying to tell us that Hutch was zapped by some secret spy weapon that made his heart stop?"

Spike added, "Yeah, by little green government agents with big heads and yellow eyeballs."

Doc didn't laugh and held up his hands in self-defense. "Okay, all right, you can all laugh your butts off if you want, but this is documented stuff and it came from someone who seemed to know what he was talking about. Do any of you have another plausible explanation?" No one did, of course. "I, for one, think it's entirely possible that the technology exists that would make someone's heart stop from outside the body. Furthermore, I agree with Harry that there's no way Hutch died of a heart attack due to natural causes. Something caused it to happen."

Taking it all in, Zen Master tried to come to Doc's rescue. "You know, I don't think Ducky would get hip deep into this if he wasn't convinced that Harry was right. He's married to a district attorney, for Christ's sake. There's no way he'd call us in to help unless he and his wife were convinced that something really shady had happened."

Wearing his skepticism on his sleeve, Bones called from across the room, "Then why are we getting involved instead of the police handling it?"

"Because this is now a brother thing as much as it's a police thing," Bapple called back. "We made a lifelong pledge to help each other if we needed it, didn't we? We can't let Harry risk his life trying to find Hutch's killer without helping out in some way."

"Yeah, you're right," Bones responded, "but we were young and immature when we made that pledge, and I don't think anyone of us had this in mind." Bones looked around. "I know I didn't."

No one spoke for some moments. "Does that mean you're out?" Doc asked.

Bones considered the question. "Listen, I've taken our brotherhood seriously as you all did, and I've helped other brothers many times over the years, just as you all have, but this is different." He took a deep breath. "Is it all right if I say this is not something I want to risk my life over?"

It was Spike who said, "I think you're right, Bones, and I don't think Hutch would ever have wanted us to do that and would never have put us in that position. But, speaking for myself, I've already pissed off my wife over this, and I've already spent the time and money to get here, so I'm going to wait for Ducky to contact us like he said he would, and I'm going to at least listen to what he has to say. You've all come this far; what's another few hours?"

Chapter 23... Use Precaution

Pruitt said, "I've been ordered back to Northampton."

Lopez lowered the passenger side window and poured the rest of his coffee into the gutter. "What are you gonna do about the case?"

Behind the wheel, Pruitt yawned and stretched as best she could within the confines of the unmarked cruiser. After two and a half days and nights in basically the same position, she was starting to become part of the seat. "There's not much I can do. My CO gave me two days on this and I've already stretched it past three. I don't think he can cut me anymore slack than he already has." She gave Lopez a pleading look that needed no words.

"I know what you're thinking, but I can't," he said. "You had me for the weekend but I've got to start back on my own shift at noon today. I can hang with you until then." He glanced at the dashboard clock noting that it was just past 7:00 a.m. "Listen, there's definitely something going on here and I think you've got enough to get some backup from the Middlesex unit until you can convince your CO to put you on this full time. I know you'd rather poke yourself in the eye than hand this case over, but what choice do you have? I'd be willing to put in a word if that would help."

Pruitt considered his advice. "Let me think about it, but all that will take a couple of days to accomplish at least. Not only that, this is Memorial Day and I'm sure most of the Middlesex guys are off for the holiday. There's no way I'm going to get any backup today."

"You're probably right," said Lopez. "Has the BMW come back?"

Pruitt yawned again. "Not that I've seen."

"What about your ADA friend?"

"Monica? I haven't seen her or any of the fraternity guys anywhere, but I have a feeling she's around, all right. And where she is, her husband is, and so are Curlander and his wife. I gotta admit that they're doing a helluva job staying out of sight, but the Audi is still parked in the same place so they'll show themselves eventually. My gut tells me that something is about to come down, Lopez. Unfortunately we may not be here when it happens."

* * * * *

Fully dressed and freshly shaved, Ducky poured himself his second cup of coffee from the cheap in-room coffee maker while Monica took her time in the shower. Knowing that any of the other six brothers who'd made the trip to Stokes' house might call first thing, he wanted to be accessible and alert. From that perspective, the cheap hotel coffee didn't disappoint. He took a sip and grimaced; it was bitter and awful, and it was perfect for the job at hand. He took the hotel pad and paper from beside the phone, noting that it was almost quarter after seven. He started to review his plan in his head—what there was of it—reminding himself that it could change in an instant and that perhaps he should spend some time formulating a plan B, and then plan C, and D, E, F, and G. Then, he thought, who was he kidding? It could go terribly wrong no matter how much planning he did, and he had the overwhelming and uneasy feeling that it would. One of his best friends was already dead; who was to say that another brother wouldn't be by the end of the day? While remote, it was a possibility he couldn't ignore. Wouldn't it be a bitch if it turned out to be him? Still, that might be easier than facing the spouse of another of his Zeta Chi brothers having to explain what happened, let alone console her, for there would be no consoling. Hell, he was having a hard enough time with his own wife.

As he saw it, there would be two plans, one for the core group which consisted of Harry and Denise, for they were a single entity, himself, Fish, and Fighting Al. Monica and Sally he considered to be bench strength of which they could provide a significant amount, depending on their attitude. Surprisingly, he thought Sally seemed game for anything and might prove to be quite valuable. As for Monica, she couldn't let go of the legality of the actions they had taken up to now, and she would probably be just as reticent moving forward as evidenced by the huge argument they had over whether or not she should bring the Smith & Wesson automatic she was licensed to carry as an ADA and an officer of the court.

"That license to carry was not meant to be used offensively," she had argued.

"What the hell does that mean?" he had fired back at her.

"It means that I deal with a lot of bad people and I got that carry permit to protect myself in the event that I ever felt I was in danger. It was for self-defense, not self-offense."

"Okay, and what the hell does that mean?" he repeated. He certainly understood what she had just said, and he knew that with her job and her looks she attracted her share of weirdos who could very definitely be dangerous, but did she think his intent was to go out and gun somebody down? "We could be heading into a risky situation here. Don't you think we should at least have the opportunity to protect ourselves if it ever came to that?"

"That's just it, Ducky. It's not we, it's me. It's my permit, and my gun, not our gun. For you, using that weapon would be just as illegal as if you bought one on the street."

Up to this point, theirs was a marriage made in heaven. They'd never had a cross word with each other, and he felt that he was the luckiest man in the world having found a woman like her who actually loved him. He felt the pounding in chest as he said back to her, "You said we brothers were lucky to have each other, and I think you were right when you said that if I was ever in a position where my life was being threatened, Harry, and Fish, and Al and all the rest of them would do everything they could to protect me. That's what I'm going to do in return, and I'm going to follow through on this because we promised we'd be there for each other if the shit ever hit the fan. I hope you come with me, Monica, whether or not you bring that gun, but if you bring it, and I end up using it, even illegally, I'll be better off than being dead and being away from you."

Rather than being touched, however, she said, "You're such an ass," but she brought the gun with her and now he was looking at it while she was showering.

As for the second plan, that would be for the six brothers now gathered at Stokes' house in Providence. Now, he would have an additional six sets of eyes and ears and three cars at his disposal. Connected by cell phones, they could be a significant surveillance task force.

He heard the shower stop and a few moments later Monica came out of the bathroom with one towel wrapped around her hair and another wrapped around her body. Secured over her breasts, it barely covered her.

"Have you and Harry agreed on how all this is going to go down?" she asked.

Ducky walked up to her and reached over, undoing her towel and letting it fall to the floor. She looked into his eyes and made no attempt to retrieve it or pull away. He took a moment to stare at her naked body. "Not yet," he said. "There's something I have to do first."

* * * * *

Harry forced down a bite of his bagel and thanked Laura for the second time in five minutes for her hospitality over the last two days. He and Denise had slept in her guest room while Ducky and Fish and their better halves fended for themselves at local hotels. Al, he knew, lived seventy minutes away and had gone home the previous day after having revealed that whoever had spoken to Hutch just before he died had also made calls to CIA headquarters in Virginia and also to Qatar. The assumption was that that person was CIA special agent Breckenridge. At the moment, Bob was out walking his big chocolate Lab dog around the neighborhood, specifically to see if any of the cars he'd spotted over the weekend were still hanging around. He blew in just as Harry pushed his bagel away. Nothing tasted good this morning.

"Gone," Bob announced without any prodding. "Whoever was out there staking out Hutch's place over the weekend is nowhere in sight."

"Are you sure?" Harry asked as Denise came down from upstairs.

"I was out there for almost an hour," said Bob, "and I almost wore out poor Snickers. I was on the lookout now that I knew what to look for, and none of the cars we saw over the weekend were anywhere in sight."

