Vicki Pettersson - The Given

Tossing three IDs onto the table, Dennis grinned down at Grif. “You gotta love free Wi-Fi,” he said, pulling up a chair. It meant he hadn’t needed to use his police contacts.

“Eric and Larry Ritter, twins, ages twenty-eight, though Larry is the elder by two minutes. Their friend, Justin Allen, is thirty-six and a Gemini.”

“You’re showing off,” Grif said admiringly. He couldn’t help liking Dennis. He would have even liked him for Kit . . . if he didn’t still want her for himself.

Dennis wiggled his eyebrows like an actor in some old silent flicker. “You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

“Impress us.” Grif folded his arms and grinned at Larry and Eric. They remained unsmiling, though Larry did give a perfunctory jerk on his cuff. The table jolted. Grif’s smile widened.

“Turns out Larry here used to be Metro. Ditto Justin. This one was suspended and eventually fired due to disciplinary problems. Do you know how hard it is to get fired from the force for minor infractions?”

“You guys are so dead,” Larry said again.

Grif just nodded. “What else?”

“Files are sealed,” Dennis said, eliciting a smile from Larry. “But I did find out that he used to work gang crimes, intelligence unit. I got a contact there. It’s only a matter of time before I know more.”

Grif took up smiling as Larry’s smile fell. “And Eric?”

“Ah yes. Quite the IT guy before joining Sunset. Got scholarship offers to MIT and Carnegie Mellon. Made a pretty penny in the private sector until he all but disappeared off the tech radar a few years back. Climbed to the top of his field and just . . . poof. Quit.”

“You must have had a very compelling reason,” Grif said to Eric, who only glared.

“So two disgraced cops and a rogue tech nerd working at Sunset.” Grif tapped a finger on the table. They hadn’t been lying. They did keep it tight.

But they’d have to, especially with the possibility of family and guardians checking in on their charges’ accounts and trusts. Still, Grif was surprised that they hadn’t been caught before now. More often than not, greed and pride would loosen the stays on such a long-term scam. Look what I bought . . . look how much I have . . . look, look, look at me.

“There had to be someone in charge,” he muttered, rubbing his chin.

“What’s that?” said Dennis.

“There’s someone else,” Grif said louder, and leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table. “Someone bigger than Justin, smarter than Eric. Meaner than Larry.”

Someone who could hold a whole group of criminals to a vow of silence for months on end.

“So who’s running you guys?” Dennis asked, crossing his arms. The mugs, of course, were quiet and still in his presence, but the animation had been a one-trick pony, and not one Grif needed now that Larry and Eric were rattled. They knew Grif and Dennis had enough information to nail them all. Larry was trying not to show it, but Grif recognized panic disguised by steely silence.

“We don’t know him,” Eric finally blurted, and his brother turned and glared.

“What?” Eric asked, knocking into Larry’s shoulder. “You think he’s going to stick his neck out for us? Fuck that. They already know our names.”

“Justin has the flash drives,” Larry countered. “And the old man.”

“And we have copies,” Grif said, and kept his shrug easy. It wouldn’t do Zicaro any good to let these guys know how worried Grif was about him. “Of the flash drives, not the old man. But we’ll get back to him shortly. Tell us more about this other guy.”

“I’ve never seen him. Justin has, though. They’re thick as thieves.”

The men were unraveling, and turning on each other as they did.

Larry was now nodding. “I’ve talked to him on the phone, but that’s all.”

“No idea at all what he looks like?” Grif asked.

“Sure,” Larry said, then smiled coolly as he leaned back. “He looks like you. He looks like me. He looks like anyone you’ve ever seen walking down the street. He just blends, and you never see him coming.”

“Sounds like a ghost,” Dennis said.

“Which is what you’ll be if you cross him. He’ll turn on you in an instant, and I have seen that before.”

“Trevor.” Eric nodded, a movement Larry took up as they recalled some shared memory.

“I don’t want that shit bearing down on me,” Larry said, shaking his head. “And believe me, as soon as he finds out what’s going on, he’s gonna come looking for you. Both of you.”

“I hope he does,” Grif said evenly. “I’d like to see this ghost in person.”

“You’ll get that chance. Guaranteed.”

Larry’s confidence was real enough, but there was also something off about it. Grif couldn’t put his finger on it, and Larry’s mug was silent, its contents now splashed over the floor. Still, something nagged at Grif, like a needle poking at the base of his spine. He felt suddenly like he’d been asking the wrong questions and now it was too late.

“Don’t go nowhere,” he told Larry and Eric, then looked over at Dennis and jerked his head.

They congregated by the front door, using the center tiki god to block them from the bartender’s view but still keep the two men in sight.

“What the hell have you guys gotten into?” Dennis muttered. He ran a hand over his head, causing his tight pomp to flare. “First Barbara DiMartino’s death. Now this. Some unnamed criminal mastermind?”

“And it’s all related somehow.” Grif could feel it. Zicaro had been questioned about Barbara right before she’d visited him, right before her death. “Has anyone notified Barbara’s next of kin yet?”

Dennis inclined his head. “There’s a stepson. Ray DiMartino.”

“Yeah, I know him,” Grif muttered darkly.

“Why am I not surprised?” Dennis said.

Ignoring that, Grif dug out the digital recorder Kit had let them borrow, turned it off, and handed it to Dennis.

“None of this is admissible in court,” Dennis said, but took the device anyway. “Sounds like Justin’s the one we need. If we can get an admission on record, we can set a formal inquiry into motion.”

But that wasn’t going to be easy at all.

“I hope the old man’s okay,” Dennis finally said, expression shifting into one of worry.

“They didn’t hurt him in all the time he was out at Sunset,” Grif said. “I get the feeling they want something from him, too. That old newshound probably knows things he doesn’t even know he knows.”

“Old ghosts,” Dennis said, nodding.

Grif tilted his head. “What’s that?”

“What Zicaro was saying at the steakhouse last night. About old ghosts rearing their heads. New ones, too . . . like Barbara DiMartino.”

“You think this has something to do with some fifty-year-old mobster turf war?”

“I think it has to do with the diamonds he was talking about. I looked it up when I got home, Shaw. These things were the size of silver dollars. Three of them. Perfect cuts.”

Grif didn’t remember. When he took on the job of locating little Mary Margaret, he was very clear with Sal DiMartino that he didn’t want to know anything about their business or lifestyle. He was there to help find the little girl, and that was all. He thought if he kept his nose clean, he could keep his hide safe, and Sal—though amused—had agreed.

A lot of good it’d done him. A cache of diamonds had disappeared, and now these pikers thought Grif had the map to locate them.

So then why had Justin just taken off with Zicaro? Why not make a play for Grif?

“Hostage,” Dennis guessed, when he asked him the same thing. “Watch. They’ll want to trade Zicaro for the map.”