Chapter 3
GRAYSON
“And he left alone from what you remember?” I ask the grocery store clerk. I’ve spent the last two days retracing Finn’s steps, and I lose his movements right as he exits this store.
“Think so!” The young girl bats her eyelashes at me. “He grabbed a pre-made sandwich, two waters, and … I’m not sure what else.” She pops the oversized bubble of her gum, and it sticks to her upper lip. She caresses it with the tip of her tongue and giggles.
“Thank you for your time,” I say.
She pouts but turns back to her register.
I dig into my raincoat, cursing the sleet that picked today of all days to fall, and pull out my notepad, thumbing through to the latest entry. I scribble down all the unhelpful information the girl gave me and flip to the next page. I freeze.
Scratched in ultra-feminine block print: This notepad is now under investigation for being extremely outdated. With a heart.
I rip it out and crumple the page into a ball, fisting it as I walk out of the store.
I toss it in the trash. Climbing into my sedan, I sit there in the warmth of my car while answering a few emails.
Finn’s trail is growing cold already. Whoever dumped him didn’t strip anything off his body.
No other DNA. Not many defensive wounds, and the motive could be anyone with a beef with the Irish Mob.
Though the fact a Yakuza member was the previous victim certainly raises the hair on my arms. Two mob men?
Knowing whether our John Doe was in the mafia, too, would help paint a better picture.
Sighing, I toss the car into drive and navigate the streets of Beacon Hill until I’m outside O’Brien’s.
It’s an old Irish bar with a thick wooden door, the kind you’d expect ripped from a European castle.
I don’t want to go in. I don’t want Miss O’Donnell’s help.
However, the idea I’ve got a serial killer disturbs me more than the Irish’s overlooked money laundering and underground fighting at the moment.
Not to mention, the chief won’t let any officers near the damn mob.
I open the door, the rich scent of leather and whiskey cutting the brisk cold.
I jam my hands into my coat pockets as the door thuds shut, sealing off the sunlight and sinking the pub into a dim haze.
Lunch patrons crowd a few booths and standing tables, the bar buzzing with more bodies than expected for a Thursday afternoon.
A bulky man dressed in all leather, with a nose piercing and gauges in his ear, steps forward. “Can I help you?”
I flip my coat open, allowing the glint of my detective’s shield to catch his attention, then let it fall closed again. “I’m here to see Miss O’Donnell.”
“She doesn’t take walk-ins.”
“Very funny.”
He stares at me, not laughing.
“Could you tell her Detective Grayson Holtz is here to see her. It’s about Finn.”
The man’s eyebrows raise. “What’d you do? Pick him up for driving too slow?” He chuckles, and my brow furrows. She didn’t tell this man Finn is dead. Interesting. “Give me a second,” he says, before he wanders past the bar and toward a hallway in the back.
I look around, savoring the rich smell of hearty stew drifting from the kitchen. My stomach twists, churning the early morning burned coffee in protest of being the only thing I’ve fed it. Thyme, rosemary, sweet onion—hell, I’m about to sit at the bar and order some when the man comes back out.
“She’ll see you.”
I follow him toward an employee-only area and down the hallway to an office.
The door is open, and Aoife’s blonde hair is piled on top of her head, pieces falling every which way.
She looks to be in workout clothes, leggings and a tank top, and there’s a sheen to her skin I work to avoid dwelling on.
Her head pops up from where she’s buried in paperwork, and when she sees me, she smiles. “Detective Holtz, I was not expecting you today.”
The man gestures for me to go in, and I step through, smoothing out my tie, but stop short in the doorway, caught off guard.
Hell. This looks less like an office and more like a Christmas party threw up, drunk from the night before.
Garland coils off every edge, looping around a lamp and hugging the perimeter of her desk.
It’s entwined with strings of blinking fairy lights—no doubt flashing to some cheerful song I can’t hear.
A sequined stocking dangles off the filing cabinet, crammed with pink candy canes, and snowflake decals decorate the rest of the drawers.
A sugary scent drifts through the air, pulling my gaze to a squat candle on her desk labeled Sugar Cookie. Even the mug holding her black ballpoint pen collection is themed with the words Santa, Define Naughty scrawled on the side.
I blink, trying to reconcile the rumored ruthless leader who has Boston by the balls with the room draped in glitter and bows. I don’t know whether to laugh or roll my eyes. How the hell can her office look like a candy-coated daydream?
“Thank you, Ronan,” she says, offering another smile and standing from behind her desk.
“I’ll be outside.” The door slams shut behind Ronan with a thud, louder than necessary.
Aoife rolls her eyes and crosses to the compact beverage fridge next to an olive-green leather loveseat.
A retro ceramic Christmas tree squats on top, its glossy paint dusted with fake snow.
Red, blue, orange, and green plastic bulbs jut from its branches, glowing faintly but overshadowed under the fluorescent lights above.
When the refrigerator door shuts, the tree shakes. “Water?” Aoife asks, extending a bottle toward me.
“Thank you.”
She plops down on the love seat. “Any information on Finn?”
I shake my head, pulling out my notepad. She eyes it but doesn’t ask if I found her note. “I retraced his steps, even spoke to your Aunt Lizzy, but I lost him after he left the grocery store a few blocks from here.”