"Huh, and why would they be?" Denise blurted out bitterly. "We set ourselves up like sitting ducks for them with that stupid letter to Brennan's email. We might as well be wearing a damned target on our shirts."

As Bob and Laura just looked at each other, Harry said, "And a fine good morning to you too, honey. Sleep well?"

"Oh, cut it out Harry. The more I think about what we're about to do, the more I want to end it."

"And that's exactly what I plan to do—today," Harry fired back. "Have some breakfast, sweetheart. No low blood sugar today."

"Don't be flip with me, Harry Curlander. Can't we do this another way?"

Surprised at her sudden change from her normally supportive demeanor, "We can discuss it when we get back into Hutch's house," Harry replied. "These nice people don't need to see us argue."

* * * * *

There was only a sliver of space on Clifton Street between the Hutchinson house and the hedgerow bordering the sidewalk where it would have been possible for anyone to see into the back yard. Navigating carefully, Harry and Denise snuck along and made their way back into the house, staying away from the windows once inside. Harry said, "First thing is we need to check those computers to see if anyone has tried to contact us about picking up that laptop today."

Denise was right behind as he walked into the home office and brought both computers to life. "What about what we were talking about, Harry? Now that the moment has arrived I'm not sure we should go through with this."

Harry looked into her eyes and could tell her emotions were bubbling. "What's the matter?" he asked, torn between wanting to listen to her and thinking he didn't need this right now.

"What if.... I mean...." She couldn't get the words out.

He took her hand. She was shaking. "You're thinking about the kids, aren't you?"

"Oh, Harry. What if we never see them again?"

Staring at the ceiling the night before while she was lying next to him, he'd had the same thought. What if this was it? Was this the way it was going to end for him? For both of them? How undignified. "Would you rather we be looking over our shoulders for the rest of our lives, not knowing if someone was around the corner waiting for us to step into their sights?"

"It wouldn't be for the rest of our lives."

"Then how long would it be? Do we really know? We don't even know who these people are, or what they look like. Who will protect us? Couldn't we even be putting the kids into danger? It wouldn't be hard to find out who they are and where they live. Could you risk that?"

She swallowed hard but didn't reply.

"We didn't do anything to get into this mess, Denise, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let someone else ruin my life like that. We don't deserve that."

"We don't deserve to be put into a situation like this either."

Harry nodded. "You're right, and if Hutch were here right now I might just punch him in the nose, but I don't think this was his intent. And how many times have we said to each other, and to the kids, 'Yeah well, shit happens. Deal with it.'"

The corners of her mouth curled. "Plenty," she admitted. "But it was never something like this."

Suzanne's computer was fully awake and he clicked on the Outlook icon and the email inbox. "You're right, it was never anything like this, but we have to live our lives under our control and not as victims of someone else's actions. Do you think anyone else is going to protect us?"

Being the skeptic she was, she said, "Not on your life."

"Then we have to do this ourselves and hope we don't mess it up." He paused. "I have to go forward with this, honey, but I'll understand if you decide not to."

She took a deep breath and wiped away a couple of tears. "You know I could never stand being away from you. Besides, if one of us is going to end up with a trophy spouse, I want to make sure it's me." It was a terrible joke, but she managed a half-hearted smile. "Is there anything in the inbox?"

Turning away from her, he answered, "No, not here, but we have to check Hutch's computer also." They did that, nothing there either. "Okay then," said Harry. "It looks like show time is at noon. We've got about four hours to get everyone in place. I wonder where the hell Ducky is."

* * * * *

"The laptop is supposed to be picked up at noon," said Ducky. "What time do you think you would be in the vicinity of Hutch's house?" He looked at his cell phone and noted that it was ten past eight.

Zen Master was on the other end of the call. "We're already close. I'd say we're half an hour out," he replied.

"Did you take three cars like I asked?"

"We did," said Zen Master. "Bones, Spike, and Stokes are driving, and I'm teamed up with Bones, Stokes with Doc, and Bapple is with Spike."

"Bapple and Spike are together?" said Ducky. "That should be interesting."

"Yeah, I figure Spike is educating Bapple on the spiritual aspects of nudist time shares."

Ducky chuckled. "Are you all together now?"

Zen Master said, "We just pulled off the highway to pick up some beer for the ride. Just kidding," he added quickly. "We stopped at a fast food place and figured we'd call in before going much further. What's the plan, oh great one?"

Ducky took a moment. "Before I get to that," he said lowly, "I gotta know about the commitment factor with you guys."

Zen Master said, "How do you mean?"

Ducky picked his words carefully. "With respect Zen, I think we're dealing with some really bad dudes here. You know that. If any of you guys are having second thoughts, it's probably best that you back away now."

Unbeknownst to Ducky, the six brothers were gathered inside Spike's Dodge Caravan minivan and they were all listening to the conversation. Zen Master looked at each brother in turn. His eyes holding steady on Bones, he said, "I think we all know what we're dealing with, Ducky." Bones didn't object or turn away. "But I think it depends on what you're asking us to do."

"I need you all to function as a surveillance and reconnaissance team. There are three targets that we need to find and keep track of."

"Hence the three cars," said Zen Master.

"Exactly. The first target is whoever comes to the house to pick up the laptop Hutch was issued at his bank. Whoever it is, they are coming as employees from the bank's human resource department, but that's all bullshit. Harry has rigged it so that they think the laptop contains information on some bank accounts that are being used as money laundering vehicles for the terrorist organization they work for. That's why they want that laptop back. What they don't know is that the laptop's hard drive has been erased."

"By whom?"

"That we're not sure about, but it doesn't matter. They think their money laundering channel is about to evaporate and they're willing to kill people to prevent that."

Zen Master arched his eyebrows and said, "Jesus, Ducky. All of a sudden Doc's secret weapon story doesn't sound so far-fetched after all."

"Not at all," said Ducky. "Harry has pretty much put it together that Hutch had discovered these accounts and was in the process of blowing the whistle to the feds on the whole thing. That's why he was murdered, and two other people at the bank are dead because of it as well." Feeling the uncertainty rise up again right through the phone, Ducky said, "When I used the word dangerous, I wasn't being dramatic. Should I continue, or do you guys want to rethink this? It you'd like, I'll give you a chance to talk it over and I'll call you back."

Once again, Zen Master looked from face to face and no one balked. "We're good, Ducky. Do you know who is supposed to pick up the laptop?"

"No clue," said Ducky. "That's what we need one team to focus on, and then that same team needs to follow the laptop to see where it ends up. We think it could lead us to the location of Hutch's killers."

Zen Master nodded to the other brothers and said, "Okay, got it. What's the second assignment?"

Ducky went on to relay how Harry's accident in Point Pleasant was no accident, and that the same car that had stalked him there was now stalking Hutch's house. In the background he heard someone say, "That means they're still after Harry."

"That's right," said Ducky. "We need the second team to find that car and let us know where it is at all times. Whoever is driving it still wants Harry dead, and that would obviously put a real damper on this whole party."

Zen Master chuckled. "Do we know what kind of car we're looking for?"

"It's a black BMW."

"Is it possible that whoever is driving that car is also the person who killed Hutch?"

"What do you think?" Ducky shot back. "If it's not, it's a slam dunk that the driver knows who did." He paused a moment and said, "Fucking bastard."

"Right on," said Zen Master. "What's assignment number three?"

"Harry thinks it's possible that a second car, and possibly even a third has also been stalking the house over the last three days, but we don't know anything else about that except that a woman was in one of them. We need the third team to be on the lookout for other vehicles and to find out who might be driving them."

"Okay," said Zen Master. "What kind of cars are those?"

"Don't know," said Ducky. "That's for you guys to figure out. Make sure you have each other's cell phone numbers in your contacts list, and don't get detected. If you ever think you're in an unsafe situation, haul ass out of there. I'll call you back in an hour after you've had a chance to plan things out."

"How much time do we have to get in place?"

"None. This show is already in progress."

* * * * *

Harry retrieved his duffel bag which he'd hidden in the crawl space beneath Hutch's and Suzanne's back porch. He'd figured that if someone broke into the house while he and Denise were at Bob's place they wouldn't think to look outside the house for the laptop, which he'd put inside the bag. He'd thought about taking it with him to Bob's, but that might have put innocent people in jeopardy and that was out of the question. He'd also put his Sig Sauer and Denise's PPK into the duffel bag after Bob had indicated that the weapons weren't invited to the barbecue on Saturday. The other item he retrieved from the duffel bag was the plain white envelope that had come from Hutch via Suzanne, and via Detective Pruitt. He dropped the envelope on the kitchen table and gazed momentarily at the message scrawled on the outside: _Harry, use precaution._ Next, he extracted the single sheet of legal pad paper listing what he now knew were account numbers being used at First International Bank to cloak the money laundering operation in place there. There were eight entries on the paper, each entry ten letters long, which he was now going to decode into numbers.

