Chapter 16
16
PATRICK
F uck.
I’m not driving back to Philadelphia today.
I remember Quentin O’Roark. The last time I saw him, he was a low-level runner, but he’s clearly found a way to succeed with the Crew. That makes sense. The man was born with a computer attached to his fingers.
But I stepped in front of Fiona because he could have had a gun. He could have pulled a knife on her. Broken her neck with a twist of his hands.
Okay. Maybe not his hands.
But Fiona isn’t safe—not with Aran Dowd prowling for the King’s throne. And even though Keenan Rivers has kept to the shadows, I don’t trust him either.
The simplest thing for me to do is to pay attention to the Fishtown ring on my finger. That Celtic knot stands for something. It tells me who my true family is, where I’ve been for the past twenty-five years, where I belong .
But a feckin’ ring doesn’t say anything about a girl trying to do what’s right. Fiona dressed like a Queen today. She stood by her father’s grave as if he deserved her respect. She held her tongue when that dry shite of a priest rushed through his prayers like he was shoving a pauper in a pit.
And she nearly came apart at the seams back in the apartment, when I spared her one kind word.
I’ve been counting kinks for longer than she’s been alive. I know some people get off on praise. Plenty of subs get more from a few kind words than they do from whips or cuffs or butt plugs.
But I’ve never seen anyone turn on so fast, so bright. Fiona lit up like a feckin’ lightbulb, and my fingers are itching to pull her chain again.
When we return to the Back Bay, I linger on the little patio at the back of the house. I have phone calls to make, and Fiona needs time to gather her thoughts. I saw the way she clutched that cigar box like it was a lifeline. I’m curious about what’s in it, but I had no business asking at the churchyard when she’d just buried her da.
I check in with Rory O’Hare first. He’s been my second-in-command for a few years now; I trust him keeping an eye on our boss. It’s Saturday afternoon, but he answers on the first ring, ready with a full report. He fills me in on Kelly’s whereabouts, on his state of mind, on the day-to-day challenges of running a criminal empire from a five-star luxury hotel.
That gives me what I need to check in with Himself. But Kelly doesn’t pick up, even though I’m calling his personal phone.
On the one hand, I should be pleased O’Hare’s serving well enough that I’m not needed. On the other, I feel a bit bruised for being set aside so soon. I leave a message, saying Dowd and Rivers are chasing their own tails; I don’t think they’ll bother Fishtown anytime soon .
But I also say I need a little more time to investigate. A little more time to be sure.
I don’t mention Fiona.
I knock on the apartment door when I get up to the fourth floor. Somehow, I forgot to get a replacement key made yesterday. I meant to do it; the plan just slipped my mind with everything else going on.
Fiona’s changed out of her demure outfit. She’s wearing yoga pants now, ones that sit low on her hips so I get a clear view of her skinny crimson thong. She’s pulled on a top that’s more lace than cloth.
She plants one hand on her hip. “So you’re staying?”
“Yeah,” I say, even though I’m half-convinced it’s a mistake. “For now.”
“Thank you,” she says. “For now.”
She doesn’t have to tilt her head to that angle. She has no cause to lick her lips. There isn’t a reason on earth she needs to pause with her tongue just barely visible in the soft, dark cave of her mouth.
My hands need something to do, so I strip off my tie. I’m still thinking about what I could manage with that knot-marked silk when I turn to the note she’s left on the counter—a 617 phone number.
“Are you going to call?” I ask. My question’s a test. I want to know how she thinks.
“Q was right,” she says. “I need to act fast. The Gala’s at the end of next month.”
“But why reach out to a stranger? If O’Roark really wants to help, why not just hand over your father’s accounts?”
“If Da made a will, I haven’t heard about it. It’ll take days to pull together his records. More days—maybe even weeks—to jump through hoops with bankers, investment guys. I don’t have that time, especially with Uncle Aran fighting me every step of the way. ”
“But you trust O’Roark with this?” I jut my chin toward the number.
“He’s old-school, belts-and-suspenders. It was dangerous, what he did today. He wouldn’t take that risk if it wasn’t safe for me to follow up.”
“What if Dowd put him up to it? Or Rivers?”
She shakes her head. “Q was terrified they’d see him talking to me. His hands were so sweaty… That stammer… I know a thing or two about nervous men.”
Her words are matter-of-fact, but her tone tightens the crotch of my trousers.
“Trust me,” she goes on. “Quentin O’Roark doesn’t have the balls to play both ends against the middle.”
“So you trust whatever random woman he tells you to call?” I eye the slip of paper.
“Of course not.” She sounds indignant. “I know nothing about her.”
“Good girl.”
She smiles as her cheeks turn pink, and it’s like someone turned on an entire bank of stadium lights to flood a football pitch. “But I will call her.” She sounds a little breathless, like she’s just run up all four flights of stairs to this apartment. “I’ll meet with her. I’ll see what she has to say. And if it makes sense, if her terms are good, I’ll get the money I need.”
That’s a good answer, so I pull a clean burner from my pocket. I always keep one on hand. “Go on, then.”
Fiona swallows as she takes the phone. She smooths the piece of paper on the countertop. She glances out the window at the brownstone across the street, at the sky, at the Land Rover parked in front of the fire hydrant.
But her hand is steady when she finally puts the phone on speaker and punches in the number.
It rings three times before someone answers: “Speak.”
The voice is female .
Fiona looks at me as she responds. “I was told you can help me. I need to raise some funds.”
“Who gave you this number?” The accent is Boston, born and bred, and the woman is old.
Fiona asks a question with her eyebrows. I shake my head. “Someone who trusts both of us,” she says.
“I don’t talk to strangers on the phone. Can we meet in person?”
“Yes,” Fiona says.
“Monday morning,” the woman says.
“Tomorrow,” Fiona says. She clearly doesn’t want to wait.
“Tomorrow is Sunday. I go to church. Spend time with family. We can meet on Monday.”
“Fine,” Fiona says, resigned, but not happy about losing the round.
“Caffe Isabella,” the woman says. “On the waterfront. Ten o’clock.”
I shake my head. On principal, I won’t take the first place offered.
Fiona says, “Monday at ten. But let’s meet at The Black Sheep.”
I wince. The pub is in the heart of Crew territory. There’s no telling how many eyes and ears will report back to the dún before we’ve settled in a booth.
But the old woman seems to have her own rules. She makes a spitting sound, then says, “Not three blocks from the gray house.”
She knows about the dún.
Fiona holds up empty hands, asking for suggestions. I haven’t been in Boston for more than two decades. I don’t know the best place for black-market shenanigans.
But I know a place that’s easy to get to. That’s far enough from the dún that none of Dowd’s men is likely to happen by. That’s got tables outside, where it’ll be a hell of a lot harder for this woman or any of her associates to plant a camera or a bug .
The Bell clangs. I know better than to act on impulse. But sometimes impulse is the only thing I have to go on. I grab one of the menus from the bowl, along with a pen, and I print in big letters on a patch of white paper.
“Yankee Roast,” Fiona says. She reads off the address as I add it.
“Yankee Roast,” our mystery woman says. “At ten. On Monday.” And she ends the call without another word.
Fiona shakes her head as she hands back my phone. “You think this will work?” she asks.
“As long as I’m not the one ordering,” I say.
But somehow I suspect that salt in the coffee will be the least of our problems.