She leans her head back, closes her eyes, and whispers, “Where were you, Finn? Who did this to you?” Her head tilts back, exposing the delicate line of her throat. A thin, slim column that looks impossibly smooth. She swallows, and every tendon shifts, her pulse fluttering beneath her jaw.
I look away, offering her privacy as she talks to herself.
A digital photo frame scrolls through on her desk.
In one, a young girl—Aoife, judging by the wide blue eyes and blonde hair—sits with her cheeks stuffed full of food and a grin spread across her lips.
In the next, it’s of her a little older, posing on a yacht that screams money no one but crime bosses could afford.
Her arms are wrapped around a man’s neck while another woman with short dark hair makes bunny ears behind him.
Aoife with a motorcycle. Aoife is on the beach somewhere.
Another with a blonde woman in New York City.
“So, what can we do next?” She stands, cracking the top of her water bottle open and moving back behind her desk. She turns the photo frame around, and it’s then that I realize I’m still staring at it.
“Uh, I—” I clear my throat. “I think the best move for me is to work on identifying our second victim. That my help us string together some information. If the victims knew each other, all frequented the same gym—”
“Finn didn’t go to the gym. He worked out here.”
“Okay. But do you understand what I’m saying? Is it a coincidence the last two victims were mafia men?”
Aoife winces.
“What?”
“I wasn’t sure if I should show you this …” She opens her laptop, brows pinched tight, bottom lip trapped between her teeth as her fingers move over the trackpad. “Here it is.”
She turns her computer toward me. On the screen is an email with five headshot-like photos of men, yet all taken from different angles in different locations. Surveillance, I think to myself.
My focus narrows on the sender. Luka Morozov.
I shake my head. “What is this? I can’t use this. You got this from the Bratva.”
She shrugs. “So? I’m the Irish Mob. We work with the police all the time. Ask your chief.”
“Just because you work with the police doesn’t mean I’ll work with you. I took an oath.” I shift in my chair.
“Your sanctimonious attitude will only get in the way of your job, Grayson.”
I hate the way she says my name, and I hate how, while unfair, she’s right. My family already excludes me because of what I do with the law; why should it matter what I use outside of it.
She sighs and places her elbows on her desk.
“Law enforcement’s been in bed with organized crime for decades.
We work below the law, above it, and in every shadow it casts, but don’t get it twisted.
We keep the bigger picture in focus. We have families and blood ties and things we aren’t willing to lose.
We keep this city running for them. So, if there’s someone out there trying to erase us, they’ve got it wrong.
They’re not cleaning up the streets of Boston, they’re only ripping out the foundation. ”
She spits her last words, and it’s crazy how such a beautiful woman can sound so vicious.
I contemplate her words. “You sound about as self-righteous as I do.”
She chuckles, then shoves the computer at me again. “Just look. I think you might be interested in photo four.”
I lean in, ignoring the email address that sent it, and study the photos. Photo four: the man has a tattoo on the side of his neck like our John Doe. Haircut and color are the same, the shape of his chin, the nose. I glance up at Aoife. “And these men are …” I know, but I want to hear her say it.
“Known members of the Albanian Mob. Some spotted here in Boston and New York City.” She pulls back and clicks a few keys on her keyboard.
“I’ll have to have the ME analyze this. Can you send me this?”
“Already done. But I’ll do you one better. Let’s go visit them.”
“No.” I stand, tucking my hands in my pockets. “We can’t do that.”
“Maybe alone you can’t. But I’ll go with you.” She winks at me, her long lashes grazing her cheek before bouncing wide. “Protect you from the big, bad mob monsters.”
“That’s not—”
“Because like it or not. I’m going to have a little chat with them.
They shouldn’t be in Boston. It’s Irish and Yakuza territory.
Not only that, but someone, who appears to have a grudge against made men knows it, too.
We need a name on this guy, so we can figure out what the hell is going on in my city.
So I can …” Her voice fades to a whisper.
“… so I can finally tell my dad about Finn.”
Her father. Kieran O’Donnell. Known for his time in the ring and getting down in the dirt with his men. He came off less like a mob leader and more like a father to the whole outfit. Looking at Aoife, maybe that’s what real leadership looks like.
A light tear trails from the corner of her eye, but she pats it away with her ring finger—her bare ring finger.
What the hell? Why can’t I ignore it’s empty?
Though I can’t help but wonder if she leads alone.
Not alone, alone—look at her photos. Full of life, family, and trips.
No. Aoife O’Donnell isn’t alone. Her life is probably filled to the brim with those wanting in her good graces and never leaving her alone.
But she didn’t tell her father about Finn. Why?
“Anyway, you coming, or not? I need to run down to change, but I’ll be back. My G-Wagon is in the shop—never get one—so I only have my bike. Can we go in your car?”
I stand there, unblinking.
“I’ll meet you in the car in ten.” Then she darts over, opens her office door, and runs down the hallway in the opposite direction.
I sigh, resting my hands on my hips under my long coat, and I allow my shoulders to slump in the silence of her office.
Actually, wait? Is that Christmas music?
Her laptop has a faint sound coming from it.
I tilt an ear closer, and words like “must be Santa,” “red suit,” and “on a special night” filter out.
Christmas music and made men. Lovely.