He found a pencil and wrote _P R E C A U T I O N_ at the top of the paper and then went back and wrote the corresponding number to each letter so that it read _P1 R2 E3 C4 A5 U6 T7 I8 O9 N0_. Five minutes later the eight gobbledygook letter combinations were translated into account numbers. He looked at the carrot clock on the wall and noted that it was twenty past eight. It was time to call Ducky.

Ducky was all business. "Hello Harry. I've been waiting for you to call."

"I have the coded account numbers deciphered."

"And?"

"I'd like to give them to Monica."

Ducky didn't ask why. "Hold on a second."

Harry could detect them exchanging a few words, which he couldn't make out. "Hello Harry," said Monica.

"I have the account numbers for you."

"So Ducky said. Why do you want to give them to me when you could call Tushy directly? Wasn't he supposed to get them to the FinCEN people?"

"You know how those politicians are, all promises, no delivery. Besides, I wanted to make sure these account numbers went to someone in law enforcement."

"So you're setting me up."

"How do you mean?"

"You're a sly devil, Harry. FinCEN _is_ law enforcement. By giving me these account numbers you make me responsible if this whole thing ever goes public and it's never been investigated."

"The same could be said if I called them in to Tushy. I'd like to think I'm handing you key information that would spawn the biggest investigation of your career."

"Harry, I've already told you that's not why I'm doing this."

"That's true, but you've been part of this the whole time and I think you should be prosecuting this case when the time comes. I'd appreciate it if you'd get these numbers to Tushy as soon as possible."

Monica took a deep breath and said, "Go ahead, I'm ready."

Harry gave her the information, coded and decoded, along with the key, and said, "By the way, I'm going to destroy these numbers when I hang up. I don't want there to be any possibility that these scumbags know that we have this information."

"Good idea," said Monica. "I know you're playing me, Harry Curlander, but I'll take care of this. You have my word on it."

"Thanks, Monica. I appreciate it. Can I talk to Ducky again, please?" When Ducky came back on Harry said, "Is everything all set?"

"Not quite," Ducky replied. "I'm still working on it."

"Will we be set up by nine o'clock?"

"Like I said, I'm working on it."

Harry ended the call and smiled across the table at Denise.

Seeing his mischievous grin and having listened to the conversation, she said, "So she knows you set her up."

"Like a bowling pin," Harry said as he got up from the table.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to Suzanne's computer to email these coded account numbers to myself before I destroy this paper. I'm not trusting anyone on this."

* * * * *

Ducky checked the time. It was quarter to nine and he had a couple more calls to make. The first would be to Fish, who, like everyone else he'd called that morning, answered on the first ring.

"I've been waiting," said Fish.

"Yeah, well, I've been busy. Are you and Sally still at the hotel?"

"We are," said Fish. "Are all the brothers on board?"

"Sounds like it, but I haven't spoken to Al yet. I suspect he's on the way. The boys from Providence are in route, three cars, and they have their assignments. They should be in the vicinity soon."

"How detailed did you get?"

"Not very. I just laid out the big picture and asked them to come up with their own plan on how they should conduct their assignments. I'm due to call them back in about half an hour to review what they've come up with."

Clinically, Fish said, "You know, if any of us are discovered, chances are that the dirty creeps will fold up and try something else to get to that laptop—and to Harry. We may not be around if that happens."

"Which means Harry will remain vulnerable. I get it, Fish."

"There are going to be a lot of us out there, Ducky."

Okay, there was something he wasn't saying. "This isn't the time to be vague, Fish. What are you driving at?"

"Well, I was thinking about our communication strategy."

"We don't have one, except for cell phones."

"Exactly. I have a suggestion."

Ducky smiled to himself. Mister Analytical to the rescue. "Okay, let's hear it."

"Do you think everyone involved has a smart phone?"

"In this day and age, sure, I'd think that would be the case, but if not, we're working in teams and one of the guys on each team is bound to have one."

"That means everyone would have access to the internet, right?"

"I suppose. C'mon Fish, you don't have to sell this. What are you getting at?"

"Well, if we set up an online meeting using one of those web conferencing services, everyone could be talking to each other at the same time."

"And in real time," Ducky added. "Fish, that's brilliant. There would be no need for phone calls back and forth."

"That's what I was thinking," Fish said modestly.

"Do you have access to a conferencing service we could use?"

"We can use my company's account. I've got Sally setting it up now on my laptop. We'll have a link and an access code set up for everyone shortly and I can text it out so they can log in to the conference. I've also taken the liberty of drawing up a zone map so that we can have an idea of where everyone is located. That way someone's left won't be someone else's right. Do you think that would be useful?"

Ducky looked at the phone. "That's a great idea, Fish. Did Sally think of all this?"

"She hasn't had time," Fish replied. "She was helping me with something else."

* * * * *

Ducky's last call was to Fighting Al. This would be a strange call, he thought. He couldn't get a read on Al, never could. Even during their days at John Adams he was hard to peg. With some of the brothers it seemed as if Zeta Chi defined them. That was hardly the case with Al. Unafraid to have an opinion and undaunted by those of the majority, if there was anyone at Zeta Chi that was his own man, it was Fighting Al who always seemed to be in someone's face or on the opposite side of the discussion. Hence, the nickname and hence the profession, thought Ducky, speculating as to Al's reasons for his allegiance to the brotherhood. Maybe his don't-give-a-shit attitude didn't go that deep. Maybe deep down he needed others to be on his side, or, more accurately, maybe he needed to be on theirs. Perhaps the approval of others meant a lot more to Al than he revealed. Like the other brothers Ducky had spoken to that morning, Al was ready for the call.

"My understanding is that you wanted everyone in place by 9:00 a.m. even though the laptop isn't supposed to be picked up until noon," Al said.

Anticipating an argument, Ducky said tersely, "That's right."

"Good thinking. If that laptop is as valuable to these fuckers as we think it is, chances are they're going to scout out the situation beforehand. They're not going to want any surprises."

Still somewhat guarded, Ducky said, "I figured that."

"Not only that, whoever is picking it up will probably have a backup team right behind them. If they smell a trap or something goes wrong, they're gonna go in like gangbusters and they're not going to be nice about it."

Ducky hadn't thought of that. "Thanks for the insight. I'll be sure to pass that along to the rest of the guys."

"To some degree, I think I already have," said Al. "I just talked to Spike."

"You called Spike?" Ducky questioned, again thinking he was being second guessed.

"He called me, actually. You might remember we were roommates back in the day and we still talk once in a while. He just wanted another opinion on all this. I hope you don't mind."

"Uh... no, right, I mean sure. Of course I don't mind."

"Ducky, listen, there's one more thing. These guys, whoever they are, more than likely they're gonna come in heavy."

"Heavy?"

"Armed, Ducky. I hope Harry and the rest of you guys are aware of that."

"Uh, well...."

"It probably doesn't matter. Even if the whole bunch of you were carrying, I doubt you'd be very effective."

"You don't know that," Ducky responded haughtily.

"Ducky, it's okay, man. Everyone's got different skills. But deep down you know I'm right, so I went out on a limb here and I brought along a couple of friends."

"Friends? What friends? What the fuck, Al?"

"Ducky, relax. It's okay, bro. They're just a couple of guys I know."

"Right, just a couple of guys. What guys?"

"Just a couple of guys who owe me a favor and whose skill sets are a little more aligned with the challenge at hand. You won't even know they're there. I guarantee it."

Ducky took a moment and tried to get himself off the ceiling. "Listen, Al, my wife is an assistant district attorney, for Christ's sake. If this thing goes south—"

"If this thing goes south Harry and his wife will be dead, and neither one of us knows what the fuck else could happen. If your wife is going to be with you, or if you're concerned about her getting caught up in something that will ruin her career, then get her the fuck out of town... now. The same goes for anyone else, brother or no brother. This is some serious shit that's coming down. Believe me, Ducky, if this thing goes south, you'll be kissing my ass in Macy's window for bringing these guys along."

Ducky felt his heart banging so hard that the buttons on his shirt were quivering. Taking a huge, shaky inhale, he said, "Should I tell the other brothers about this?"

Al said, "I wouldn't."

Chapter 24... Convergence In Cambridge

Sally set up the online conference and texted out the link and access code for everyone to join in. One by one, the brothers logged in and the plan looked like it was going to work. Everyone was live and after a couple of minutes of figuring out how to deal with the background noise, the group was looking at a street map of the surrounding area broken out into zones. The Hutchinson house at 91 Clifton Street was ground zero. The first point of order was who was going to direct the brothers' movements.

