And let him have caller ID.
John Maggione answered himself. “Who’s this?” he asked, and sounded bent out of shape already.
Bingo! The man himself. They’d hated each other since Maggione’s father had let Sullivan do some jobs for him.
“Take a guess, Junior.”
“I have no fucking idea. How’d you get this number? Whoever you are, you’re a dead man.”
“Then I guess we’ve got something in common.”
Adrenaline raced through Sullivan’s system. He felt unstoppable right now. He was the best around at this kind of thing: setting up a target, playing with a mark.
“That’s right, Junior. The hunter becomes the hunted. It’s Michael Sullivan. Remember me? And you know what? I’m coming for you next.”
“The Butcher? Is that you, punk? I was going to kill you anyway, but now I’m going to make you pay for what you did to Benny. You piece of shit, I’m gonna hurt you so bad.”
“What I did to Benny is nothing compared to what I’m going to do to you. I’m going to cut you in two with a butcher saw, and send half to your mother, and the other half to your wife. I’ll let Connie see it just before I fuck her in front of your kids. What do you think of that?”
Maggione exploded. “You are dead! You are so dead! Everything you ever cared about is . . . dead. I’m coming after you, Sullivan.”
“Yeah, well, take a number.”
He flipped the phone closed, then looked at his watch. That felt good—talking to Maggione like that. Seven fifty. He wouldn’t even miss U2’s opening number.
Chapter 59
I HAD JUST FINISHED UP with the day’s final session and was looking through the old files on Maria’s case again, when an unexpected hard knock came against the office door. What now?
I opened it to find Sampson standing out in the hallway.
He had a twelve-pack of Corona stuffed under one arm, and the carton of beer looked ridiculously small in relation to his body. Something was up.
“Sorry,” I said. “I don’t allow drinking during sessions.”
“All right. I hear you. I guess me and my imaginary friends will just be on our way.”
“But seeing how much you obviously need therapy, I’ll make an exception this one time.”
He handed me a cold beer as I let him in. Something was definitely going on. Sampson had never been to my office before.
“Looking good around here already,” he said. “I still owe you a hanging plant or something.”
“Don’t pick out any art for me. Spare me that.”
Thirty seconds later, the Commodores were on the CD player—Sampson’s choice—and Sampson was flopped down on my couch. It looked like a love seat under him.
But before I could even begin to unwind, he blindsided me. “Do you know Kim Stafford?”
I took a swill of beer to cover my reaction. Kim had been my last patient of the day. It made sense that Sampson might have seen her leaving, but how he knew who she was, I had no idea.
“Why do you ask that?”
“Uh, I’m a police detective. . . . I just saw her outside. The lady is kind of hard to miss. She’s Jason Stemple’s girlfriend.”
“Jason Stemple?” Sampson had said it like I should know who that was. And in a strange way, I did, just not by his name.
I was glad Kim had come back for more sessions, but she was firm about not identifying her fiancé, even as the abuse at home seemed to have gotten worse.