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asked.
    “I think you’re right,” she said. “I think you’re just guessing.”
    He shook his head bitterly. “That’s it? That’s all I get?”
    “Like you said, it was a test.”
    “So, what’d I get, like a C?”
    “It was pass/fail.”
    “And?”
    She hesitated before she answered. “I’ll get back to you.”

    Special Agent Robert Hewitt sat in his car, watching the activity at the Body Shop from across the street. Things had quieted
     down, and now those who remained were loitering, mainly. They stood around, smoking cigarettes or leaning against their cars,
     cracking jokes as they waited for the bodies to be rolled out. He’d watched as the detectives pulled away, and he was tempted
     to go back in to get another good look. He was sure that no one who remained would have the balls to force him out without
     Sanchez there, but his presence would draw too much attention, and too many people on the force would start to ask questions.
     That would make his life more difficult.
    He took out his cell phone and dialed the number.
    “Yes,” the man answering the line said.
    “It’s me.”
    “And?”
    “Murphy’s dead.”
    “How?”
    “How do you think?”
    “Are you sure?”
    “I’m sure. He was beaten. Badly.”
    “Tortured?”
    “That’s a reasonable conclusion based on what I saw. And there was a message written next to the body.”
    “What was it?”
    “‘The Storm.’”
    “That’s our boy. Have there been any others yet?”
    “Not that I know of. Murphy’s bodyguard was killed, but he’s not involved, and he wasn’t tortured. Maybe there won’t be any
     others at all.” As Hewitt spoke, the coroner’s assistants wheeled two gurneys out of the Body Shop. They were laughing as
     they slid the body bags into the van.
    “There will be others. Otherwise, why send the message?”
    “If so, then we don’t know who they are yet. I haven’t heard about anything else that matches what was done here, and I would
     have heard about it.”
    There was silence on the other end of the line. “Stay on top of it. This is the break we’ve been looking for.”
    “What are you going to do?”
    “I think it’s time for me to be more involved. I’m coming to Boston.”

Chapter Four
    It took Finn nearly an hour to make the two-and-a-half-mile journey from Nashua Street to Fenway Park. Normally the drive
     would have taken fifteen minutes, but it was Patriots’ Day and the streets were packed.
    Patriots’ Day, which marks the battles of Lexington and Concord in 1775, is celebrated only in Boston. It’s one of three smug
     local holidays intended to remind an indifferent world of Boston’s place in American history. For all the city’s parochial
     pride, however, few Americans would have heard of Lexington and Concord were it not for
Schoolhouse Rock
. Even worse, few Bostonians have any idea what Patriots’ Day is intended to celebrate. They do know, though, that it means
     an extra day off, and it’s the day on which the Boston Marathon is run every year. It’s also a day the Boston Red Sox play
     a special morning game at Fenway Park. The holiday causes mayhem in the city, as people line the streets early, and the bars
     are packed by midmorning.
    Finn parked at the edge of the Fens, close to the Back Bay, in a lot owned by a client. He’d called ahead to reserve a space,
     knowing that otherwise there was little chance of finding anyplace to leave his car. By the time he’d pushed his way through
     the carnival atmosphere around Fenway Park it was nearing noon. When he found his seat next to Tom Kozlowski and Lissa Krantz
     two rows behind the Red Sox dugout, Boston was leading six–nothing in the fourth inning.
    “Sorry I’m late,” he said, squeezing into his seat.
    “Your loss,” Kozlowski replied. He was a butcher’s block of a man in his early fifties, with a bold, carved face marred by
     a long scar that ran from the corner of his right eye to the bottom of his ear.