Harry opened the conference by bellowing, "What do you mean, I shouldn't be the one to run this setup? I've been living and breathing this investigation since the night Hutch was killed— _and_ , may I remind you, I was pretty much alone on this most of the way."

"Harry, listen—" Ducky began.

"Don't Harry me, Ducky. Most of you thought I'd gone off the deep end and now you want to take this away from me? Fuck that shit."

Ducky tried again. "Harry, nobody is trying to take anything away from you. Hell, if it wasn't for you, Hutch's killers would be getting off scot-free."

"No shit, and I'm still a target here, Ducky."

Raising his voice in return, Ducky bellowed back, "That's right, Harry, and do you think maybe Hutch was aware that he was a target also? Knowing Hutch, I'd bet he tried to handle it all himself just like you're trying to do, and look what happened to him." Harry didn't respond. "You've got to concentrate on protecting yourself, Harry. You should not be distracted from that by trying to direct this operation."

"Then who should be directing it?"

"Ah, guys, this is Al. Can I jump in here? Harry, with all due respect, I think that should be Fish." Utter silence blanketed the call until Al said, "Fish?"

More silence. "Fish, are you there?" said Ducky.

"I'm here," Fish croaked. He cleared his throat and said, "Al, are you serious about this?"

"You've always been the smartest guy in the room," said Al, "and I think we need someone like you who can look at things objectively and figure out what's happening, like, really quickly. You're that guy, Fish."

Ducky said, "Harry, what do you think?"

Hesitantly, Harry said, "Fish?"

Fish replied, "First off, I appreciate the confidence. Second, if I say yes, does that mean we can stop flapping our gums? It's already nine-thirty and we need to get everyone in place."

It took a moment but finally Harry said, "There you go giving orders already. I guess you're our boy, Fish. How do you think we should go about this?"

Fish said, "Okay, the house is ground zero. The way I see it, the three teams from Providence should form an outer surveillance ring. Can everyone see Zone One that is opposite the house and runs along Clifton Street? I think one of the Providence teams should monitor what's happening around the athletic fields and up and down the street. If it were me, I would assume the bad guys are going to set up opposite surveillance so you need to be creative about how you watch for them while they're watching for you."

Zen Master said, "Bones and I can take that. That okay with you, Bones?"

"No problem," Bones replied.

"Great," said Fish. "Now let's do the same thing for Zone Two to the north, which you can see runs along Harvey Street, and also for Zone Three to the south along Rindge Avenue. Who wants to take those?"

"This is Stokes. Doc, how about we take Zone Two?"

"Okay with me."

"That leaves Bapple and Spike for Zone Three," said Fish. "Is there any problem with that?"

Bapple said, "Okay with me as long as Spike stops asking about penis enlargement." A couple of nervous chuckles floated out.

"This is Al again. Maybe I shouldn't be asking this but I don't believe in being naive. Are any of you guys carrying any weapons?"

The tension was palpable. "I am," Harry said ominously. "Denise is as well. Three people are dead because of these guys and I intend to protect myself."

Ducky didn't say anything about Monica's Smith and Wesson.

* * * * *

Pruitt passed the interchange for I-495 on the Mass Pike when her cell phone rang. She figured it was either Caruso calling her to make sure she was on her way back to Northampton, or, if she was lucky, it was Lopez calling because he'd managed to get more time on the stakeout. It was neither.

"Catherine, it's Monica Brimton. Sorry to bother you on a holiday."

"No bother," said Pruitt, wondering if she should be cagey with the ADA or hit her between the eyes and ask what she was doing the previous day walking that big brown dog past Suzanne Hutchinson's house in North Cambridge. She decided to be half cagey to see if Monica brought it up. It didn't take long.

"Listen, Catherine, there's big trouble brewing on the Hutchinson case."

Oh, no kidding, Pruitt thought to herself, but she gave Monica some rope. "How so?" she asked, a wide open question, wide enough for Monica to maneuver around until she got to the point.

"I know you've been away from the case since that disaster with Officer Nekel back in Wallingham last week...."

How did she know about that, Pruitt wondered.

"... but the situation has escalated—in a big way," Monica added on.

"What's going on?"

"Harry... Curlander," Monica clarified, "has managed to organize his fraternity brothers to run a sting operation aimed at revealing the identities of Hutchinson's killers and where they are located."

"Uh-huh," Pruitt shot curtly, thinking: and what's your part in this? "And how exactly are they planning on doing that?"

"You remember the laptop you got from Suzanne, don't you, the one that belonged to Hutch?"

"Of course,"

"They've arranged for someone that they suspect is not from the bank to come to the Hutchinson residence to pick it up today at noon. Then they intend to follow whoever picks it up to see where it's delivered."

"And they figure that's the location of Hutchinson's killers," Pruitt presumed. "So Mister Curlander is going through with his plan to use himself as bait."

"Right. How do you know that?"

Evading, wanting to keep Monica talking, Pruitt said, "That's not important. You keep saying _they_. I assume _they_ refers to your husband and the other two fraternity brothers who were present at that Slick's bar in Wallingham last week."

"It's much more than that," said Monica. "There are another six brothers who've come in to participate in this crazy scheme."

Pruitt paused to consider what could happen when ten unpracticed, gung-ho, testosterone-enhanced amateurs went up against real criminals who had already killed people in perpetrating their crime. The picture that formed in her head wasn't pretty. "I assume your husband is still involved of this," she presumed.

"He is," Monica admitted. "And I think he's in danger."

"Then you need to get him out of there. Is he in Cambridge now?"

"Yes, but I don't think he's going to listen to me. I've tried to reason with him but it's no use. Actually, if something were to happen to him, I think I'd be partly responsible."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because I let him have my gun, and I wouldn't be surprised if some of the other brothers might be arming themselves."

Pruitt slammed on her brakes and pulled into the left emergency lane. "Hold on," she hollered into the phone. She flipped on her flashers and began looking for one of the emergency vehicle turnarounds that dotted the Mass Pike every few miles. "Listen to me," she snapped into the phone. "Get hold of your husband and get out of Cambridge right away."

"Wait. How did you know I was in Cambridge?"

"Never mind that. Just do what I said."

"I can't. I'm not in Cambridge. I mean, I was, but he sent me away and told me to go home. He said he didn't want me anywhere near there in case things got hairy."

"That's just wonderful," said Pruitt. "Listen, I'm less than an hour outside Cambridge and I think there's someone I can call at the local PD to maybe stop whatever is about to happen. Is all this centered around the Hutchinson house on Clifton Street?"

"I think so," said Monica, "but I'm not exactly sure that's where Ducky is going to be."

"Then call him and tell him the police are on the way. And tell him if he's found to be carrying that firearm illegally, he's going to jail." Pruitt ended the call abruptly hoping she'd scared Monica enough to do what she'd instructed. Not seeing a turnaround, she barreled across the median strip and hoped she wouldn't get stuck. Reaching the eastbound side of the Pike, she tried to call Lopez but it went to voicemail. Swerving violently back into traffic, she hit the siren and pounded the accelerator, but the burst of speed didn't last long. It was only ten o'clock in the morning but Memorial Day traffic heading back toward Boston was a bitch.

* * * * *

"Is everyone in place?" Fish asked.

The three outer surveillance teams all answered in the affirmative. At the moment, Zen Master was standing off Clifton Street on the north end next to Russell Field, and Bones was in his car at the south end near where Clifton Street dead ended into Rindge Avenue. There the cars were forced to turn left or right and it was easy to notice any repetitive action.

To the north the team of Stokes and Doc were watching what was happening along Harvey Street, which was also a one-way street making it easy to detect any repeat travelers there also. To the south the third team of Bapple and Spike were scoping things out from outside bagel shop near the corner of Rindge and Jackson Street with Spike's minivan parked only twenty feet away. Ducky, who had no car because Monica had taken it, took Denise's Audi from its location on Jackson Street and was parked a hundred yards north of the Hutchinson residence on Clifton Street. In the center console next to him was Monica's Smith and Wesson M&P automatic.

Fighting Al asked if he could take a post inside Russell Field. While Zen Master and Bones were monitoring what was happening on Clifton Street, he wanted a more direct view of the house. The feeling was that if the BMW showed up—of which it was consensus that it probably would if the bad guys were convinced that Harry was in the house—he wanted a clear view of it. When the topic of watching for the BMW came up, Al simply said, "Let me take that. I'll find out who this motherfucker is." No one objected and so it went, but Ducky took Al's advice and didn't tell anyone that Al didn't come to the _soirée alone._

Harry and Denise were inside the house, guns loaded, and Hutch's Mercedes was in the driveway unlocked and facing forward so that a quick exit wouldn't be a problem should it become necessary. Two miles away, Fish and Sally were in their hotel room using the hotel's free Wi-Fi to host the conference call.

