Then he walked down the stairs to the third level, where he found Larrigan right where he said he’d be, sitting in his big Lincoln. The garage was dimly lit by yellow bulbs in steel cages, and from somewhere in the shadows came the slow, rhythmic echo of dripping water. It was seven o’clock on a Thursday evening and, for the moment, there was no traffic on level three, no cars starting up, no clatter of high heels, no voices, no chirps of remote openers, no businessmen with briefcases striding toward their vehicles. You had to give it to the judge. This was a pretty good place to meet someone you didn’t want to be seen with. Moran opened the passenger door. He noticed that the dome light did not go on when he opened the door. Larrigan didn’t even turn his head when Moran slid in beside him. “Don’t slam the door,” he said. Moran pulled the door shut. “So,” said the judge. “What’ve you got?” Moran took the paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. It was the photo he’d downloaded from the Internet.
