14

The first twenty minutes Justin spent at his parents' house was not conducted amid great chatter. In fact, Justin thought he'd been to substantially noisier and more entertaining morgues.

The subdued silence wasn't just due to the shock of dealing with Ronald's death. His parents had also seen the papers. While the burgeoning Harmon scandal and murder was not quite the front-page, explosive story it was in New York and on the east end of Long Island, it had enough juice to draw a reasonable amount of attention in New England. The headline-way more tasteful than any of the New York tabs-on page five of the Providence paper read: ex-providence hero involved in sex scandal, murder plot. There was a photograph of Justin from several years-and twenty-five pounds-ago, when he was with the Providence PD. There were some damaging and pointed quotes from DA Silverbush, and there was a typical Billy DiPezio defense of his old protege, the Providence police chief saying that Justin was certainly capable of having an affair with the wrong woman, but he was incapable of doing anything morally wrong. Billy reminded everyone that neither of the two people arrested-David Kelley and Abigail Harmon-had been convicted, and that Justin had not even been accused of anything except by snide innuendo.

When Justin walked into his parents' massive house, he had that sinking feeling he remembered having for most of his teenage years: that, despite his bulk, he was too small for his surroundings. He felt as if he'd just walked in the door at 3 a.m., and his parents were waiting up to punish him for staying out past curfew. Justin wondered if one ever got too old to believe in one's mother and father as an intimidating pair of moral compasses. In a way, he hoped not. There was something reassuring in that unchanging and rock-solid superiority. On the other hand, he was confident in his own choices, in his own morality. He'd killed people and felt no guilt. And he'd befriended people who had done far worse things than he'd ever dream of doing-and made no judgment on them or at least did not let his judgment interfere with the relationship. He'd also ended relationships with people who did not live up to his standards. He'd done the same with others who couldn't deal with the complexity of the way he saw the universe. Perhaps the key was that complexity. In some instances, he saw the world in crystal clear terms of black and white, right and wrong. But many areas were also varying and distressing shades of gray. He did not believe in authority that demanded trust without proof of being trustworthy. He did not accept rules and regulations simply because they'd existed for decades or even centuries. He did not take kindly to anyone telling him what to do without an explanation for his actions. So usually he just wouldn't do it. As a result, he had over the past twelve or thirteen years been beaten, shot, hunted, and tortured.

Hey, nobody said he was a genius. But it came with the territory and he accepted that.

It came with the choices one made.

The thing is that he himself was an authority figure. And he often demanded the same blind obedience he abhorred. The problem there was that he was too aware of his own fallibility. He knew how wrong he could be. But when a decision had to be made-either for his own good or for the good of others-there was no one he could imagine making it other than himself.

No one.

Contradictions. Maybe that was why his view of life was so complicated. He saw so many wrong things done by so many people who thought they were right.

Justin shook his head at the meekness he felt in his own home. He did not have the need to conform to anyone else's code-and yet he did want his family to take his side. Or at least wait a reasonable amount of time before jumping over to the other side.

So he sat now with both parents, sipping iced tea in the den-the wood-paneled room that was nearly the size of Justin's entire East End house-waiting for Louise, their longtime housekeeper, to serve lunch. After perfunctory hugging in the entry hall, the silence had come quickly. Justin thought he might as well cut to the chase after his second sip.

"Look," he said, "maybe we should talk about my situation. I'm sure it's embarrassing for you."

"Is that what you think we're upset about," his father said, "that you've embarrassed us?"

"Not entirely. I know what happened to Ronald is shocking… and something you're not used to."

"Used to?" This was Justin's mother. Lizbeth's voice was higher pitched than normal, as if the tension in the room had grabbed her by the throat and didn't want to let her speak. "No, Jay, we're not used to people we know being murdered."

"I understand. And there's no way to make that any easier or more palatable. We'll talk about Ronald-of course we will, it's why I'm here-because I can help everyone deal with that. But what's going on with me is going to continue. What happened to Ronald is-"

"Over?" his mother asked.

"I know it sounds callous."

"Yes, it does," his mother said sadly. Justin couldn't tell if she was sad because of the finality of death or because her son was someone who was able, so easily, to move past that finality. He thought about telling her it wasn't ease, it was necessity, but he didn't have time because his father was already speaking.