"Remember," said Fish, "the goal here is to find out where that laptop ends up. Both Ducky and Al have a direct view of the house and should be able to tell us what kind of car the perpetrators will be driving. Harry will let us know when he's handed over the laptop so we can follow them. Clifton Street is one way, so the car will go south and turn either left or right on Rindge. Bapple and Spike will be the first team to pick up the car from there. Zen Master and Bones will catch up and will be the second team to follow once they are in place. As soon as we get another team behind them, Zen Master and Bones will peel off and the third team will take their place. With Ducky and Al, we've got four, possibly five vehicles available to follow the laptop to its destination."

"What do we do then?" someone asked.

Sally jumped into the call and said, "Give us the address. There are a couple of ways we can find out who is at that location."

To this point, Harry hadn't said a word. "That isn't going to work," he said.

"Why not?" said Fish.

"Because the laptop is secondary. Whoever shows up will be here to kill me. They also think Suzanne will be here, so they will probably be prepared to kill her too so as to not have any witnesses. There's no way they're going to leave with that laptop before we're dead."

"Let's not think that," said Fish.

* * * * *

Harry picked up his Sig Sauer P320 and hefted it as if it was the first time it had ever been in his hand. He'd put a few hundred rounds through it on the range and knew the gun was more accurate than he was. Denise was watching him. "What?" he said.

"I was about to ask you a stupid question."

"Which is?"

"What did we do to get into this mess?"

The cell phone was between them on the kitchen table and the conference call was live, meaning that everyone could hear them. Harry reached over and pushed the number six button, putting it on mute. "We were just living our lives, darling. I don't think we did anything."

"Oh, but we did," said Denise. "We got involved."

Harry knew exactly what she was driving at. "It doesn't matter. If we had walked away from Hutch's death like everyone else was prepared to do, we'd be in a worse situation. Those killers think Hutch gave me the account information before he died. If we hadn't gotten involved we would have had no idea that they were after us. We wouldn't even have had a chance to protect ourselves." She was looking him right in the eye and he looked her right back. "I don't regret what I did."

She shook her head and said, "I knew you were trouble from day one. That nice guy exterior was all show."

"It worked, didn't it? I got you to go out with me."

She smiled and came to him. "I never would have if I'd known how arrogant you are."

Harry held her and reached over to the cell phone at the same time, taking it off mute.

"Harry... Harry are you there?" It was Ducky's voice.

"Yeah Ducky, I'm here. What's up?"

"You know the cell phone you had inside Denise's car?"

"What about it?"

"The battery was just about dead and I figured it might be good to put it on the charger, so I did."

"So?"

"So it's been ringing."

Harry looked at Denise and said, "Jesus, Ducky. So answer it."

"I did."

"So who called?"

"CIA Special Agent Breckenridge. He said you should call him."

* * * * *

"Let me have your cell phone." Denise handed it over and Harry dialed the number he'd just gotten from Ducky. Not knowing what Breckenridge wanted to say, he went into another room so the brothers on the conference call wouldn't hear.

"Hello."

Harry noticed that his hand was shaking. "This is Harry Curlander."

"Where the hell are you?" Breckenridge asked, not so nice-like.

Remembering Denise's distrust of the man, Harry said, "Why do you want to know?"

"Listen, Mister Curlander, I don't know what you're trying to do here, but I'm trying to protect you."

"You have a funny way of showing it. I don't like it when people try to screw me over, Breckenridge. Why didn't you tell me it was you talking to Hutch just before he died? Were you trying to protect him just like you're trying to protect me now?"

"Actually, yes," Breckenridge asserted. "We knew they were after Hutchinson, and we became aware of the plot to murder him, but we couldn't deploy assets quickly enough to prevent it. My call was to warn him, to tell him to get himself out of sight."

Harry did a mental double take and his mind raced to digest what Breckenridge had just said. "Are you saying you told him he was about to be killed?"

"I did. I don't know if he didn't believe me or if he was just being macho, but he said he'd had plans for that evening for the last six months and he wasn't about to cancel them."

The reunion, thought Harry. The reality that Hutch died because he wanted to be with his fraternity brothers hit Harry like a brick to the head. "Did he know who you were? I mean, that you were with the CIA?"

"Of course. We'd had several conversations up to that point after we found out he was working with the FinCEN people. That investigation crossed paths with ours when we discovered that the plans needed to build the radio frequency weapon that killed him had been stolen, and that the weapons were actually being used."

Recalling the information Doc had given him from Doctor Kadam as well as his conversation with Walter inside Slick's bar, Harry asked, "How the hell did they get hold of that technology? I happen to know it was all top secret stuff."

"I don't know how or what you know, Curlander, but in this business nothing is top secret forever. Money talks, unfortunately, and these terrorists got plenty of it right now."

"You're a real prick, Breckenridge. It sounds like you were letting me be bait so you could lure Hutch's killers out into the open. It also sounds like maybe you fucked up and did the same thing with him so you could solve your weapons case."

"You're wrong, Curlander. I would never do that. I told you, I was trying to protect him once we discovered that the terrorists knew about the FinCEN investigation. Personally, I think they had someone working inside the bank who was feeding them information."

"How did you know they were going to use one of those weapons on Hutch that night?"

"Listen, Curlander, I don't have time to go into every detail, and I certainly don't want to discuss that over the phone. All you need to know is that we have assets in Qatar that have been monitoring this terrorist group at that end for months. That's how we became aware that Hutchinson was going to be hit that night, and it's the same way we know they're coming after you now." Breckenridge paused but resumed when Harry didn't say anything to refute him. "That night, when Hutchinson went back to his car, I think I finally convinced him to get out of there, or maybe he saw them coming. I'm not sure which it was but I was too late by only a few seconds. I don't want the same thing to happen with you. Now, tell me where you're located and we'll get someone out there as soon as possible."

Harry considered the situation and the lives of his wife and his Zeta Chi brothers. Could he risk their lives any further? "I'm in North Cambridge," he said.

"Cambridge? You're not in Jersey?"

"No, I'm at the Hutchinson residence."

"Shit," said Breckenridge. "I'm in our Boston field office. What's the address there?"

"91 Clifton Street."

"Sit tight, Curlander. I'll be there as soon as I can."

Harry walked back into the kitchen and put Denise's cell phone on the table next to his own, which was still carrying the conference call. He looked at Denise and said, "That was Breckenridge."

Denise said, "I know. You know I don't trust that man."

Having heard their voices come through on the conference call, Ducky asked, "Harry, what happened with Breckenridge?"

Harry didn't get a chance to answer due to the fact that Stokes' voice cut sharply into the call. "Uh, guys, this is Stokes. I think something is happening."

As if the air itself was suddenly electrified, Fish came back on. "Okay, everyone stay cool. Stokes, tell us what you see."

"Uh, I don't know who this Breckenridge is or whether that's important, but Doc and I are up on Harvey Street and there's a white van coming past us for the third time now. Harvey Street dead ends into Clifton Street and it should be making a left there in about ten seconds."

"I see it," Zen Master cried out from his position in Russell Field. "It's coming around the corner right now."

"Stay calm," said Fish. "Ducky, that van is right up the block from you and it should be coming past you next."

"Right," said Ducky. A moment later he said, "I see it now." The conference call went completely silent as he watched the van come toward him in his side view mirror. Seconds seemed like hours. Inside the Audi, Ducky folded himself down low, below the window line and waited until the white van rolled by, bumping along over the filled in potholes. "It just passed me," he whispered into his phone. "It's going right by the house now."

"Harry, can you see it from inside?" Fish called out.

Harry was already peeking through the blinds on the front window. "I just barely caught the back end of it as it passed. Who is stationed at the lower end of Clifton Street?"

"This is Bones, and that would be me. I can barely make out a white van in the distance but I think it's coming toward me. Yes, here it comes. Sit tight for a minute." Again, the conference call went completely silent. "It's getting close," said Bones.

"Can you see inside?" Fish asked. "Can you see people?"

Excitedly, Bones said, "I see two guys. It's passing right by me, making a left onto Rindge Avenue. Wait, there's a sign on the door, looks like one of those magnetic signs. It says _John's Carpet Cleaning_ on it."

"Maybe they're looking for an address," one of the brothers said without identifying himself.

