He reached into his damp coat pocket and pulled out a small, water-stained notebook.

He laid it on the table between us.

“What is that?” I asked.

“Julian Maroni has been meeting with the port authority commissioners,” Gregory said. “He knows you’re gone.”

I kept my face neutral, but my fingers tightened on the gun in my pocket.

Julian Maroni was not like Arthur; he did not rely on noise and broken bones.

Julian was patient, educated, and knew exactly how much a politician cost.

“The commissioners won’t budge for Maroni,” I said. “They are too afraid of the federal task force.”

“They were afraid of the task force when you were managing the accounts,” Gregory countered. “But yesterday, Commissioner Vance refused to sign the docking permits for our vessels.”

I watched a droplet of water run down Gregory’s cheek.

“Vance is a cautious man,” I said.

“He’s more than cautious,” Gregory said. “He told Arthur’s courier that his agreement was with the office of the administrator, not with the muscle.”

“He meant me,” I said.