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truck stop emerged. But the body count didn’t begin until a wet-behind-the-ears probationer decided to join Grant for an after-shift drink. That had triggered one of Grant’s other character traits—always back your colleagues, no matter what the cost. The cost that night had been very high.

five
    Miller dropped Grant outside the reception lobby, then left. The Seaverns Hotel wasn’t the Airport Hilton, but it was clean and tidy and better than some places Grant had rested his head. It was a three-story building with an extension around back for the dining room. Grant made a mental note to convert floor descriptions into US terms. Back in England, the floor you entered for reception was the ground floor. In America it was the first floor. That would make Grant’s top-floor room the second floor back home but the third floor here. Important difference when scoping out a location.
    Grant always scoped out his location.
    He unpacked the holdall and stowed his clothes, more jeans and T-shirts and a couple of sweat tops. He placed a long velvet case under the folded T-shirts, then showered and changed and ended up looking exactly the same as before: faded blue jeans, dark T-shirt, orange windcheater, black K-Swiss tennis shoes. Sensible, practical, and comfortable. He was off-duty and out of division and ready to eat.
    Grant ended up at Flanagan’s Bar at the bottom of Jamaica Plain’s Centre Street, which was basically Main Street USA. Mostly single-story flat-roofed businesses with hardware stores and laundromats, a CVS Pharmacy, and a handful of restaurants and bars. He was still reeling from the Santa Fe chicken salad he’d eaten at the Purple Cactus—more specifically, the size of the salad. He reckoned you could have grazed a herd for a week just off that one plate.
    Flanagan’s was a traditional pub with dark woodwork, dirty redbrick walls, and a green sign with gold letters that were picked out by a row of brass light fittings. Music and laughter came from inside and polluted the street. It sounded like Grant’s kind of place.
    That was his first mistake.
    The second was not being careful who he spoke to once he got inside.
    The main room was long and narrow and not as full as the noise outside suggested. There were tables and booths along the left-hand wall. The wall was stripped-back red brick with sepia photos of the old country and the Boston seafront back in the days of sail. A traditional bar ran the length of the room on the right. Glass shelves with mirrored backing carried every possible variation of whiskey and rye, not inverted with delivery optics like the UK but stood on the shelf, ready to be poured if selected.
    Most of the booths were occupied. The ones that were empty were halfway along. Not in the corner for good viewing potential and too far in to allow a quick exit if trouble started. Booths weren’t good tactical options. They penned you in with your legs under the table and your back against the seat behind you. Grant dismissed them and looked at the bar instead.
    There were more spaces along the bar than the noise indicated. Several barstools and plenty of room in between. Men stood in irregular groups along the bar. A couple of women mixed in, but there were no all-female gatherings. This wasn’t that kind of bar. There was a door to the restrooms at the far end with a red neon fire exit sign above it. Good. Grant chose a space about two-thirds along the bar, ignored the vacant barstool, and rested one foot on the brass rail along the bottom. The mirror gave a good view behind him. Standing instead of sitting gave him fast access to the fire exit. Now he could drink in peace.
    Two bartenders worked the crowd. A young lad with a beaming smile reminded Grant of Tom Cruise in that film about a cocktail waiter. He didn’t pull any fancy moves with the bottles or try party tricks with the glasses, though. It wasn’t that kind of bar either. The