"It might be callous but it's true," Jonathan said, and turned slightly to directly face Justin. He took a long sip of iced tea. Justin had a feeling that his father wasn't all that thirsty; the pause was very effective punctuation. "So what is it you want to say about things that aren't over?"

Justin exhaled slowly. He also knew how to punctuate for effect. "Look, you read the paper. I'm involved in something messy. But what they're saying isn't true. I don't think that Abigail Harmon had anything to do with her husband's murder. And believe me, I certainly didn't."

"We believe you."

Justin rubbed his eyes. This wasn't for effect; it was to try to ward off the beginning of a headache that was rapidly approaching. "Thank you. But look at the two of you. I've never seen two people so tense-your entire bodies are clenched."

"And you think it's because we're embarrassed? Or because we don't believe you?"

"Dad, we don't have to go into this. It's a lot of things. I know that you blame me for certain things… for Alicia and Lili… We've never truly had it out about that-"

"We've dealt with that," Jonathan Westwood said.

"Sure we have. And I appreciate it. I know you've really tried to make it work between us over the past couple of years. But dealing with something doesn't always make it go away. I've dealt with it, too, I've dealt with it in every way I possibly can, and I still blame myself."

"Justin…" This was his mother now, and her voice was no longer high-pitched. She sounded calm. Still sad, but calm. "You're wrong about us. Both of us. We're not acting this way because we're embarrassed. And we're not acting this way because-because of what happened in the past. What happened with Alicia… what happened to Lili… However terrible it was and is for us, we know that it's been much more terrible for you. But that's not… that's not…" She didn't seem to know how to finish her thought, so her husband finished it for her.

"That's not why we hate what you do, what you're doing."

"Then what is it?" Justin asked.

Jonathan Westwood spoke slowly now. And, Justin couldn't help notice, rather kindly. "You could have been many other things, Jay. We don't have to rehash what your life could have been like. It's what it is, you do what you do. But knowing you've made this choice doesn't make us any less afraid."

"Afraid?" Justin said. "What are you afraid of?"

There was a long silence as Jonathan Westwood seemed to search for the right words. It was his wife who found them.

"We lost our grandchild because of the world you've chosen to live in," Lizbeth said. "We don't want to lose our child."

There was a long silence. Justin tried to pick up his iced tea, but his hand felt unsteady. He was just about under control when Louise stuck her head in the door and said the most welcome words Justin had ever heard: "Lunch is ready."

The dining table was eighteenth-century Spanish. Heavy and ornate and austere at the same time. The twelve chairs that were placed around the table were just as austere. The chair at the head of the table was larger than the others, more like a throne. In all the meals he'd had at this table, Justin had never sat in the chair at the head of the table. That was Jonathan's chair.

Justin had just put a small bite of Louise's perfect roast chicken into his mouth and was nodding with pleasure when his father said, "When I told you that Ronald's body had been found, how did you know where?"

"That place has a history." Justin finished chewing. He quickly cut another piece off the juicy breast and popped it into his mouth.

"What kind of history?"

"A violent one." Justin couldn't help but notice the expression on his mother's face now. Not anger or sadness or even confusion. It was one of wonder. When he finished chewing, he said, "Mom?" and she immediately understood his question.

"The things you know," she responded. "I remember when you used to know toys and TV and rocking horses."

"And business," his father added, "and medicine."

"Now," Lizbeth said, "you know murder. And places with violent histories."

There was a typical Westwood family silence. Justin used it to taste the roast potatoes and garlic, just as delicious as the chicken. He even managed to chomp on a few carrots. Then Jonathan asked, "So what are you going to do now?"

"Finish lunch 'cause it's the best food I've had since the last time I was up here. Then go see Vicky. And Billy. I'm going to do what you asked me to do, which is try to figure out what the hell's going on." And as something occurred to him, when he realized there was something else he needed to do first, Justin couldn't help himself: he allowed the tiniest line of a smile to cross his lips. "But first," he said, "I'm going to see a history professor."

Dolce was a small Italian restaurant in the heart of Providence's Little Italy. The tables all had red-and-white-checked tablecloths, most of the pastas came with a simple red sauce, the cannolis were the best in New England, and the espresso arrived steaming hot and joltingly strong.