"This is Al. How many carpet cleaning businesses work on Memorial Day?"

"This is Sally. Is there an address or phone number on the sign? If so, I can find out if the business is legit."

"No, definitely not," said Bones. "Just _John's Carpet Cleaning_ and nothing else."

"What kind of business doesn't put a phone number on their sign?" Sally asked.

"Yeah," said Al. "What's wrong with that picture?"

* * * * *

Harry looked at the carrot clock noting that it was five after eleven. If all went according to plan, whoever was coming to pick up the laptop would be there in less than an hour. Pacing back and forth, thinking about his conversation with Breckenridge, he figured it might be a good idea to stay away from the windows. His hands sweating, he wiped them on his pants and put his pistol on the kitchen table. Maybe setting himself up as the mouse rather than the cat wasn't such a good idea. Denise was in the other room playing solitaire on Suzanne's computer—her way of dealing with the situation.

After a long period of silence, Fish said, "Everyone check their phones to make sure you're not running out of juice. You might want to use a charger if you have one."

"Are we just gonna sit around and wait?" someone asked. "Maybe we should track down that van and see who's inside."

"Don't," said Al. "Whoever is in that van was doing reconnaissance. If they spot you nosing around you'll spook them and that could scare off whoever is coming to pick up the laptop."

"I think Al is right," said Fish, "but how do we know that we haven't been detected already?"

"Bob," said Harry.

"What about Bob?" Fish questioned.

"He spotted the BMW Saturday morning when he was walking his dog. Bob is part of the neighborhood; he belongs here. We should ask him to take a long walk with the dog again and see what he might pick up. Isn't that what you said, Fish? Be creative about how we watch them because they could be watching us?"

"Something like that, yeah."

Al said, "Who the fuck is Bob?"

"Hutch's neighbor," Harry replied. "He'll be the guy with the Boston College hat walking a big brown Lab dog. He's one of us."

"Really? We're gonna use a Boston College guy?"

Five minutes later Bob and Snickers were walking west on Dudley Street where they entered Russell Field and disappeared. At eleven thirty-one, having returned from his recon mission with Snickers and being careful to not be seen from the street, Bob walked across his back yard, through the hedgerow to the Hutchinson house where he knocked softly on the patio door. Harry opened it and Bob said, "The BMW is back, and the white van with the carpet cleaning sign is parked up on Harvey Street with four guys hanging around it smoking cigarettes. They don't look like any carpet cleaning guys I've ever seen."

* * * * *

"This is Zen Master. Harry, I think you've got company coming your way."

Harry looked at the carrot clock. It was five after twelve noon.

He didn't say anything, but Fish said, "What d'ya got, Zen?"

"Two cars, one dude in each car. No wait, one of the dudes is a woman. They're looking around like they're searching for something. Not what a resident would do. Oh-oh.... _Shit!"_

"Zen Master, what's the matter?"

"One of the cars is stopping and the guy is looking right fucking at me. What do I do, man?"

Quickly, Fish said, "Doc, Stokes, are you guys still up on Harvey Street? Get in your car and get onto Clifton Street and pick up Zen Master. Everyone be cool. Zen, just get in the car when they get there like you were waiting for a ride."

"This is Doc. Sixty seconds, Zen Master. Be ready."

Zen Master stepped to the curb and looked up Clifton Street with his phone to his ear the whole time. "The bastard is still looking at me," he said as he saw Stokes' car coming toward him at a brisk pace.

"Just get in the car and see if he follows you," Fish instructed. "What happened to the car with the woman in it?"

"It kept going down Clifton Street."

"Fish, this is Ducky and I'm still in the Audi. I think it just passed me. I can't see it anymore so it must have pulled into a parking spot up ahead of me."

Harry said, "Suzanne mentioned that the person who originally called her about picking up the laptop was a woman. This could be it."

"Okay, all you outer teams remember the plan. We've got to find out where that laptop ends up. Are you guys ready to follow that car?"

"This is Spike. Me and Doc will go to Clifton and Rindge and we'll be waiting for it."

"This is Bones. I'll meet up with Spike at the same location."

Fish said, "Stokes, why don't you do likewise and all three teams can wait there. As soon as that laptop is picked up, that car will be heading south Clifton and making a turn onto Rindge. Ducky, what kind of car are they looking for?"

"It was a grey Chevy, plain looking. Wait, looks like someone is walking toward the house now."

"Denise," Harry called out, but she was already by his side. Per the email he'd sent to Jerry Brennan two days earlier, Suzanne was also supposed to be present and Denise would play the part. The laptop was sitting on the kitchen table next to his Sig Sauer and her Walther PPK pistols. Denise put the Walther into her handbag on the kitchen table and took a seat. Harry put his Sig Sauer into his waistband at the small of his back and covered it with his shirt. He took a deep breath and waited for the doorbell to ring, which it did seconds later. Cautiously, he reached back and put his right hand on the butt of his pistol and opened the door with his left. He didn't know what to expect, but this wasn't it.

"Hello Mister Curlander," said Detective Pruitt. "May I come in?"

* * * * *

Pruitt said, "You're risking innocent lives, Mister Curlander, including your wife's."

Harry glanced at Denise, knowing she wasn't going anywhere regardless of what Pruitt said. "How do you know anyone else is involved?" he asked, trying to be sly, but it didn't work very well.

"I got a call from Monica Brimton. She told me what you and your foolish friends are up to and she's worried about her husband. Can't say as I blame her."

"Yeah, got that," Harry snapped out. "If you guys had investigated Hutch's death like you should have, we wouldn't be sitting here having this pleasant little conversation."

"That's a low blow, Mister Curlander, and you know it."

Glancing again in Denise's direction, his eyes landed on the cell phone sitting on the table in front of her and he wondered how much of the conversation was getting out to the rest of the brothers. As if she was reading his mind, Denise picked it up and took it off speaker. With the guilt eating at him like acid, remembering the conversation he'd had with Breckenridge earlier, Harry called to her, "No, let them hear. They have a right to know what's happening."

Denise came to him and gave him the phone as she shot a defiant look at Pruitt. "This is Harry," he said to the brothers. "The woman who came to the house is Detective Pruitt of the state police and she wants us to disband immediately." No one said anything. Seeing Pruitt's curiosity, Harry said to her, "We're all on a conference call together."

"Very clever," said Pruitt. "How many of you are there?"

"It's all the brothers you talked to at the reunion the night Hutch was killed," said Harry, "plus a couple of other people who are helping out."

"Can I talk to them?"

"If you like." He handed her the phone.

"This is Detective Catherine Pruitt. This is not like TV, people, and you need to stop trying to be heroes. Not only are you putting your lives at risk, you are interfering in an official investigation."

"Official investigation—when did that happen?" one of the brothers asked without identifying himself.

"I'm ordering you to stop what you're doing," said Pruitt. "Outside of the fact that some of you are probably carrying firearms illegally, as of right now no other laws have been broken and I'm willing to look the other way on that as long as you all just get in your cars and go home. I promise that I will investigate this case until those responsible for your friend's death are brought to justice." She looked at Harry.

He took a moment and looked at the carrot clock on the wall, noting that it was now ten after twelve. "You know," he said to Pruitt, "that's all we wanted from the very beginning."

"I know," she said. "I'll find Hutch's killers and they'll pay for what they did."

It was the first time he'd ever heard Pruitt refer to Hutch by that name as opposed to Mister Hutchinson. Maybe now it was getting personal for her too. Taking the cell phone back, he said to her, "Someone pretending to be from Hutch's workplace was scheduled to come here ten minutes ago to pick up his laptop. We figured we'd follow them to see where they delivered it. Our thinking is that's where Hutch's killers are located."

"I know that," said Pruitt. "ADA Brimton has filled me in on the plan and I've got a detective from the Cambridge police department positioned to take the place of your fraternity brothers to do the same thing. We'd probably be better at it than you," she added smartly.

Harry smiled cynically and said into the phone, "What do you guys think?"

There was some hesitation until Fish said, "This is Fish. I think what you said is right, Harry. Getting the police to investigate was our original intent. If what the detective said is true, then we've succeeded in our mission. I guess the cavalry has arrived."

In the background Sally cried out, "Damn, and this was just gettin' good."

Harry said, "I can't ask you guys to do any more than what you've already done. Why don't you all find a place nearby where you can raise a glass in Hutch's honor. I'll stay here with the detective until the laptop is picked up and I'll meet up with you later."

"Ah, guys, this is Ducky. I hate to spoil your plans but I don't think you're going to have time for that."

Knowing Ducky as well as he did, Harry could hear the stress in his voice. "Ducky, what's going on?"

