Robert B. Parker’s Buried Secrets

Twenty-Eight

Elliott drove through the streets of Paradise. It didn’t take long.

He’d flown up the night before and got a rental car and a motel room outside Boston. Now he was glad he’d kept a little distance. He had a feeling it would be easy to get stuck here.

Everything in Paradise was too nice, too clean for him. The high school could have been edited out of a movie and plunked right down on its lot. Even the town’s police station looked like it belonged in a kid’s play set.

But it seemed like a place that was used to tourists, so a stranger in town wouldn’t rouse too much suspicion, at least not right away.

He had a little trouble believing this was where Burton had lived, a man who’d been responsible for hundreds of deaths in his life. Elliott had used Burton’s services many times, when he wasn’t working for the organization. Elliott was a freelancer, so he took contracts when he wanted to, and Burton had been an honest broker. They’d put a lot of bodies in the ground together, made quite a bit of money along the way.

Elliott couldn’t quite picture it, Burton squatting in this clean little town among all these good citizens, like a tumor in an otherwise healthy body.

But you could probably say the same thing about him. He looked harmless. He knew that. He worked at it. When he saw himself in the mirror, he saw an aging white guy, a gray-haired retiree in a Tommy Bahama shirt and slacks. So that’s what other people saw. As long as they didn’t look too closely at his eyes.

The eyes gave Elliott away. They were cold and flat, always searching. Looking for angles, looking for weaknesses, looking for an escape.

But 99 percent of the world didn’t pay attention to things like that. They barely paid attention at all.

Time to check in. He pulled into a parking spot on Paradise Road and picked up his burner phone. It had only one number programmed into it, and only one person had its number.

“Yeah?”

“The fuck is going on there,” the old man rasped at him. “You waiting for this prick to die of old age?”

At one point in his life, Mulvaney snarling at him like this would have filled him with dread. Or at least worry. Now he knew he was likely to outlive Mulvaney or anyone Mulvaney could send. Things had changed. He was doing the job because he was a professional, and he was also at risk from Burton’s files. But he was not about to jump because Mulvaney was impatient.

“I’m gathering information,” he said. “Putting it together. He’s a cop. That’s a little trickier.”

“Christ, he’s a mall cop. He came into my home. I should’ve just popped him then myself if I’d known you were so scared of him.”

Elliott bit back his first reply, which was to tell Mulvaney that he’d never done his own wet work ever, so he didn’t know shit about how long it took. Instead, he said, “Lot of people thought Stone was a speed-trap cop. They’re in the ground now.”

“Where’d you hear that bullshit?”

Elliott sighed. “Read the papers sometime, Charlie. Stone has a body count. And I’ve asked around. Heavy hitter out in Vegas named Cromartie told a guy I know—”

“I could give two shits,” Mulvaney said. “Every day he’s aboveground is another day my goddamn useless nephew could decide to talk. You gotta take care of that, too.”

Elliott sighed. “Your nephew?”

“Stone popped him for the arson.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah, well, that’s why you shouldn’t be waiting around. He’s in the station. Along with the money.”

“This just gets better and better,” Elliott said. “You want me to go into a police station, do the job, and steal two million dollars on top of it?”

“Hey. Watch your mouth. We’re on an open line.”

“Fuck your open line, Charlie. This is suicide.”

“Is he better than you?”

Elliott paused. He honestly didn’t know. Back in the day? Probably not. He was cold and solid and perfect in those days. Nobody could touch him. Nobody even came close.

Today? Today he was an old man. Sure, he still nailed everything inside the rings at the shooting range. He could still throw a punch and take one, and he could run a marathon if he had to.

Even so, his eyes were weaker and his hands shook sometimes. So he didn’t know. Was he better than Stone?

“I’m not sure,” he said.

“Well, you better figure it out fast,” Mulvaney said. “You and I both know we weren’t the only ones who used Burton’s services.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nobody knows how much Stone and the cops managed to save from the fire. There have to be at least a half-dozen more hitters who have to be worried now. You think they’re just gonna wait around for someone else to clean this up?”

Shit. Elliott hadn’t thought of that. There would be other contractors who would hear about this. They’d be on their way. If they weren’t here already.

“You better get Stone quick,” Mulvaney said, his voice mocking, “or someone else is going to. And they’ll probably get that two million dollars, too. Clock’s ticking, buddy.”

He hung up. Elliott put the phone away.

He didn’t want to admit it, but Mulvaney was right.

The small town of Paradise was about to get very crowded with people who killed people, and who were very good at it.