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“Good thinking,” McGuire said, looking at the guy. Krieger was a smart bastard. He had been around since Uncle Pat hired him to make that piddling settlement for Ricky Deardron, back when McGuire broke both his knees with a baseball bat for whistling at his girlfriend. They were both thirteen at the time. Goddamn Ricky long since spent the money. Last McGuire saw, he was tending bar at his dad’s pub. Drinking the profits; wearing his hair in a ponytail like he was some kind of Vietnam vet. Pissing in his wheelchair, people said.

McGuire strolled up to the front door. It opened by the time he reached the porch and Warren Reynolds stepped out. Reynolds was huge. Late thirties, black wavy hair already going gray. He was wearing one of his hundreds of Hawaiian shirts, glasses sticking out of the front pocket. Those shirts were all the guy wore ever since his one and only vacation to Hawaii. Winter, he’d put a coat over them. All of them were just a little short for his gut. Powerful arms, though. Massive things, as thick as McGuire’s legs. Covered with a mat of black fur.

“He’s in the kitchen,” Reynolds said, his eyes locking with McGuire’s for just a moment.

Reynolds and Dawson had gone way back. Together they had broken a lot of bones, repelled four attempts on Uncle Pat’s life. McGuire knew of at least three trips they’d made to the airport parking garage to leave a car with a body in the trunk. Things like that bound some guys together.

McGuire knew Reynolds thought he was a punk.

It made McGuire want to take him on. But he knew how it would look, wrestling around on the porch with the hired help. And there was no getting away from the fact that Reynolds was too smart and capable to be just written off as muscle. Before McGuire was old enough to do much, Reynolds had planned and executed two bank jobs that had brought in over a million dollars.

McGuire said, “I bet when Dawson’s life was flashing by, you were in there, right after his mama.”

Reynolds stared at him, half-smiling. His eyes conveying murder. He said, “Your uncle’s waiting for you.”

Jimbo brushed passed him and went down the hallway. He opened the kitchen door quietly.

Uncle Pat was there at the table, his reading glasses on, the paper open. He looked up and grimaced.

“Long night,” McGuire said. “Mind if I make myself some breakfast?”

His uncle stared at him over his half glasses.

McGuire waited. His uncle continuing to give him that look. Finally McGuire snapped, “Am I going to just stand here and starve or what?”

Uncle Pat jerked his head toward the refrigerator and looked back down at the paper.

McGuire whistled tunelessly as he found bacon and eggs in the refrigerator. He put about a third of the bacon in the pan, waited until the grease was bubbling fast, and broke three eggs into the pan. He put a couple of pieces of bread in the toaster. “Jesus, I’m hungry.”

His uncle said nothing the entire time McGuire’s breakfast sizzled in the pan.

Ah, well,
McGuire thought. Slid the mess onto a plate, sat down and began to eat. Looking at his uncle from time to time.

Big old guy with a bald head, still pretty trim for an old man. Massive shoulders. Dockworker, once upon a time. He continued reading, ignoring McGuire.

Finally, he put the paper down as McGuire mopped up the plate with his toast

“You through?” Uncle Pat asked.
 

“All set.”

Uncle Pat swung his right hand hard, smacking McGuire across the face. Those big, dockworker hands. The palm worn smooth and hard as a piece of polished oak.

“Whoa,” McGuire said, feeling his jaw. Trying not to let it show how much it hurt. He spit blood into his napkin. “You must still be working out on the weights, Uncle Pat.”

“Shut up,” his uncle said and hit him again.
 

McGuire considered killing him. The knife was right there. He could probably do it before Reynolds got in.

But McGuire let the moment pass.
 

He’d half expected something like this, and he’d be giving up far too much to do without the old man right now. Besides, his uncle had pretty much raised him, and McGuire came as close to loving him as it was possible for him to feel.

“Now tell me what happened,” his uncle said.

