“That a rental I saw you in?”
“They don’t rent rusty ’92 Beamers. I drove down. I needed to get out of the city and on the road again.”
“Yeah?” John said. “The long ride’s got you limping pretty good.”
“Yeah,” Gus said. “Fourteen hours did a number on my back.”
“Come on in, pal. I’ll get you a coffee and show you what I found.”
* **
Gus did his best to keep up with his old friend as John McMahon led him through the Criminal Investigation Unit. The guts of the Atlanta detectives’ department didn’t look much different from New York’s, where Gus had spent the last decade of his career. After twenty minutes of touring, Gus finally sat down in front of John’s desk.
“So,” John said, pulling two boxes from the floor and placing them on his desk, “this case you asked me about is more than twenty-five years old. Had a hell of a time pulling the boxes, but here they are.”
“How much trouble will it be for me to have a look?”
John shrugged. “I’m nine months away from retirement. No one is expecting me to follow any rules. And letting an old colleague look at an ancient cold case isn’t going to raise any eyebrows.”
“Thanks, John. I’m just gonna have a look to get myself up to speed on the details.”
“Of course. Can I get you anything other than coffee?”
“Yeah,” Gus said. “You know some lab guys who could help me out?”
“Maybe. What do you need?”
Gus pulled an envelope from his pocket and carefully removed the tissue that was inside. He gently unfolded the corners to reveal the fingernail clippings.
“I need someone to run DNA analysis on these, and then compare them to what was found at the crime scene in here.” Gus pointed to the box.
“I knew you were onto something when you called,” John said. He looked down at the clippings. “I could probably find a tech that could do it. But it ain’t cheap.”
“Don’t worry about the cost. I’ll cover everything.”
“Someone cashing in on a favor you owe them?” John asked.
“No,” Gus said. “I’m just making good on a promise.”
CHAPTER 62
Friday, September 21, 2018
HIS ATLANTA ROAD TRIP LASTED NEARLY A WEEK. TWO DAYS AFTERhis return, Gus bellied up to the bar at Jim Brady’s, a favorite Irish pub in Tribeca. Paul, the proprietor, was an old friend. They caught up over a pint of Guinness, calling each otherMickandGuineamore times than anyone around them cared to hear. They toasted to Gus kicking cancer’s ass.
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come back for another round,” Gus said with a frosted lip. “I’ve only got one leg left to kick with.”
“Well, my friend,” Paul said. “I hope you’re finally able to enjoy your retirement.”
“Nah,” Gus said. “This whole fiasco over the last year has shown me that I’m not the retiring type.”
“You’re not going back to the force, are you?”
Gus laughed. “I’m sixty-nine, with one leg. No police force is taking me back. And I’m not interested.”
Gus reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, opened it up to show Paul the license inside. It wasn’t quite as powerful as pulling out his badge, but it still felt good.
Paul leaned over the bar. “Private investigator?”