As Justin sat toward the back of the room, sipping his second double espresso, he was the recipient of mixed responses from the twenty or so customers idling in the late afternoon. There were several middle-aged couples; one exhausted-looking skinny man in beige Bermuda shorts busily reading a Fodor's guide to Rhode Island; two women who were talking as if there were no tomorrow-both looked as if this was a much-needed hour break from husbands and kids. None of this crowd paid him any mind; they had never seen him before nor heard of him. Others were a little more attentive. Three men sitting four tables away were glancing over with a benign distaste. Justin had put two of them in prison and he'd attended the parole hearing for the third, attempting to dissuade the board from going along with an early release. The third man, whose name was Joey Fodera, had raped and murdered a professor of twentieth-century art appreciation at the Rhode Island School of Design. After she was dead, Fodera-his associates called him Joey Haircut-removed her sexual organs. His defense was that she'd reminded him of his first wife-who had disappeared several years before and never been found. The first wife had been so abusive, the defense attorney maintained, that seeing the professor involved in a heated conversation in a restaurant had triggered something in Joey: the memory of the rage and hatred he'd felt when his wife berated and humiliated him. The jury was hard to read-after four days of trial it could have gone either way-so both sides settled on a plea bargain of murder in the second degree and a twelve- to twenty-five-year sentence. After two and a half years in prison, Joey Haircut had ratted on another prisoner, looking to negotiate his way back onto the street. Justin's argument to the board wasn't enough to override the deal with the local DA and keep Fodera behind bars. Three days after the hearing, another sociopath was free and back at work.

Four or five other customers had also crossed paths with Justin back in the day. They nodded cautiously but respectfully when he walked in or as he sat and sipped.

Justin had just ordered espresso number three when the front door opened and a man who seemed nearly twice the size of anyone else in the room came inside. Along the way to the back of the restaurant, he stopped to shake a few hands. When Joey Fodera's hand met his, it held on a few seconds too long. Fodera quietly said something to the large newcomer, something that did not seem as friendly as, say, an invitation to come over and watch a ball game. The large man drew his hand back slowly and deliberately and he smiled at Joey Haircut. Justin, watching carefully, couldn't help himself. The smile made him shudder.

Then Bruno Pecozzi arrived at his destination. Before he could say a word of greeting, the waiter was at Justin's side and Bruno ordered two double espressos, three cannolis, and one sfogliatelle. Then he turned to Justin and said, "Sorry I'm late. I had to do a little bobbin' and weavin' on my way over here."

"Somebody following you?"

"Hey, it's almost an insult these days if somebody ain't followin' me." He stuck his hand out and Justin shook it firmly. "So to what do we owe the pleasure?" Bruno asked. And then followed up his own question with, "Who am I kiddin'? It takes your fuckin' brother-in-law gettin' whacked to get you back home? What's the matter with you?"

And then Bruno drew Justin closer, dragging his chair along with him, and gripped him in a tight bear hug.

"Who we gotta kill?" the professional hit man said, and when Justin managed to give a quick shake of his head, Bruno looked disappointed. "What, this is just a social call?"

"Why don't you shut up and listen," Justin was able to say.

Bruno released him from the hug. "Good thing I like you," he said.

Justin watched the huge man sit down as his two cups of coffee and several desserts were now placed in front of him. He visualized the chilling smile plastered on Bruno's face when he'd stared into Joey Haircut's eyes.

"Yeah," Justin agreed, and slid his chair back to its proper place at the table. "Good thing."

If someone asked Bruno Pecozzi what he did for a living, he would reply that he was a consultant in the movie business. If that same someone went on to ask on what subject he consulted, Bruno would elaborate slightly and give out the information that he was hired on films that dealt with criminal personalities and their world and that his job was to enhance the reality of that world for directors, actors, and writers. If anyone pressed the giant man further, wanted more detail on Bruno's knowledge of that world, he would simply give a stare that wouldn't quit until the interested party would finally wither under the scrutiny and shrink away in embarrassment. And fear.

Bruno's assessment of his own career was, to a degree, accurate. He'd consulted on four different Hollywood pictures so far. On the very first one he quickly became a legend when the director-a temperamental three-time Oscar nominee who thought he was a genius and went out of his way to be crude and super macho to compensate for the fact that he was only five feet five inches tall-was trying to shoot a scene near JFK Airport in Queens. The scene kept getting interrupted because planes kept taking off and landing, ruining both the aesthetic of the shot and the sound. The director was working himself into a frenzy when Bruno disappeared for a few minutes. He returned, tucking his cell phone into his pocket, tapped the hysterical director on the shoulder, and said, "Okay, you can finish the shot now."