So McGuire told him, using another napkin to dab at the blood welling up where his uncle’s ring had cut him. He told him right up until the point where Krieger got him out of the police station. “So don’t worry. They’ve got nothing on me. On Dawson, they had plenty. On me, nothing. I was with Suzanne.”

“She’ll stick?”

“Oh, yeah. She’s not that bright, but she knows what’s good for her. Now, if they had
Dawson,
then we’d have something to worry about, but he’s …” McGuire held up a crust of his bread. “… he’s toast.”

“You think this is funny, you stupid bastard?”

McGuire locked eyes with his uncle, and the older man threw up his hands slightly and looked away, which was as close to an apology as he would come.

Because, in truth, “bastard’’ was accurate. Though McGuire took his father’s name, the man had never actually married his mother. Seems Uncle Pat had killed the original Jimbo McGuire with his own hands in a fit of passion when it came out that he’d knocked up Patrick’s lovely younger sister Anna. This was years before she became a drunken embarrassment who had to be institutionalized.

That
had taken a good ten years to unfold.

But the night Uncle Pat had killed McGuire’s father, he had started trying to recoup from his mistake immediately. He arranged the “car accident” for the body, and a wedding certificate for his sister. He sat across from her and made her repeat her story until she had it right: as a young bride of only two hours, she lost her husband when he went out for cigarettes right after they consummated their marriage.

Just about everyone knew the truth, but Uncle Pat made sure everyone considered the fiction reality while young Jimbo was growing up. It had, in fact, been Dawson, drunk one night when Jimbo was eighteen, who had spilled the truth.

The bald fuck had thought it was pretty funny.

Uncle Pat continued. “What do you think killing your own men buys you?”

“You’ve seen what we’ve been able to buy.” McGuire locked eyes with his uncle.

“Yeah, well, I’ve seen things go wrong. Lotta people got hurt.”

“Not us. Not you and me.”

“I don’t feel good about that bridge thing. There were kids.”

“That could’ve been anything,” McGuire said.

His uncle shook his head and McGuire could tell it really weighed on him. This was only about the tenth time he’d brought it up. “Three kids. I don’t like that.”

“We got no proof that our involvement caused that to happen.” McGuire said. Kids, adults, he really didn’t see the difference. “No one has even
accused
us.”

“We know.”

McGuire shrugged. “If you say so.”

“The whole thing, I’m not comfortable.”

“C’mon, I’ve brought us national, that’s all. You
know
it’s already paying off.”

His uncle made a pushing-away gesture. “I know we’re out of control, that I know. And then this with Dawson? He was one of ours.”

“You’ve been telling me since I was a kid the things you’ve done to people you thought would talk. How’s this different?”

“I had permission. That’s the difference.” His uncle lifted his eyebrows, but his lips twitched close to a smile. “It does make the rest of them pay attention, I’ll say that. But you’ve got to try to keep their loyalty, too.”

“I’ve got a loyal bunch. Paulie would put his head through a brick wall if I told him. Dawson was always too much old school.”

“Oh, now you’re getting tough on the old school, huh?” Uncle Pat raised his hand, mockingly now. “Next you’ll be trying me.” He tapped McGuire’s chin, lightly. “You know, I’d do you too, if I had to. Make me sad, but I’d do it.”

“It goes both ways, Uncle Pat.” McGuire looked at him calmly. Let him see that he wasn’t kidding.

“Jimbo,” his uncle said softly. “I know you’ve got balls. But you talk to me like that—especially in front of someone else—you’re not going to leave me any choice, you got that?”

McGuire gestured to the empty kitchen. “Hey, we’re alone.”

“You spent your whole life proving how tough you are, far as I can tell. Now use your brains.”

“My brains are making us richer than we’ve ever been.”

Uncle Pat lifted his eyebrows. “
Your
brains,” he said. “I’m putting Reynolds on your team. He’s steady and smart. You could learn from him.”

“I don’t need Reynolds.”

