“He's very good with people,” Griffin said again.

“Let me tell you about your wife…”

The corporal's phone rang. He picked it up. “All right. They're ready for us.”

ACI's maximum-security building, aka Old Max, is a singularly impressive building. Built in 1878 from thick gray stone, the three-story structure is dominated by a gigantic white-painted center dome. In the old days, a light would burn in that dome, green light if everything was okay, red light if something was wrong. The folks in Providence would then send a horse and buggy to check things out.

The prison also boasts one of the oldest working mechanical systems in the nation. Most prisons are electronic these days. Push a button to buzz open cell door A or cell block B. Old Max still has working levers for operating the thick steel doors. The inmates probably don't appreciate these things, but it lights a fire under the history buffs.

Mostly, Old Max has sheer charisma. The thick stone walls look like prison walls. The heavy, steel-constructed six-by-eight cells, stacked three tiers high and thirty-three cells long, look like prison cells. The black-painted steel doors, groaning open in front of you, snapping shut behind you, sound like prison doors. The steady assault of odors-sweat, urine, fresh paint, ammonia, BO-smell like prison odors. And the rest of the sounds-men shouting, TVs blaring, metal clinking, radios crackling, water running, men pissing-sound like prison sounds.

Tens of thousands of men have passed through these gates in the past hundred years. Rapists, murderers, drug lords, Mafiosi, thieves. If these walls could talk, it wouldn't be words at all. It would be screams.

Griffin and Fitz signed in at the reception area. Civilians were required to pass through a metal detector. As members of law enforcement, however, they got to skip that honor, and they and Corporal Charpentier were immediately buzzed through a pair of gates into the main control area. Security was still tight. They had to wait for the gate to close behind them. Then a corrections officer who sat in an enclosed booth gestured for Griffin and Fitz to drop their badges into a metal swivel tray. The officer rotated the tray around to him, inspected the IDs, nodded once, dropped in two red visitor's passes and swiveled the tray back around.

Only after Griffin and Fitz had fastened the visitor's passes to their shirts did the white-painted steel gate in front of them slowly slide back and allow them to proceed into the bullpen. There they stood again, waiting for the gate to close behind them before a new set of gates opened in front of them. Then they had finally, officially arrived into the rear hall of Old Max.

Half a dozen guards sat around the red-tiled, white-painted space. Directly to the left was the door leading to the left wing of cells. Ahead of that was the lieutenant's office, where two corrections officers were monitoring the bank of security cameras. Straight ahead was the corridor leading to the cafeteria. And to the right was a visiting room, used by corrections officers for official business. Today, David Price sat shackled inside. Two other corrections officers sat outside. They looked up at Griffin, nodded once, then made a big show of looking away.

Did they think he was going to attack the kid again? Was this their way of saying that if he did, they didn't care? It sounded like Price had been keeping the whole facility hopping, whether the officers could prove anything or not. Even in maximum, inmates got a good eight hours a day outside their cell-eating, working, seeing visitors, hanging in the yard, etc. In other words, plenty of opportunities to mingle with other inmates and plenty of time to cause trouble.

This place really was too good for Price.

Corporal Charpentier opened the door. Griffin and Fitz followed him in.

Sitting in a tan prison-issued jumpsuit, David Price didn't look like much. He never had, really. At five eight, one hundred and fifty pounds, he wouldn't stand out in a crowd. Light brown hair, deep brown eyes, a softly rounded face that made him look seventeen when he was really closer to thirty-two. He wasn't handsome, but he wasn't ugly. A nice young man, that's how women would classify him.

Maybe that's even what Cindy had said, that first day he'd stopped by: “Hey, Griffin, come meet our new neighbor, David Price. So what's a nice young kid like you doing living in a place like this?”

David Price was smiling at him.

“You look good,” Price said. He didn't seem to notice either Corporal Charpentier or Detective Fitz. They were irrelevant to the matters at hand. Griffin understood this, probably they did, too. God, please keep him from killing David Price.

David was still smiling. A nice, friendly smile. The kind a kid might give his older brother. That was Price's thing. He never challenged directly, particularly larger men. He'd play the sidekick, the loyal student, the good friend. He'd be respectful but never gushing. Complimentary but never insincere. And at first you simply dismissed him, but then he kind of grew on you, and the next thing you knew, you were looking forward to his company, even eager for his praise. And things started to shift. Until it was never really clear anymore who was in charge and who was the sidekick, but you didn't think about it much anyway, because it seemed as if you were doing what you wanted to do, even if you didn't really remember wanting to do those kinds of things before.

Men liked David-he was the perfect unassuming friend. Women liked David-he was the ideal nonthreatening male companion. Children liked David-he was the favorite uncle they never had.

Man, Griffin should've just killed him when he had the chance.

“Have you replaced Cindy yet?” David asked conversationally. “Or is no other woman good enough? I imagine it can't be that easy to find another soul mate.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Fitz snarled.

“Tell us about Sylvia Blaire,” Griffin said. He pulled out a chair but didn't take a seat.

David cocked his head to the side. He wasn't ready for business yet. Griffin hadn't thought that he would be. “I miss having dinners at your house, you know. I used to love watching the two of you together. Cindy-n-Griffin, Griffin-n-Cindy. Gave me faith that there was something worthwhile in life. I hope someday I get to fall in love like that, too.”

“What's his name?”

“Hey now, Griff, that's sorta rude, don't you think?”

“I want the name of the man who raped and murdered Sylvia Blaire.” Griffin placed his hands on the table and leaned forward pointedly.

David merely smiled again and held up his shackled hands. “Hey now, no need to get physical, Griff. I'm quite helpless. Can't you see?” Another one of those goddamn sugary smiles.

Griffin's voice rose in spite of himself. “Give me the name.”

Instead, David looked at Fitz. “You don't look the type to bail a guy out,” he said matter-of-factly. “Now Mike Waters, he was a guy. Leapt forward and took the hit, so to speak. And your buddy Griff here, he can pack a punch. Have you ever seen the pictures of Mike's face?” The kid let out a low whistle. “You would've thought he'd gone ten rounds with Tyson. I imagine he got some first-rate plastic surgery when all was said and done, and probably at taxpayer expense. You might want to bear that in mind, Mr. Providence Detective. You look like you could use a little plastic surgery, or at least some liposuction here and there. And there and here. Say, I don't suppose french fries are your favorite food or anything?”

“Give us the fucking name,” Fitz snarled.

David sighed. Blatant hostility had always bored him. He returned to Griffin. “I thought you'd at least write.”

“You're going to tell us what you know,” Griffin said quietly. “We both know that you will. Otherwise, you can't have any fun.”