Epilogue
Deputy Bromley
18 Years Later
G olden yellow leaves tumble across the cobblestone streets of Beacon Hill, and though Boston is beautiful in the fall, I don’t want to be here.
It would figure the department would send their newest transfer to sit in the quietest, sleepy area of Boston.
I’ve never been an officer to avoid the action. In fact, it was so ingrained into my psyche to crave it, my wife left me. Los Angeles sure was different from this city on the East Coast. It’s probably why they assigned me this patrol zone. In all my fifty-two years, I’ve never had as quiet of a week on the job as I’ve had.
My patrol car smells like feet, and the half-eaten burger on my dash turns to mush in the streaming sun. Several couples strut along the sidewalks, patrons darting in and out of the shops lazily enjoying the weekend of gorgeous weather.
That’s one thing I’ve come to enjoy in my new life here. Everything takes on an amber glow with the surrounding fall.
My mind wanders to my day off tomorrow. Plans to meet up with Jeremy for some fishing have been tossed around, but so far, I don’t have anything concrete.
I sneer. Should probably sign my divorce papers.
Reaching for my phone, I fumble with it until my photos of Linda are displayed. I swipe through them, the pang of guilt churning the undercooked burger in my stomach.
There’s a high-pitched whine that escalates into a loud roar as a motorcycle races by, silencing the peacefulness of the day.
My radar gun clocks sixty-five in the thirty-five, and my phone falls out of my hand as I switch on my lights and reach for my police radio.
“Dispatch, this is Unit 19. I’m in pursuit of a speeding motorcycle, heading eastbound on Charles Street.”
The all-black motorcycle matches its rider, and they weave through a few cars as I attempt to follow. Just when the adrenaline pings through my veins with the notion this may turn into a chase, the driver pulls over to an empty parking slot on the street. Figures.
I brake directly behind the rider.
“Dispatch, 10-35.” I toss my car into park and exit the car, having to adjust my utility belt.
When I reach the driver, the glassy helmet reflects the sun and my face in the tinted visor. I note the outline of a mermaid on the side of it. A hand covered in black gloves flips the visor open, and I’m met with the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. Thick brassy blonde eyebrows raise above them.
“Yes?” The voice is female. Well, I wasn’t expecting that.
“License and registration, please, ma’am.”
“Is there a problem, officer?” The female’s voice is youthful and has a soothing timbre that could talk a man off a ship and into the depths of the sea.
I blink, trying to gather my wits. I’m acting like this is the first alluring female I’ve pulled over.
“Actually, yes,” I say. “I clocked you going sixty-five in a thirty-five.”
She tilts her head to study me. “You’re new.”
Huh. How would she guess that? I’ve been an officer for over thirty years, and transferred to the Boston department last week, but she wouldn’t know that.
I repeat myself. “License and registration.”
Both her hands come up to grip the sides of her helmet and with a gentle tug, she lifts the helmet off. Light strawberry-blonde hair tumbles around her dainty face, and she fixes me with a stare.
She blinks at me, and I blink back, then sigh. “Ma’am. Failure to produce your license?—”
“Aw. How sweet. You really don’t know who I am.”
Here we go. Now this I’m familiar with. Happened all the time in LA. If I had a dime for every influencer that expects me to recognize them from their online social media presence, I’d be able to retire and eat better food than cheap greasy burgers for lunch.
“I can assure you, ma’am, I do not. Now, if you could please provide your license and registration. Proof of insurance as well.”
Her button nose wrinkles, and a sly smirk splays across her mouth. She throws up both hands. “All right. All right.” Reaching behind her, she sticks her hand into a small, zippered pouch strapped to the back of her—holy shit—it’s a Ducati Panigale.
My brain works overtime. This is an expensive bike for a girl this young. Although all these Harvard graduates usually have expensive stuff.
My imagination runs wild for several seconds before she hands me her paperwork and ID with a smugness that this generation seems to have tattooed to their faces and waits, crossing her arms.
I chuckle, thinking my old partner Frank—may he rest in peace—would bust my balls if he knew this was the most I’ve done all week in a city like Boston.
I scan her ID and freeze.
My mouth pops open, and I can feel my toes tingle. I thought the unit was playing a prank on me when they told me. I’d heard rumors and rumblings among the department, but to be face to face …
It must be my shocked expression, because she unfurls her arms and snatches the paperwork out of my hands, tucking it back into her pouch.
“Have a great day, officer.” She coos those words, and they sucker punch me.
With the rev of her engine, the Ducati slingshots out of the parking space, disappearing ahead of a BMW.
I stand there, left contemplating the brick print shop signage in front of me.
Holy hell buckets. She’s right. She needs no introduction.
I just met Aoife O’Donnell, leader of the Irish Mob.