“Tough shit. You’ve got him.” Uncle Pat picked up his paper. “Now get out of here and don’t fuck up anymore.” He pushed the glasses down on his nose so he could level those cold blues at him directly. “Listen good now—I’m not gonna clean up after you again. Do you get that?”

McGuire didn’t move. “You know that I can’t just sit on my hands. We’ve got to nail this last contract.”

His uncle didn’t look away. “I know that. I just said don’t fuck up.”

CHAPTER 17

LUCIEN SAID, “SO I HEAR YOU HAD A HOUSE GUEST EARLIER THIS week. Made a hell of a mess.”

“Humor,” Ben said. “And so early yet.” He sipped his coffee.

Lucien was at the wheel, driving fast in his Saab Turbo. They were on their way to Lexington to see Teri Wheeler at the New England Software Foundation. “She got it across that she was an early riser and expected us to be, too. Also got across that she thinks of us as only a step up from the
National Enquirer.”

“Does she know I’m coming?”

Lucien shook his head. “You might be wasting your time.”

“Long as she doesn’t spit on me.”

Lucien shuddered. “Don’t know how I would have handled that.” He switched topics. “So how’s it going with McGuire? The cops hauled him in, right?”

Ben nodded. He told him how he and Sarah had gone to the station again yesterday and Calabro told them that McGuire had an alibi for the time Dawson was being burned alive. There was no physical evidence to prove otherwise, and though the police canvassed the neighborhood, no one saw McGuire or his car near Dawson’s apartment building that night.

Lucien glanced over, his eyebrows raised. “So they just kicked him free?”

“No evidence to keep him. I followed him from the police station, watched him go visit his Uncle Patrick.”

“They must recognize your van by now.”

“I got Kurt to OK the use of rentals. I’ll be changing them on a daily basis now.”

“The fact that Dawson was McGuire’s boy didn’t matter?”

“They say they can’t prove Dawson was acting under his orders.”

“Jesus.” Lucien drove in silence. “So you think McGuire will try again?”

“Could be.”

Lucien shifted in his seat. “Hell, next time take your own car.”

Ben smiled, sourly. “That’s the way everyone feels.” Jake’s birthday dinner was that night. It would be a “full family” affair as Kurt called it. Meaning all of them would meet at The Top of the Hub, the restaurant on top of the Prudential Building in Boston.

“So what have you learned about Teri Wheeler?” Ben asked.

“Well respected up and comer. Sort of a poster child for the Young Republicans. Twenty-nine, went to Columbia Business School, was a rising star in marketing with Goodhue Software Corporation before stepping away to run the NESF. Now she influences just about any legislation regarding computer software on a national level.”

They pulled off Route 2, and made a few quick turns before pulling into a circular driveway in front of an elegant redbrick home with a slate roof. The lawn was a deep rich green. The sprinkler system threw up a fine mist of water, making the grass and shrubs sparkle. Even the air tasted good. Only when they got of the car and were closer to the door did they see the plaque with the name of the organization.

“Not what I envisioned,” Ben said. “I figured we were heading toward a little office park.”

Lucien said, “This was Alexander Goodhue’s family home. He’s got a more palatial estate up in Hamilton now, keeps his horses. This, he donated to the foundation.”

“How nice of him.” Ben judged the value of the property into the millions. The Goodhue family had been a force in Massachusetts for almost a century. Textiles and shoe manufacturing first, then plastics. Computer software in the eighties and nineties. A reputation for conservative politics. “So is this organization just a front for Goodhue?”

“And people who agree with him,” Lucien said. “NESF also has a branch in D.C. Apparently, Teri splits her time here and there most weeks. But Goodhue’s campaign contributions through the foundation are within limits.”

Immediately after they rang the bell a young woman opened the door. She had dark brown eyes, wore a dark blue blazer and white pants. She was probably in her early twenties. “Welcome,” she said, after they identified themselves. “Teri is expecting you. Wait here just a moment, please.”