Hauck made it on the road before four, only the high beams of fast-moving truckers cutting the darkness on the thruway. He put on some Van Morrison.
By six, he had beaten the morning rush into Hartford, with Imus on the radio.
An hour later he was well into Massachusetts. Daylight brought the old mill towns of Auburn and Worcester passing by.
He wasn’t sure what he would find up there. This had the choreographed feel of another cover-up. Josephina Ruiz, Raines’s video, those pictures with Josie—all trying to ward him off. Both gang members who orchestrated the initial drive-by were dead. Vega was free. Someone was going to a lot of trouble and risk to tie up loose ends.
By eight, he had crossed into Maine, veering onto the 295 bypass around Portland. There was a trace of snow on the ground and the morning opened up into a clear blue winter day.
It brought back memories for Hauck. He’d gone to Colby, just an hour up the road from Brunswick. Bowdoin had been the scene of one his best college games. A hundred and twenty yards rushing; he’d bowled over from the two with the game-winning touchdown with thirty seconds remaining on the clock. He could still recall the elation of dancing all the way back to the bench, the groan of the packed stands deflating. Blood on his jersey—number 22. He’d returned a decade ago for his tenth reunion. With Beth and Jessie and Norah. A rising star with the NYPD, he remembered how proud he was showing them off.
Three years later, Norah was dead.
He’d never come back again.
The exit sign read BRUNSWICK. Hauck got off at the second exit. He stopped at a service station to hit the john. He plugged “2227 Capps Harbor Road” into the GPS.
The address was a few miles out of town. Past the college on Merepoint Bay.
It was eight thirty. Hauck drove past the college on 123, checking out the stands and the field house, everything looking different than he remembered.
He turned on Middle Inlet Road.
A layer of chunky snow was packed on the ground. The roads, this far from town, were not well plowed. He was heading toward the water. The houses here were upscale. Large, shingled capes and farms with renovated barns that backed onto the bay.
Not exactly the kind of neighborhood a career blackjack dealer could readily afford. Even here.
We dealt with that privately, Raines had said.
Hauck made a right onto Capps Harbor, the wheels of the Explorer crunching on the packed snow. A couple of homes were up ahead. The GPS announced he was approaching his destination. He went by a blue colonial with a mailbox reading 2210.
Hauck pulled to the side of the road. On the other side was a large white house with green shutters set back aways. Maybe once it would’ve been called stately, but now it was in need of repair. A wooden sign hung at the end of the driveway.
MEREPOINT BAY FARM. BED AND BREAKFAST. The sign said 2227.