The director continued his rant, only now he began berating Bruno, telling him he might think he was a big-shot fucking hoodlum but to stay the fuck out of stuff he didn't know a fucking thing about. Bruno let him rant for maybe a minute or so, just long enough for the entire crew-including the director-to realize that suddenly no planes were landing or taking off. Everyone grew quiet, and the director said to Bruno, "What did you do?"

Bruno said, "I made a call."

There was another lengthy pause, then the director asked, "Who did you call?"

And Bruno quietly said, "If I told you that, then you wouldn't have to hire me next time, would you, you piece of shit, ass-munching little dwarf?"

The director nodded his head, said, "Thank you," and the shoot went on.

Bruno got hired in quick succession on three more movies; made very good money for talking to the writers and the actors, giving them some details that did indeed enhance the reality of the world they were trying to re-create. And best of all he didn't have to cut back on his regular job.

Bruno's regular job was chief enforcer and hit man for the head of the largest New England crime family, Leonardo Rubenelli, known to close friends and associates as Lenny Rube, Ruby, or Leo Red. By Justin's count, Bruno had killed twenty-three people over the years while in Lenny Rube's employ.

And one at Justin's request.

That last hit was one that had no strings attached to it. Justin had no regrets about it-he'd have done it himself if he'd had the physical strength at the time-and Bruno never held it over Justin's head. It was a business transaction, plain and simple.

Both knew that that particular connection wouldn't stop Justin from doing his job if Bruno happened to be involved in anything Justin was investigating. And Bruno wouldn't hesitate to do anything necessary to carry out an assignment if Justin's job meant that Justin was going to be in the way.

Those were the unspoken rules of their relationship. They'd never been defined, but they didn't have to be.

Both men understood the reality of the world in which they were living. No enhancement was necessary.

"You look good," Justin said. "Where'd you get the tan?"

"Lyin' on the most gorgeous beach in the world." When he saw that Justin was waiting for a further explanation, he said, "The old country, my friend."

"It agrees with you."

"White sand, blue water, red wine. Throw in some fresh pasta and an iced limoncello and you got yourself a good vacation."

Justin's lip curled into a smile. "Somehow I don't think of you as the vacation type."

"Can't work all the time, you know what I mean? Especially when you start gettin' a little older. You gotta take it easy every now and again. Get away. It's why I like goin' back home. Everybody's friendly, you sit around and drink espresso, you get in touch with yourself-you know what I'm talkin' about?"

"Yeah. It sounds a lot like right here."

"All right, you keep makin' fun. But I'll give you a tip, 'cause you look like you can use some relaxation yourself. You wanna get away, you let me know. My aunt Lucia, she's got what you might call a little villa, up on a cliff, overlookin' the Mediterranean." Bruno touched his fingers to his lips and blew a kiss. "You spend a week there, you bring a girl, you'll feel like a new man. I'll get you a good price."

"When I feel like being a new man, I'll take you up on it."

Bruno stretched his long legs out under the table, took a cigar out of his pocket and stuck it in his mouth. He didn't light it, just chewed on it as if it were a pacifier. "So tell me why we're having this extremely pleasant dining experience," Bruno said to Justin. He finished half of a cannoli in one bite just moments after he finished his sentence.

"You already know about Ronald LaSalle?"

Bruno nodded. The nod said, What am I, some schmuck? You think I'm not gonna know what goes on in my own backyard?

"So what can you tell me about it?" Justin said.

"That's really why you're here? You think I know something about this guy's-whaddyacallit-demise? Jay, I been tellin' you, I was away on vacation."

Justin shrugged. The shrug said, What, you think I think you're just some schmuck who doesn't know what goes on in his own backyard?

"I'm not here in an official capacity," Justin said wearily. "I'm not necessarily looking for a who. I'm looking for a why." And when Bruno's eyes narrowed, trying to figure out the angle, Justin said, "I'm looking for something to tell my ex-sister-in-law."

"Tell her she shouldn'ta married a crook."

"Was he a crook?"