"I'm still parked on Clifton Street and the carpet cleaning van just shot past me. I got a bad feeling about this, Harry."

Quickly, Harry went to the window and parted the mini blinds. "I see it. It's stopping."

"Oh shit!" Ducky screamed. "They got guns, man! They're coming at you, Harry!"

The first burst of three shots ripped right through the door handle on the front door, annihilating it. Pruitt was the first to react, shouting, "Down, down!" Whatever else she might have said was drowned out by the sound of a battering ram crashing into the door, all but knocking it off its hinges. Harry hit the floor immediately, his first thought being to protect Denise. In a split second, he glanced at the spot where she'd been sitting at the kitchen table, but the chair was already empty. Having no choice but to direct his attention to the front door now, he instinctively pulled his Sig Sauer from the small of his back but Pruitt was already in the process of pumping four rounds into the open doorway. The sound of her weapon was incredibly loud, unlike the muffled shots that destroyed the door lock. Those sounded like apples smashing on the sidewalk.

Pruitt moved toward the door rather than away from it, lumbering rather than gliding, crashing herself into the wall right next to the door. By the time Harry figured out what she was doing, he spotted the body of one of the attackers that had fallen in the doorway at her invitation. Pruitt was right next to the door now, parallel to it and not in the direct line of sight of whoever might be coming through next. All that happened in seconds, and Harry could see another attacker, his weapon shouldered, charging over the fallen body lying in his way. The attacker pulled the trigger on his silenced weapon as he rushed in, spraying two three-round bursts indiscriminately at anything in front of him. Harry and Pruitt fired at the same time, his bullet blasting the man's right kneecap almost off his leg, hers piercing a lung from the side. The man fell in a wriggling heap right in front of Harry, coughing blood at him.

"Denise! Denise!" Harry screamed as he struggled to get up, but there was no response. With his weapon still pointed at the front door, he moved to one knee and collapsed immediately as pain knifed through him from his leg to his spine. Looking down, he was surprised to see his pants red with blood and a pool of it forming beneath him. He could hear gunfire from outside the house now, not close, followed immediately by more sickening three-round bursts. Expecting another attacker to come through the door, he forced himself up and moved out of direct line of sight of the entrance, dragging his useless leg as if it was a sack of mud.

Seeing him, Pruitt made a move toward him just as unheard bullets ripped through the woodwork near her sending splinters flying like shrapnel. It was hard to tell if she dove or fell, but she began to crawl across the floor toward him just as a barrage of gunfire sounded from outside the house, three shots, then two, then several more, all perceptibly different weapons. A dozen bullets plinked into the house in rapid succession like rain.

The result was a frantic exchange of voices from just outside the front door. The attackers were yelling at each other, not in English, their words punctuated by bursts from their automatic weapons and followed by yet more return fire from further out. Two of their comrades were down and now they were caught in between a crossfire from inside and outside the house.

Harry heard Pruitt scream, "Get away!" and she strained to pull herself to her feet to come to him. Her back to the front door now, she was vulnerable, and her eyes were on him.

"No! There's more of them," Harry yelled back, remembering Bob's report that he'd seen four guys standing around the van when he'd spotted it on Harvey Street. The gunfire from outside the house actually intensified and he could hear more bullets peppering the area around the front door. "Drop your weapons," someone shouted, but the call was returned by more bursts from the attackers' weapons and Harry knew instinctively what would happen next.

"Turn around!" he screamed at Pruitt as he tried to raise his weapon, but she didn't do it fast enough, and neither did he. The attacker was inside the door before he had his Sig Sauer to eye level and three hiccups from the scumbag's weapon sounded before Harry could get a shot off. The bullets strafed the wall next to Pruitt as she turned and rolled, and the wild-eyed attacker drew down on her for another burst. In a millisecond, before he could pull the trigger, two high-pitched pops from Denise's Walther PPK sounded almost simultaneously. The bullets penetrated his chest as his expression went from extreme anger to panic. In an instant she put another bullet into his neck and proceeded to empty the rest of her seven-round magazine into what was behind him. A moment later the fourth assailant fell dead on top of the first one that Pruitt had dropped in the doorway.

Chapter 25... The Thirty-First Reunion

Monica leaned over and said quietly, "Ducky?"

"Yes dear."

"Al is staring at me again."

"He can't help it, dear. He thinks you're gorgeous, and sexy, and brilliant, and frankly so do I." Being obvious about it, he kissed her just to let Al know who she was with. "You can make him stop, you know."

"How?" Monica asked. Ducky whispered something in her ear and she smiled wickedly. "Good idea," she said as she took a healthy gulp of her gin and tonic. "Watch this."

Sitting next to her, Sally said, "Where is she going?"

"Just watch," Ducky replied. "This oughta be good."

The table of revelers watched as Monica marched bravely across the floor to where Al was leaning up against the bar. Chest out, she said something to him and pointed at it with both index fingers. Even from across the room it was easy to detect Al's face turning eight shades of red as he put his hands up in denial and attempted to back away, knocking his drink over in the process. Mission accomplished, Monica came back and bowed to the applause.

"What did you say to him?" Sally asked as she snickered into her beer.

"I said, 'I notice you've been checking them out, Al, so what d'ya think? Real or fake?'"

"You guys are bad," said Fish. "Very bad. Where did Harry and Denise go?"

The drinks were flowing and the fun was echoing as the brothers gathered once again inside Slick's, but it was a different sort of reunion this time, bittersweet, with the possibility that there was more bitter than sweet in the situation. The summer had passed in fits and starts since that awful Memorial Day, mostly due to the ongoing investigation into what had happened at 91 Clifton Street that caused five people to die that day.

Yes, there were five, the fifth person being the man no one could identify, the man who was found a few yards away from a black BMW sedan parked in a wooded thicket near Jerry's Pond, which was adjacent to Russell Field. There was no wallet or ID on the body, and the car was parked so that whoever had been driving it had a direct view of the Hutchinson house. Some binoculars were found inside the car, but nothing else except the dead guy's fingerprints. That was three months ago and now it was Labor Day weekend, and neither Fish nor Harry volunteered the fact that the deceased was the same man that had been introduced to them as Brendan Phillips at Hutch's wake. Harry was also quite sure it was the same man who had forced him off the road back in Point Pleasant, as well as being the same man who had tracked him to this very same spot on the night of May 20th when he, Ducky, Fish, and Fighting Al had gathered in this same room to discuss their plan for tracking down Hutch's killer. Harry had almost put a bullet in him from Indigo's .45 that night, and clearly someone had done the job a week later, but no one knew who that someone was, supposedly.

"What makes you think I was there?" Fighting Al had said when he was questioned by Detective Lopez of the Cambridge police two days after what had been labeled in the media as the _Memorial Day Massacre_. "I have no idea how the scumbag died. Maybe it was an accident or something."

"Yeah, or something," Lopez said sarcastically. "Richard Swan is your friend, right? I think you guys call him Ducky."

"Yeah, so?"

"So he says you were at the scene that day. He says further that two other guys were with you who weren't fraternity brothers. Maybe one of them knows something about how the guy in the car died."

"I think Ducky must be mistaken," Al maintained. "Did he actually see me that morning? I think I was at the beach that day, as I recall."

"The beach," said Lopez. "And I'm sure you're going to tell me that you were all alone—at the beach."

"Yeah, that's right. I was alone, doing some surf casting at the Cape."

"You weren't on Clifton Street with these two so-called _friends?"_

"What friends? Did anyone see these _friends_ you keep talking about?"

Lopez knew when he was being stonewalled. "It's a known fact that you've represented some members of the Mazzone syndicate in Springfield, Mister Fiorello. Could these friends of yours perhaps be associated with your clients' business?"

"Everyone has a right to counsel, Detective, and my clients run a legitimate meat packing business. Now, unless you can produce an eye witness that puts me at the scene of this horrible event, I need to get back to Springfield. I'm afraid Ducky's memory is playing tricks on him. He's not as young as he used to be, you know. By the way, about the dead guy, was he one of the scumbag terrorists they wrote about in the paper?" No one was able to put Fighting Al or his _friends_ at the scene, and half the bullets that were recovered from the gun battle were never matched up to weapons found there, including the two bullets that killed the driver of the BMW.

Once the laughter stopped after Monica had turned Fighting Al into a tower of Jello, Fish got up and called for quiet. "I've got something to announce," he said shyly, "but before I do has anyone seen Harry and Denise? I'd like them to hear this." No one responded, so Fish shrugged and said, "Sally and I have decided to get married."

Zen Master said, "Like no one saw that coming."

