Family portrait
He climbed back into the car, his head boiling with anger. When he drove off, Mason Stone didn't look back, didn't look at the truck lying in the middle of the road or at the gangster struggling to stand on his weak legs.
It was adrenalin that drove him to the address found in Samuel Perkins' ledger. The clenched muscles of his jaw were the picture of a tension that would not go away. He pulled up half a block before the house: a dingy blue apartment building with its own entrance.
He turned off the engine and leaned back, adjusted his hat and undid the top button of his jacket.
He had never had such a close relationship with the New York mob. At least officially. It wasn't what his unit was about when he was at the precinct, but no one born and raised in the Big Apple
