Chapter 11
KATE
Iwork late Monday night, learning everything I can about Fiona Moran and her Old Colony Crew in Boston.
Of course, I know the general outlines of her story.
She was the only child of Kieran Ingram.
When her da died from spite and a massive heart attack, she assumed she’d take over as Queen, but some of her clan’s old guard thought otherwise.
With an unlikely protector by her side, an enforcer out of Philly, Fiona proved herself to be feckin’ brilliant.
She’s been in charge of Boston for six months now.
That’s what I know as a mob princess myself, but I spend a few hours gathering additional information from public articles. Fiona’s never met a camera she didn’t like, and she’s not afraid to dress like the Celtic tiger she is. She’s made the gossip page more than once. The legal notices too.
After I finish raking through every article and image I can find online, I dig into Cole’s records.
He hasn’t given me access to everything on his network—same as I haven’t handed over keys to everything on mine.
But I can log in to basic accounts for Lone Wolf, reviewing every official document Cole has ever compiled for his clients.
When he’s working for the Irish mob, though, there’s a lot that doesn’t go into writing.
It takes me a few hours to understand the corporate structure Fiona relies on for her Old Colony assets.
She’s done clever things, hiding ownership of various organizations.
Some of it is designed to evade tax authorities.
More is to spread the wealth, in case any of her operations is compromised.
But most of what she’s done is an elaborate game, as intricate as a Celtic knot, apparently for the sheer joy of it.
I can appreciate that in a criminal.
I fall asleep with my laptop in bed, hours after midnight. When I wake on Tuesday morning, I take a cool shower, thinking I’ll need it to stay alert. But my blood fizzes as I pull on my old hacker’s uniform—yoga pants and a super-soft hoodie.
This must be how Cole feels every morning, wired and ready to go on just four hours of sleep. Walking down the stairs, I check my laptop for incoming mail. I’m swiping through messages by the time I pad into the kitchen.
“Good morning, Kate,” Nilsson says with his usual formality.
He’s siphoning off coffee from the monster machine on the counter into an insulated carafe.
I’m pleased he’s already here; I’ve long since given up trying to brew a cup myself.
It would be easier to master the control panel at a nuclear reactor.
Nilsson takes a mug from the cupboard and pours me my first cup of the day. “How would you like your eggs this morning?” he asks.
“No eggs,” I say. “I’ll eat across the street.
Did you happen to see if the lights were on in the carriage house when you came over?
” I need to see how my sister is bearing up under the news of Mam’s latest betrayal.
Breagha will sleep till noon given half a chance, but Granny will have been awake since dawn.
“You aren’t allowed across the street,” Nilsson says. I think he means to soften the announcement by adding my name: “Kate.” But it sounds like a glitch in his programming.
“That’s ridiculous,” I bluff. “Cameron can simply—”
Nilsson already has his phone in his hand. He reads from the screen as if he’s reciting instructions for building an IKEA bookshelf. “Under no circumstances should Kate be allowed past the gate.”
“When did Cole send that?”
“2:17 yesterday afternoon. And then at 5:49 this morning, he sent the same instruction.”
There’s no way I can get the drop on a man who doesn’t sleep. But I try a lie anyway. “He meant the gate of your house. I’m allowed to see Granny and Breagha.”
Nilsson barely shakes his head. “I am to remind you that you can FaceTime them at any time.”
“Granny doesn’t know how to—”
“I provided a refresher to Mrs. Watson yesterday afternoon.”
There’s no use arguing. Nilsson has been Cole’s man for years. “Thank you for the coffee,” I say.
“Eggs?” he asks.
“I seem to have lost my appetite.”
I take the carafe and my mug and head to my office where I make a show of looking very busy.
I go back to some of the videos I watched yesterday, about Fiona Moran’s support of the Caterina Marcus Corman Museum.
I turn up the volume as I watch them again, throwing the images onto one of the screens built into the wall.
Nothing to see here. Just an innocent little wife, following her husband’s orders to a tee.
Nilsson plays his own role perfectly. Half an hour into my determined performance, he brings a tray into my office. There’s a pot of yogurt and a bowl of fresh berries. He’s brought two of the miniature croissants I love, along with warm, spreadable butter. I thank him before I start to eat.
He checks on me three more times in the next hour, always with some excuse. He brings a stack of morning mail and a letter knife. He replaces the pencils in the holder on my desk with two dozen fresh Blackwings, newly sharpened. He offers to brew me a second pot of coffee.
I must finally convince him that I’m not a flight risk, because he misses his check-in at a quarter past nine. I go to the jacks, expecting to run into him in the hall, but he must be deployed elsewhere in the house.
Instead of returning to my office, I continue down the corridor to the mansion’s front door. Sunshine streams through the foyer windows, promising another hot July day. Later, I might need to exchange my sweatshirt for a T-shirt.
But first, I’ll visit my grandmother and sister.
The doorknob turns easily under my hand. Drew Cameron pulls himself to attention on the front step. “Good morning, Kate,” he says.
“Good morning.” I step over the threshold.
“Is there anything I can get you?” Drew asks, not yielding an inch.
“No thanks. I’m just dashing across the street to see Granny.”
“I’m sorry,” he says, and he honestly sounds regretful. “I can’t allow that today.”
“You’re holding me prisoner in my own feckin’ house?”
He takes out his phone and reads from the screen. “Under no circumstances should Kate be allowed past the gate.”
Cole was a very busy man during those few hours I was asleep.
“Then we’re in agreement,” I say. “I can cross the drive to the gate.”
“You can,” Drew says. If I thought I’d intimidate him, I was wrong.
“And what if I put my hand through the bars? Is that acceptable?”
“No, Kate.”
“What if I just put my big toe past the line?”
“Under no circumstances should Kate be allowed past the gate.”
I don’t bother taunting Drew further. I just step back inside the house and close the door with an assertive snick. It’s no more his fault my husband is an overprotective gombeen than it was Nilsson’s.
I consider trying the back door, the slider that leads onto the patio, but I can already see the shadow of the canine handler standing guard there. I’m certain he’s received the same memo as the rest of my jailers.
I could fight. Make a break for it. Call the police and report a kidnapping in progress. Set a fire and try to escape when the firefighters arrive.
The old Kate would have done all that and more. She would have carried some of her frustration into the Red Cap Raiders, urging them on to more and more dangerous raids. She would have done her best to undermine Lone Wolf, to strike fast and strike hard against any of its clients.
But I did promise. And if I close my eyes, I can still taste the vinegar stink of tear gas against the back of my throat.
Sighing, I return to my office.
Now I have Ariadne’s Daughters instead of the Raiders.
After creating my online profile—TheRealAriadne—I haven’t devoted nearly enough time to building my group of all-female white hat hackers.
Professor Carlotta Mirabelli, MamaBear online, has been delivering reports on her progress, identifying a couple of leaders as well as potential worker bees, but we need a way to test new members, to determine their skills.
I’ve already built out part of Cole’s online game, Winter Reckoning for my pet project. I need to polish it. Revise the focus of more of the game’s algorithms from killing to building. Figure out how to build the Labyrinth of my dreams.
As long as I’m under house arrest, I might as well use my powers for good, instead of for evil.
For now, anyway.