"Hey Fish, can you say _yes dear!"_ Spike called out, and Sally greeted him with a one-finger salute.

There were congratulations all around and good times were being had by all, including Senator Wilcox who had made it up from D.C. for the event. The information that ADA Brimton had supplied him was tied up in a neat little bow and passed on to the FinCEN people at the Treasury Department, revealing the complex money laundering scheme being perpetrated inside First International Bank. It also revealed a sophisticated cyberterrorist cell that was operating above a halal butcher shop in northeast D.C. which had hacked into FIB's system to manipulate tens of millions of black market dollars coming through the bank as payment for oil shipments from terrorist-controlled oil fields in Syria. In addition, the cell had set up an internet-based market for sophisticated weapons coming from underground factories in India and Mexico. Tushy said it was basically a Paypal setup for everything from guns, to missiles, and even planes and tanks, all tied to bank accounts all over the world. Evidently the weapon that killed Hutch wasn't that hard to get.

The Gang of Six, as they'd come to be called—Zen Master, Doc, Bapple, Spike, Stokes, and Bones—were never even questioned by Detective Lopez basically because no one, including Detective Pruitt, had ever told him about their presence in North Cambridge that Memorial Day morning. She knew the brothers were communicating via an online conference call service, but given the fact that it was that conference call that saved her life that day, and given that they weren't directly involved in any of the shooting, she didn't see the need to say anything about them. It wasn't that Lopez didn't try to press her about who else might have been involved, but when he found out who the dead perps were and what they represented, he simply said to Pruitt, "Uh-huh... and that's the story you're going with?"

Pruitt responded by boring a hole into Lopez with her eyes and saying, "You asked me who else I _saw_ that morning before the shooting started, and I'm telling you I didn't _see_ anyone besides the Curlanders when I entered the house—got it?"

Knowing that he'd possibly spotted some of the other brothers when Zen Master was picked up by Doc and Stokes at the top of Clifton Street, Lopez looked at her sideways and closed his notebook with the flip of the wrist. "I'm not real sure what you're doing, Detective, but you're part of my investigation now and my bullshit detector is ringing like a fire alarm." Pruitt didn't even blink. "Okay then," said Lopez. "We'll see what the others on the scene have to say."

Harry, Denise, and Ducky didn't fare as easily. To begin with, Lopez checked their cell phones as a matter of routine and discovered that on the morning of the incident two of the phones, Mister Curlander's and Mister Swan's, showed that they were on a call at the exact same time with another number, which turned out to be the number for an online conference call service. Although Lopez thought about trying to get a search warrant to find out from the service what other phone numbers might have been part of that call, Curlander, his wife, and Swan were the only ones at the scene of the shooting. For anyone else, being on a conference call was not a crime and accessory charges were out of the question seeing as Pruitt and the Curlanders were the ones that were attacked. Lopez bagged the idea of trying to get the search warrant, and he never questioned Fish and Sally either.

However, unlawful possession of a firearm in Massachusetts was a crime, and a serious one, possibly requiring a mandatory minimum sentence of eighteen months in jail for anyone convicted of such. For Lopez, the key words here were _mandatory_ and _unlawful_ , and what constituted each. Both Curlander and his wife were licensed to carry in New Jersey, but that didn't carry any weight in Massachusetts. As for Mister Swan, his wife was an ADA and she was licensed to carry, but that was probably not a good excuse for him being in possession of her weapon, even if she gave it to him for whatever reason. The fact that he'd emptied an entire magazine into something during the gun battle didn't help his situation.

The big however for Lopez, however, was that if it wasn't for these three otherwise mature, lawful, and competent individuals being in possession of those firearms, they and a Massachusetts State Police detective would be dead at the hands of a group of international terrorists who were being pursued by both the CIA and the Treasury Department. So far, his DA hadn't pressed charges against anyone, but Lopez knew even the most sympathetic DA might not be able to look the other way when it involved mandatory gun charges, not it this state, and especially when dead people were involved. So far, no one was pushing him on the investigation and Lopez knew that for once everyone was hoping it would get bumped to the feds and the whole thing would be out of their hands. What the hell was taking them so long, he wondered.

Having had a little too much to drink and looking to bust chops, Spike called out, "Hey, where's Harry?" Indeed, Harry seemed to be making himself scarce. For him, the celebration wasn't much of one; Hutch would never be with them again and the revenge of having hunted down his killers didn't turn out to be as satisfying as he had imagined. It was that, and the fact that ever since the incident he hadn't been able to look Denise in the eye. She maintained that she was all right, that she did what she had to do, that he would have done the same thing—she'd used every cliché in the book and now she was trying to relieve him of his guilt, which only made it worse. He knew she wasn't all right. He knew just by her breathing and her tossing and turning at night that she was haunted, and he cursed himself daily for having put her in that situation. Their love life had become nonexistent, and he'd found her sobbing more than once for no apparent reason. What had he done?

At the moment, he, Denise, and Suzanne were outside, a couple of blocks away from Slick's up on Newberry Street adjacent to the very spot where Hutch's Mercedes had been parked on the night he died. Suzanne shielded her eyes from the late afternoon sun that was blazing orange just above the rooftops of downtown Wallingham, looking from one direction to the other. Denise was holding her arm the way women do; Harry was looking into the sun, hoping the warm rays would dry the tears that had formed at the corners of his eyes. As if she knew, Suzanne stopped looking in different directions and said, "They were waiting for him over there. They knew he was going to the reunion and they closed in on him as he headed toward the bar."

Harry looked at the layout of the street, how the buildings were aligned. Playing into Suzanne's vision, he described a scene that was as real to both of them as if they'd actually been there with Hutch. "I think there had to be four of them," he said, "possibly the same four we sent to hell on Memorial Day." He visualized how it must have gone down. "I'll bet they used the same van. Two of them were inside, waiting for him in case he got past the first two who went after him."

"He saw them coming, didn't he?" Suzanne asked. "He knew he was going to die, Harry. He knew it for several minutes before it actually happened. He knew he'd never see his family again. Can you imagine?" The tears that tracked down her face were like acid.

Organizing this second reunion as a tribute to Hutch had been a mistake, Harry thought to himself. Hutch wouldn't have wanted it, and now he didn't want it either. Taking Suzanne back inside Slick's would only magnify the emptiness she felt, and it wouldn't do much to help Denise either who would be pleased as punch, thank you, to never hear the words Zeta Chi again. As for himself, maybe he needed to get away from this particular scene for a while. On the one hand, he couldn't help but feel that the bonds between the brothers were stronger than ever; on the other hand, he wondered if any of them would be upset if they never saw each other again. If it was the latter, that would be on him.

"Do you want to go back to the bar?" he asked neither woman in particular.

"I don't feel much like celebrating," Suzanne said. "Would you mind if I went back to my hotel room?"

"Of course not," Harry replied. He gave Denise a look. "Honey, would you like to go with her?"

It didn't take much convincing. "I would," she said. "C'mon Suzanne, it's a nice evening. We'll walk."

"I'd like that," Suzanne said back to her. "I don't think coming to Wallingham was a good thing for me to do."

He should have known, thought Harry: too many bad memories they all could have done without. "I'll be along soon," he said to them. He kissed them both on the cheek and began making his way back to Slick's. Moving stoically, his mind in a state of detachment, he shuffled down Newberry Street and shielded his eyes against the setting sun, focusing on the entrance to the bar as he crossed the street. There, he spotted someone looking at him, or maybe not, then yes, the guy was definitely watching him. Twenty paces later, Harry sees the guy step his way. Even with the sun stabbing his eyes, it only took a couple of seconds for the face to register as that of CIA Special Agent Breckenridge.

"What do you want?" Harry asked gruffly. He stopped walking when they got within a few feet of each other.

"Listen, I know you're upset...." Breckenridge began.

"Upset? Is that what you call it?" Harry spat back. "Where the fuck were you that day?"

"By the time I got there it was all over. I couldn't risk being at that scene and being questioned by anybody."

"Right. So much for trying to protect me. I can't believe I fell for that crap."

Breckenridge just looked at his shoes. "Aren't you going to ask me why I'm here, now?"

It was a good question but Harry said, "It doesn't matter if I ask you or not. You're going to try and manipulate me for your benefit just like you did last time, just like you did with Hutch." He paused. "You got what you wanted."

"That's just it, Mister Curlander. We didn't get what we wanted. You and your gang managed to kill off the only leads we had for tracking down those weapons and the stolen technology to make them. Those weapons are still out there, and if we don't find them I'm afraid some very important people will die."

Harry took a step forward and said, "The people inside this bar have already risked their lives for your benefit, Breckenridge. And they're not gang members, they're brothers."

