In the center of the page, he wrote, OLD ASSIGNMENT/NEW ASSIGNMENT. He circled this note.
He then wrote ADRIANA RAMIREZ, circled it.
A half inch away, he wrote BENITO RAMIREZ, circled it.
He drew a line connecting the last two notes and then two smaller lines connecting them to the largest circle in the middle, the main concept.
BOWMAN FAMILY came next, which he circled and connected to ADRIANA RAMIREZ.
He jotted down a few more circled thoughts:
YEARS AGO
WHAT’S BEEN FORGOTTEN?
CONNECTIONS?
He leaned back in his seat. The springs squeaked. His fingers drummed on the notepad.
He focused on one of the last ideas he’d written: YEARS AGO.
Yes, many similarities. The harassment Adriana had been receiving at the hands of Lowry’s gang and the Bowman family’s predicament in New Orleans, so long ago.
A moment of staring at the mind map, then he looked out the window again to Adriana’s house. Her silhouette was against the glow of the back window.
And Silence’s hesitant mind slipped back to years ago. When he was an undercover cop.
When he was Jake Rowe.
Chapter Four
Years earlier.
New Orleans, Louisiana.
A man stood in the gloom of a poorly lit warehouse parking lot, at the loading dock. He was the same height as Silence Jones, roughly the same build.
His face, though, was entirely different.
Before the plastic surgery.
And unlike Silence, the man could speak, and he did so loudly, ardently.
Before his voice was stolen from him.
His name was Jake Rowe.
But at that moment, in the dark, back-alley depths of a Big Easy night, no one knew him as Jake. Here he was Pete Hudson, the undercover alias he had used months earlier at his first introduction to members of the Farone crime family—those who would soon take him in, impressed by the acuity and fabricated credentials of this fictitious car thief.
As a made man among the Farones, Pete Hudson received another name, his mobster name, a rite of passage and an antiquated tradition that the Farones kept alive. They’d latched onto his tendency to be boisterous when excited—a quality amplified by his baritone voice—and dubbed him Loudmouth.
Pete “Loudmouth” Hudson.
The night was cool, but it still made you sweat. Humidity thick enough to swim in. It formed droplets on the flickering light fixtures, the building’s crumbling brick facade. The cracked asphalt of the parking lot was filled with weeds but otherwise empty. There was the occasional hum of a vehicle passing by, blocks away. Chirping insects.
Jake towered over the other two men, who were both on the short side. Charlie Marsh was short in a kid brother sort of way. Clayton Glover’s shortness was more of the bulldog variety.
Glover stepped aside, to the far wall, hands raised to his lowered chin, the flick-flick of a cigarette lighter followed by a brief glow, silhouetting his head.
Charlie inched closer to Jake, looked up with one of his anxious grins, and emitted a small chuckle, big strands of wavy hair flopping over his forehead and into his eyes as it always did. “This is gonna go just fine. You know? No doubt about it. They’ll have the money this time.”
Jake smiled. “I’m sure they will.” He twisted in Glover’s direction. “Isn’t that right, Glover?”
He’d said it affably, as was his manner, and his deep, chuckling voice echoed off the brick walls.
Glover didn’t respond. His back remained to the other men. He took a drag from his cigarette. Smoke drifted away into the night.
Jake returned his attention to Charlie and kept the smile on his face as he gave the younger man a reassuring nod that said he fully believed that everything would turn out all right. But Jake wasn’t at all certain. Something about this situation felt bad. Off. Wrong.
Charlie motioned with his head toward Glover then raised his eyebrows, said nothing. But Jake knew what he was imparting. Of the three-man contingent sent to New Orleans, Jake and Charlie were on one side of the schism that was forming within the Farone organization. Glover was on the other side. And over the last few days, the divide was manifesting itself in more and more ways, to the point where now, with Glover several feet away, there was a literal, physical gap between them.
Jake took another glance at his wayward companion, and when he did, Glover looked up, down the alley entranceway into the parking lot.
“They’re here,” he said, pointing. He flicked his cigarette into the night and walked back toward Jake and Charlie.
A late model Honda Civic sedan creeped toward them, headlights flooding the decayed parking lot, revealing its secrets. The car stopped about twenty feet away. A few moments later, the headlights extinguished. The engine continued to run.
The front doors opened. From the driver side came a man in his fifties, standing tall but relying on a cane. A homely but kind face. Short-cut, graying hair.
A younger man emerged from the passenger side, twenties, tall and long, five o’clock shadow, squinting eyes, wide chin, vacant expression. There was a large scrape on his right cheekbone, scabbing over, accompanied by some bruising—the remnants of the last time Jake’s trio had met with the Bowmans two nights prior.
As Pete Hudson, Jake was not supposed to know who these men were, only that they were from the Bowman family. But as an undercover police officer, he did know. They were Kip Bowman, fifty-six, owner of a hardware store, and his son Wesley, twenty-four, part-time college student and part-time employee of the family business.
The men approached Jake’s trio. Glover slid forward a couple of feet, positioning himself in front of Jake and Charlie. He ran a hand over his hair, which was worn combed back, pompadour style. He then shoved both hands in his pockets and bounced his weight through his heels, shifted his muscular shoulders, a man preparing for confrontation.
“Ten thousand, Mr. Bowman,” Glover said. “Plus interest brings the total to twelve grand.”
Kip looked toward Glover but kept his gaze away
