Finn nodded, appreciating Grasset’s instincts, particularly as he probably didn’t know yet that Hailey’s friend was dead, a boy he’d probably seen here countless times. The real question was whether they were curious about Hailey, wondering how much she knew, or whether they were erring on the side of caution, intent on eliminating her no matter what.
It seemed inconceivable, but then it seemed inconceivable that they’d killed Jonas, a boy who wouldn’t have known what to do with the information he’d found. It was something Finn had seen in the people he’d once contended with, and sometimes even among his own colleagues—a policy in which killing was the first option rather than the last, because lives counted for nothing against the security of guaranteed silence.
And now he had to rethink his position. He’d told Hailey several times that she was safe, but he no longer knew that. As if to reinforce that fact, he saw something that had eluded him at first—the timing of this visit to Gibson’s apartment.
Jonas had most likely been killed shortly after arriving home from school, and then later the same evening, someone from BGS had turned up here. Had this been the person who’d killed Jonas, calling by in the hope of being able to finish the job?
Finn thought of how tall and rangy Jonas had been, how easily he’d outrun him that first night. He imagined that if the visitor to Gibson’s place had been faking the suicide of a kid like that, he wouldn’t have taken the risk of doing it alone.
“Was he alone, Monsieur Grasset?”
“In the apartment, yes.” He opened the bottle again. Finn hadn’t touched his drink since the last refill, so he obligingly drained the glass and watched as Grasset filled it again. “I saw him to the door and he waved. He walked away. But along the street there, he got into a car, in the passenger seat, and the car drove away.”
“Did you see who was driving?”
“I couldn’t be sure. You know, if I was talking to the police, I wouldn’t like to say, but talking to you I can say it looked like Monsieur Gibson.” He paused. “You think they mean harm?” Finn nodded, his thoughts settling into a greater clarity than he’d experienced for a long time.
“Yes, they do, but I’ll deal with it.”
Grasset smiled, as if Finn had just confirmed a long-held suspicion of his own. Maybe Adrienne had spoken to him, too. Finn knocked back the shot in one and stood.
“Thank you, Monsieur Grasset. This is a great help.” He headed for the door, then stopped. The flow of information had diverted him from asking a key question, but he asked it now: “This man who called, did he give you a name?”
“Mais oui!” Grasset stood, embarrassed at having forgotten to mention it himself. He crossed the kitchen and picked something up, holding it out to Finn. “He gave me his card.”
Finn took it and looked at the thick card, the glossily embossed black lettering: the BGS logo, an office phone number, and the name of the person who’d come calling. Finn looked at the grappa bottle, and if he’d still been sitting he would have poured himself another shot, because the name on the card was Harry Simons.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Finn stood outside the Portmans’ apartment but didn’t press the buzzer. He could hear the soft muffle of voices somewhere inside, the family perhaps finally talking over Hailey’s disappearance or the events that had overtaken it. There were no raised voices and it was a comforting sound somehow, none of the words distinct enough to make out.
But that wasn’t why Finn had failed to press the buzzer. He was thinking about Harry Simons. Harry Simons, he reminded himself again, was dead. And if by some medical marvel they had managed to keep him alive, he would not have become the kind of person who killed fifteen-year-old boys, no matter who ordered it.
But Harry Simons was dead, and though the description given by Grasset could have easily fitted Harry, one odd little detail assured Finn that it hadn’t been him. In the couple of years they’d spent together in Northern Europe, Harry had never once complained about the cold—the colder it got, the happier he became—but he’d never been able to stand the heat.
Finn was as uncertain of most things as Grasset claimed to be, but he knew with an unwavering conviction that Harry wouldn’t have been on vacation in the Caribbean. It only served to back up what he already knew, that if Harry were part of BGS, whatever BGS was, they wouldn’t be digging around in the dirt trying to identify Jerry de Borg, because Harry knew already.
Harry was dead, had been dead for six years. Even thinking it brought a reminder of the guilt he’d felt at hearing of his friend’s death, because he’d doubted him in those final days, that business about falling for the girl.