Cross

on cases again.”
    “Who said I’m taking on cases? This is a special situation,” I told Tony. “The Butcher probably murdered my wife years ago. It’s the one case I can’t leave unsolved.”
    “I understand. I do understand. We’ll try to help if we can. I’ll get you what you need.”
    Tony arranged for me to use the office of an agent who was out of town, and he said it was okay if I wanted to start a dialogue with an FBI researcher-analyst named Monnie Donnelley.
    “I already talked to Monnie,” I told him.
    “We know you did. Monnie told us. We cleared it for her now.
Officially.
”
    The next couple of days, I pretty much lived in the FBI building. Turned out, the Bureau had quite a lot on Michael Sullivan, the Butcher. His file included dozens of photographs. One problem was that the photos were five to seven years old, and there didn’t seem to have been any contact with Sullivan recently. Where had he disappeared to? I did learn that Sullivan grew up in a part of Brooklyn known as the Flatlands. His father had been a real butcher there. I even got the names of some old contacts and friends of Sullivan’s from his days in New York.
    What I read of Sullivan’s backstory was curious. He’d attended parochial schools through tenth grade, and he’d been a good student, even though he never seemed to work at it. Then Sullivan dropped out of school. He took up with the Mafia and was one of the few non-Italians to break in. He wasn’t a “made man,” but he was well paid. Sullivan earned in the six figures when he was in his early twenties and became Dominic Maggione’s go-to hit man. His son, the current don, had never approved of Sullivan.
    Then something strange and disturbing to all concerned started to happen. There were reports of Michael Sullivan torturing and mutilating the bodies of victims; murdering a priest and a layman accused of misconduct with boys at his old grade school; a couple of other vigilante hits; a rumor that Sullivan might have murdered his own father, who disappeared from his shop one night and whose body had never been found to this day.
    Then Sullivan seemed to completely disappear off the Bureau’s radar screen. Monnie Donnelley agreed with my assessment: that Sullivan might have become somebody’s informer in the Bureau. It was possible that the FBI, or the New York police, was protecting him. Even that Sullivan might be in Witness Protection. Was that what had happened to Maria’s killer?
    Was he somebody’s snitch?
    Was the FBI protecting the Butcher?

Chapter 92
    JOHN MAGGIONE WAS A PROUD MAN, too showy at times, too cocksure, but he wasn’t stupid, and he wasn’t usually careless. He was aware of the current situation involving the mad-dog hit man his father had used back in the day—
the Butcher,
an Irishman of all things. But even his crazy old man had tried to eliminate Michael Sullivan once he found out how dangerous and unpredictable he was. Now the job would be done, and it had to be done right away.
    Sullivan was still on the loose, Maggione knew. As an extra safeguard against him, he’d moved his family out of the house in South Brooklyn. They were living at the compound in Mineola on Long Island. He was there with them now.
    The house was a brick Colonial, waterfront, on a quiet cul-de-sac. It had its own dock on the channel and a speedboat,
Cecilia Theresa,
named after his first child.
    Although the compound’s location was well known, the gates around the place were secure, and Maggione had doubled his bodyguards. He felt good about the safety of his family. The Butcher was only one guy, after all. Realistically, how much damage could he do? How much
more
damage?
    Junior had plans to go in to work later in the morning, then make his regular stop at the social club in Brooklyn. It was important for him to keep up appearances. Besides, he was sure he had things under control now. He had assurances from his people: Sullivan would be dead soon, and so would his family.
    At eleven in the morning, Maggione was swimming in the indoor pool at the compound. He’d already done thirty laps and planned to do fifty more.
    His cell phone began to ring on the chaise longue.
    Nobody else was around, so finally he climbed out of the pool and answered it himself. “Yeah? What?”
    “Maggione.” He heard a male voice on the line.
    “Who the hell is this?” he asked, even though he knew who it was.
    “This happens to be Michael Sullivan, chief. The