"You know another reason these big-money guys get whacked? You ever hear of an honest one windin' up the way this guy did?"

"What did he do?"

"Maybe he just knew the wrong people."

"Got anyone specific in mind?"

Bruno didn't answer. Justin couldn't tell if he was thinking about an answer or if he was just enjoying the cannoli he was biting into slowly and deliberately.

"So what's happenin' back in your sweet little hometown?" Bruno asked eventually, deciding to ignore the last question. "I miss that place." A year earlier, Bruno had spent several weeks in East End Harbor, consulting on a movie that was shooting there. He and Justin had reconnected after not having seen each other for several years. Justin had been in the midst of a difficult case, and Bruno had helped out. If killing a man could be said to be helpful.

"You read the papers?" Justin asked.

"I don't have to. People tell me stuff."

"Then my guess is somebody told you what's going on back in my sweet little hometown."

"You're a good guesser, Jay. I heard somethin' about it. That guy who bought it, your girlfriend's hubby… another scumbag money guy."

"There are a lot of 'em."

Bruno nodded, as if considering the number of nasty rich people populating the world.

"Bruno," Justin said, "Ronald LaSalle's body was dumped in Drogan's lot. It kind of swings the odds in favor of one of your associates being involved."

"Or someone who knows that Drogan's is our location of choice for doin' business. It's not the best kept secret in the world, you know."

"You can give me a starting point. I know you can."

Bruno chewed on his lower lip for a moment. "Okay. You know what I'd do if I were you?"

"I'm all ears."

"I'd check out where this Ronald guy worked. What the fuck kind of name is Ronald, by the way? It's like that fuckin' hamburger clown."

"I'll ask his parents at the funeral what the hell they were thinking, okay? You mind staying on the subject! What is it I should check out at his office, Bruno?"

"The usual stuff. Who he worked with, who he did business with. You know, that kind of shit."

"This just your insight into police work or is there someplace you're trying to move me toward?"

Bruno downed his next espresso in one quick gulp. Then he leaned forward, put one elbow on the table and his hand under his jowly chin. In a softer voice he said, "Jay, I can't help you here. To be honest, I shouldn't even be havin' this little snack with you."

"Why not? What makes this one so special?"

"I got a few problems of my own I should be takin' care of."

"What kind of problems? They connected to what happened to Ronald?"

Bruno shook his head. "You know me, I'm not big on sharin'. I kinda like to internalize."

"What the hell aren't you telling me?"

Bruno choked back a laugh. "Almost everything that's ever happened to me I'm not tellin' you."

"So why are you having this little snack with me?" Justin asked.

"'Cause when did I ever strike you as a guy who gives a fuck about what he's not supposed to do?"

Justin smiled thinly. And as he did, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. One of the customers-one of the ones who had paid no attention to either of them, who had no connection to either of them, the skinny guy in Bermuda shorts and a brown polo shirt-was heading toward their table. At least Justin thought it seemed like that's what the guy was doing, and he tensed in his seat, his cop sense putting him on edge. But no, the guy in the shorts was just on his way to the men's room. As he passed by the table, the man smiled an abstract but polite hello, just a nod to two strangers, and Justin relaxed, embarrassed that he'd overreacted. The guy was past them now, and Justin was about to say something to Bruno, ask a question about Ronald's business, but then his Spider Sense was tingling again and he realized the guy in the shorts had stopped walking. Still smiling and nodding, the guy was reaching into the front of his shorts. Justin saw it, saw the glint of metal, and he immediately began to move, was throwing his chair back and scrambling over the table, and managed to knock the gun off course before a shot could be fired, and then Bruno was moving, too. Justin was amazed at the huge man's speed. And also his strength, which he felt when Bruno swatted him out of the way. The gun was still in the man's hands, was being raised again for a shot, but Bruno's hand wrapped around the guy's forearm, enveloping it. And that was the end of the gun's movement. Justin was close enough to hear the snap, like a twig being broken in two-the sound of an arm bone breaking. Justin saw the look of pain in the guy's eyes, but he didn't utter a sound, and he never stopped struggling, never stopped trying to get the gun up and pointed and ready to fire. But there was no longer any chance of that. Bruno's hand swept along the side of the man's head, and the guy in the shorts went down hard. Two other men came from nowhere, were pinning the man down on the floor. Justin looked at the man's face. He no longer looked like a vapid and tired tourist. His eyes were hard. Cold and deadly.

