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gone.

SIX
    There was a framed photograph on the wall behind Ray Washington’s desk. Harry moved closer to look at it.
    It had been taken at the State Police Academy in Sea Girt during their training: two ranks of cadets in fatigue jackets and caps, standing at parade rest on a cold morning, the barracks looming behind them. He remembered the day. It had marked the midway point of their five months at the academy. They’d survived ten weeks of physical and mental abuse and were proud of it. Ray stood front and center, one of only six black faces in the group of ninety. Harry was in the second row, his cap partially obscuring his face. They both looked impossibly young.
    “Hard to believe, isn’t it?” Ray said as he came back into the room. “Young and stupid. Ready to eat up the world.”
    “It feels like another life.”
    “It was.”
    Harry turned to face him. Ray wore a tailored gray suit, but his tie was loose, the jacket unbuttoned. He looked like a lawyer at the end of a hard day in court. His head was shaved close and his scalp gleamed, and though he’d put on more than fifty pounds since the photo had been taken, his posture was still military erect, his arms and shoulders thick with muscle.
    He dropped a wide manila envelope onto the desk. “Thought you’d want to see these right away,” he said. “They’re just Xeroxes, but the guy who gave them to me would have his ass in a sling if anybody found out. He owed me a favor. Now I owe him one. Don’t ask me his name, because I won’t tell you.”
    “He with Major Crimes?”
    “Yeah, what’s left of it. I think he’s looking to get out, though. Tired of the politics.”
    “That’s a surprise.”
    “Bureaucracy is no friend to the steadfast and righteous. Verily, I say it unto thee. Pull up a chair.”
    They sat down. Ray opened the envelope, took out four sheets of paper, slid them across the desk.
    “Now you’re going to look at these,” he said, “and then we’re going to talk.”
    Harry spread out the sheets. They were black-and-white copies of eight-by-ten photos, taken from about a half block away.
    “These came in as part of a regular surveillance detail,” Ray said. “They were taken last week up in Bloomfield.”
    The photos were in sequence, all apparently shot within minutes of each other. Each showed an elderly man standing on the sidewalk outside a storefront restaurant. Eddie Fallon was in all of them. In the first two, he and the old man were deep in conversation, heads inches apart. In the third one, they were embracing. In the last, Fallon was getting into the passenger side of a dark Lexus.
    “Some coincidence, eh?” Ray said. “I call him out of the blue to ask about somebody and a day later these photos come across his desk. I didn’t tell him much, but I’m sure it aroused his curiosity. Recognize the goombah?”
    “Just the type.”
    “That’s Paolo Andelli. ‘Paulie One-Eye’ on account his left one is glass. Somebody put his real one out in a cellblock riot in Rahway in the fifties. He’s running the Scarpettis now since the feds put Al and his brother away last year. Funny thing is, before that, Paulie was a loose cannon, nobody wanted to put him in charge of anything. He was too much of a hothead.”
    “Where is this place?”
    “A restaurant where he holds court most of the time. That is, when he’s not at home pretending to be a grandfather or in a hotel bed with his mistress, trying to get it up. MCU, the feds, practically everybody knows about that restaurant. They watch it all the time. Andelli always goes outside to talk business, because the inside’s wired seven ways from Sunday. Everybody knows it. Makes you wonder why they bother.”
    “What else do you know about him?”
    “When I was with the OC Strike Force he was never more than a minor player. He’s been on the sidelines all these years, getting old, waiting for his turn to come. He runs a waste-hauling firm, a vending machine