Back in New York, the late-autumn chill had deepened into gray sleet that blanketed the streets in slush. While Avery and Alexander were in Montauk, Julian Croft sat in the dingy back booth of an obscure Irish pub in Hell's Kitchen, nursing a cheap draft beer. The bespoke Brioni suits and designer watches were gone; Julian wore a rumpled wool jacket with a frayed collar, his face gaunt, his beard…
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