"You should get the hell out of here," Bruno said, looking up at Justin.

"I think you have it backward," Justin said. "I'm the cop."

"Not from what I hear. I hear you're a suspended cop."

"I can wait until Billy's guys get here. Suspended or not, they'll want to hear what happened from another cop."

"Billy's guys aren't gonna get here," Bruno said quietly. "Nobody's gonna call 'em. So there ain't gonna be nothin' for anyone to tell or anyone to hear."

Justin looked around, realized that the place had emptied out. The only ones left in the restaurant were him and Bruno, the man in the Bermuda shorts, and the two men pinning the guy in shorts to the floor. Justin also realized that the curtains had magically been drawn along all the windows. Nothing happening in the room could now be seen from the street. The guy on the floor was conscious, but he wasn't saying a word, wasn't struggling. Justin realized he was looking at a pro. A pro who knew what was about to happen. "What the hell is this?" Justin said. "What the hell is going on?"

Bruno made sure the two men had the situation under control, then he stepped over to Justin, steered him a few feet away, and spoke quietly so no one else could hear what was being said.

"I told you I couldn't help you, Jay. Especially not here."

"Then where?"

"When you goin' home?"

"Home to East End?" And when Bruno nodded, Justin said, "I don't know."

"I'll find you in a few days. Somewhere. It'd be better there."

"And when you find me, what are you gonna tell me?"

Bruno looked down at the man in shorts, still lying motionless on the floor. "I don't know," he said. "Part of it depends on what I find out here."

"Bruno," Justin said, "you switch jobs? Or at least change bosses?"

"No," the big guy said. "I wouldn't screw around with my pension like that."

"Then who the hell is gonna mess around with you?"

"I told you I had a few things to work out. I'm not as popular as I used to be, hard as that is to imagine."

"Tell me why this guy was trying to kill you."

"That's where it gets a little tricky," Bruno said.

"Tricky how?"

"You gonna see Billy DiPezio while you're up here?"

"Yeah."

"How 'bout your girlfriend in the FBI?"

"Wanda Chinkle? I wasn't planning on it."

"What happened here stays here. You don't pass it to either of 'em. No matter what you think."

Justin thought about whether he was capable of keeping quiet about what he knew was about to turn into a murder. The skinny guy on the floor knew what he was doing. He knew the risk he was taking. And he was willing to commit a murder of his own, if he was quick enough and good enough. He wasn't. So he had to suffer the consequences. That was the world he'd chosen to live in. But Justin was a cop. He wasn't supposed to allow that world to exist in quite those terms. But then Justin thought, I'm not a cop at the moment. Larry Silverbush took care of that. Bruno's right-I'm a suspended cop. So he nodded at Bruno, decided he and his conscience could live with the choice, and said, "If that's what it takes."

"That's what it takes."

Justin waited, but Bruno didn't speak. "Bruno," Justin said, staring at the man pinned to the floor, starting to get impatient and sounding it, "why was this pasty-faced asshole trying to kill you?"

Bruno let his teeth show, something akin to a smile. "There are a few possibilities," the big man said. "One is he may think I've got somethin' he wants back."

"What?"

"This ain't a quiz show, you know. I'm tellin' you what I can tell you. And it don't matter what it is. All that matters is he's wrong, I don't got it."

"What's the other possibility?"

"Two others. And one is simple: he's pissed at something I did."

"But you won't tell me what."

"Again, it's on a need-to-know basis."

"What's the third choice?" Justin asked.

"You ain't gonna like this one, Jay. The third choice is that he didn't want me talkin' to you."

"What? Talking to me about what?"

"You're gonna have to wait a little bit on that one."

And when Justin looked at him, a what-the-hell-are-you-talking-about look, Bruno said, "You might wanna be a little careful while you're up here in friendly New England, pal. You might want to think about watchin' your back."

Justin thought about watching his back the whole time he was walking out of Dolce. He was thinking about it when he passed by the table where the skinny would-be assassin had been sitting, and he was thinking about it when he surreptitiously used a napkin to scoop up the Fodor's Guidebook the skinny guy had been reading. And he thought about it the entire twenty minutes it took him to drive to his next destination. He thought about nothing else.

But it still didn't make any sense to him.

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