He stopped for gas along the way and made his call to Michael Beccanti. Cloak-and-dagger. When they reached the house, Laura invited him in for a drink. She embraced him before he left, and held on to him for a long time. She didn’t ask him to stay. He was back on his street, at his rented house, at around quarter to one. He got out and locked the car. The driver’s door gleamed in the streetlight. The graffiti that Adrian Tully had scratched there had been smoothed away and painted over. He looked up at the porch and there was the X that Beccanti had cut in his window screen. He would have to attend to that. Inside, he left his coat on a kitchen chair. He ran the tap until the water was cold and drank two glasses. He kicked off his shoes at the foot of the stairs. Got his cell phone out of his pocket: no messages. He could call Beccanti now, he knew the man would be awake, but he didn’t feel up to a conversation. Tomorrow would be soon enough. He went upstairs and brushed his teeth.
