The Instruments of Darkness: A Thriller

Chapter LXXIX

I called Amara Reggio as Beth Witham drove away, Angel and Louis beside me. I felt sadness and anger on Witham’s behalf, not only because of her treatment at the hands of Stephen Clark but also for the fact that this bright, attractive woman was being sold short by life. Louis, had I mentioned it, would have dismissed this as my savior complex manifesting itself once more. What could I have said in reply? Nothing, except perhaps to point out that while not everyone could be saved, one had to behave as though they might be.

Amara had found nothing on her husband’s computer, but she wasn’t surprised by this; Mattia used DuckDuckGo as his default browser. She had gained access to their cell phone account and noted that Mattia, amid other calls, had contacted the same number three times on the night in question. It wasn’t one she recognized, and she’d been tempted to try it before deciding it might be better to share it with me first. I asked her to read it out, and I added it to the dashboard notepad.

“I’ll chase it down,” I said. “You discovered nothing else?”

“No, but that’s Matty all the way. When he dies, the paperwork won’t pay for a lawyer’s lunch.” She realized what she’d said, and followed it with “Dio mi perdóni.”

“He knows how to look after himself, Amara.”

“Not like he used to. I spoke to Mr. Castin. He said you were the best there is at what you do. I wish I didn’t have to rely on you because of how you’ve looked down on my husband, but I think Matty’s in trouble. His silence tells me so.”

I didn’t bother contesting what she’d said, or offer an apology. Neither would have been sincere.

“I’ll be in touch as soon as I know anything,” I said.

I hung up, but didn’t immediately call the number she’d given me. I didn’t like taking unforced steps into the unknown. First, I wanted to establish whom I might be calling. Sometimes, the simplest way to check for a user’s name was to look for the number on Facebook. It was surprising how many people linked their phones to their profile, but I was certain that Mattia Reggio didn’t move in those circles. My solution was to call David Southwood, who was the best reverse-look-up guy around. Most of the services that claimed to be able to trace cell phone users by their number were unreliable at best and scams at worst. Southwood was expensive, while much of what he did was illegal and therefore inadmissible in court, but his information was gold-standard. He answered on the first ring.

“What?”

Southwood wasn’t big on idle chitchat. I’d never met him, and neither had anyone I knew. I imagined him living in a basement surrounded by screens, although judging by the prices he charged, it was probably a basement in the Bahamas.

“It’s Parker,” I said.

“I can see that.”

I let the ensuing hiatus last for just slightly longer than a normal person might have found comfortable, but awkwardness was an alien concept to Southwood. In the background, I could hear fingers tapping at a keyboard, no doubt as intimate personal data passed before Southwood’s eyes.

“I’d like a number traced.”

“Give it to me.”

I read out the digits.

“Just the name and address,” said Southwood, “or do you want more? IRS, bank accounts, credit card records, vehicle registration?”

“It’s urgent, so I’ll settle for speed over depth.”

“It’s always urgent. If it wasn’t, nobody would ever call.”

I was shocked at what counted as unnecessary conversation. Compared to Southwood’s usual level of interaction, it was the equivalent of a Hamlet soliloquy.

“How long?” I asked.

“There’s a waiting list. Could be a few hours.”

“Move me to the top of the line.”

“There’ll be a premium.”

“It’s the nature of capitalism.”

Moxie would be good for the fee. He might complain, since it wasn’t as though the IRS was sympathetic to deductions for illegal activity, but if the intelligence brought us closer to Reggio, he’d suck it up.

“Five minutes,” said Southwood.

He killed the connection. To my right, Louis cocked an eyebrow.

“So what are we doing?” he asked. “Because right now it sounds as though we’re looking for four different people—Reggio, Maynard Vaughn, Mara Teller, and Henry Clark—which counts as a lot of looking.”

I started the car. There was no point in sitting in a mall parking lot while it was still daylight and we had roads to travel. It was about ninety miles from Topsham to Dexter, most of it along I-95. I could cover it in an hour fifteen, less if I really put my foot down.

“Dexter isn’t a big place,” I said, “so Vaughn shouldn’t be hard to find. Let’s just hope that whatever Southwood comes up with doesn’t lead us back the way we came.”

Southwood was as good as his word. He called precisely five minutes after he’d ended our last conversation.

“It’s a landline, registered to an Adio Pirato,” he said. “I have an address in Roxbury, New Hampshire. It’s on its way to your new private email.”

“You don’t have my new private email.”

“Actually, I do.”

Of course he did. He probably knew more about me than I knew about myself.

“Because you opted for the gold plan,” he continued, “I’ve also given you his car registration, contacts for his immediate family, and his rap sheet plus ancillaries. If you want financial records, that’s platinum level.”

“If I need them, I’ll get back to you.”

But Southwood had already hung up.

“Adio Pirato,” said Angel. “I thought we might renew acquaintance with that fucking crook before too long.”

Pirato was the Northeast point man for the Office, responsible for the smooth running of the syndicate’s operations beyond its main base in Providence, Rhode Island. When I’d needed to make contact with the Office during a previous investigation, Mattia Reggio had acted as the intermediary, and Pirato was among those with whom I’d been forced to negotiate.

I opened up Southwood’s anonymized email on my phone. The “ancillaries” included a confidential report from the Organized Crime and Gang Unit of the U.S. Attorney’s Office of the District of Massachusetts, outlining Pirato’s suspected involvement in racketeering—specifically loan sharking, extortion, grand theft auto, and insurance fraud—as recently as 2020. No mention of anything dirtier, like murder, but only because Pirato was too wily a fox to leave a trail. It was a long time since he’d pulled a trigger, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t induced others to do so on his behalf.

I showed the email to Louis, who read it before passing it on to Angel.

“I could have told you all that,” said Louis. “You should haggle on Southwood’s fee.”

“Old-school rap sheet, too,” said Angel, “though not any school you’d like to have attended.”

I dialed Pirato’s number and got an answering machine. I left a message before contacting Amara Reggio, putting her on speaker so Angel and Louis could listen.

“That number you gave me, the one Mattia called the other night, is Adio Pirato’s,” I said.

“Let’s assume I know who that is.” Old habits died hard, meaning she wasn’t about to discuss Pirato’s character or professional interests over a phone line.

“I’ve left a message for him,” I said, “but it might be useful if you left another. I’m not someone he’ll be eager to hear from, so he may not be in a hurry to return my call.”

She assured me that she’d find a way to speed things up. I didn’t doubt it.

We drove on.