by Kim Karr
I was led down a hall, through a number of doors, around a corner, and through another door. It had taken two days, but I was finally sitting in the attorney’s room. The problem with this little scenario is that I had yet to be allowed to make a phone call.
A quick glance in the mirrored window told me I looked like shit. I ran a hand over the top of my head. The sons of bitches in processing decided to shave it before taking my mug shot. The ones in holding complained I was mouthing back, so my black eye was owed to that. But none of that mattered. What mattered was the tightness I felt in my chest because I hadn’t been able to contact Elle. She’d told me she was unable to have kids, and in truth, I didn’t see that as the end of the world, but I knew she saw it as a failure. And then I up and disappeared on her. I couldn’t imagine what she must be thinking. Actually, I could, and that’s why I couldn’t breathe. She probably thought I’d abandoned her. And there was nothing I could do about it.
The very thought was enough to bring me to my knees.
My gaze shifted around. Here I sat in my wrinkled orange jumpsuit, handcuffed, waist chained, and shackled around the ankles, waiting for someone to grace me with his or her presence. The million-dollar question was—who was it going to be?
FBI?
DEA?
Someone else entirely?
Voices carried down the hall. Someone was shouting at someone else. It was a female voice I heard getting louder.
Suddenly, the door burst open and the she-devil herself came waltzing in. She had a suit on, and her trademark red heels, but her face wasn’t plastered in that frown she always wore.
Today, she looked genuinely pissed. “Get those off him,” she barked.
Two cops came scurrying in and unlocked the chains and undid the cuffs.
“I’m sorry about that,” she said to me, looking truly upset.
I shrugged. “Want to tell me what this is all about?”
“Out,” she ordered the two cops who were now standing beside me.
“Ma’am, protocol calls for us to stay with the prisoner.”
She narrowed her eyes at them. “If you don’t want me to put your balls in an envelope and mail them home to your wife, you’ll leave us alone. Now!”
They were out of the room in two seconds flat.
Agent Meg Blanchet with her red hair, red nails, and red shoes came and sat across from me. “I gave the orders on Friday for you to be placed under surveillance and then picked up Monday morning for questioning. The local cops assigned to tail you saw you packing your vehicle. They thought you were fleeing the country, so they picked you up Saturday.”
“I wasn’t fleeing. I was going to New York City for the weekend.”
“Not that I don’t believe you, but how do you explain the wire transfer of over five million dollars into one of your accounts?”
My brows popped. “My maternal grandfather must have released my trust fund.”
Dark brown eyes looked unexpectedly amused. “Well, whatever the purpose of the transfer, since there was no passport found in your possession, I don’t believe you were planning on fleeing the country. Unfortunately, an error in the chain of command delayed my notification that you had been detained.”
My anger was well past any explanation. “Tell me why I’m here and what this bullshit terrorist charge is about.”
“The terrorist threat charge had nothing to do with me. According to the local PD, a call was traced back to you. One in which you were threatening to burn the entire courthouse down if Flannigan didn’t get life behind bars.”
“When I was picked up, the officers claimed I was aiding and abetting a known terrorist. Now you’re saying I made a threat. Which bullshit claim is it?”
She shrugged. “Does it really matter?”
I shook my head. “No. I guess not. You know I’m smarter than that. Why would I ever do something so stupid?”
She held a hand up and ticked at her fingers. “Because Patrick had your grandfather killed and everyone is claiming he died of natural causes, even the facility he was living in. Because you were the one who arranged for the cover-up. Because you wanted vengeance.” She lowered her hand. “Any of those reasons could be why. Are you going to admit it?”
I pushed from the table and ignored her question. She fucking knew what I’d done, I didn’t have to admit it, and why the fuck did she care? I couldn’t have everyone investigating his death. And I couldn’t have Flannigan basking in the glory of Killian’s death. I wasn’t going to let him flex his power that way. “You know the terrorist charge is total bullshit. Those cops are on Flannigan’s payroll and just wanted to fuck with me.”
She pursed her lips. “Yes, unfortunately I’m afraid you might be right about that. I’m looking into it.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Get me the fuck out of here then and I might not take down the whole fucking place with the lawsuit I’m going to shove so far up your ass, you’ll be lucky to be pushing paper behind some desk.”
Her grin was wicked as she slid a folder my way. “Take a seat and calm down. You’re not here for terrorism, but you are here for a very good reason.”
I didn’t sit, but I did open the folder.
She tapped her fingernails on the table. “I’m not going to beat around the bush, Logan. You’re our prime suspect in the murder of Elizabeth O’Shea. That’s why you’re here.”
My head jerked down. I hadn’t even read the first line of the report yet. I was having trouble wrapping my head around the pictures of Lizzy’s dead body spread out on the table. “What?”
“We’ve got your fingerprints on an item found at the crime scene. I have a statement from you claiming you never met Elizabeth O’Shea, and yet a mechanic has identified you as the man with Elizabeth O’Shea on March twenty-first when her car went into the shop.”
“Did he identify Elizabeth?”
“No, he said he’d met her inside a bar and it was too dark.”
Whatever. I started to list the other facts. “My fingerprints? On what?” I asked quietly, suddenly very concerned.
“A baby rattle. An elephant’s head.” She pointed to the folder. “It’s all in there.”
I slammed the folder down. “You know I didn’t kill her. Just like the terrorist charge, that’s not why I’m here. So what’s the real reason?”
She shook her head. “Believe it or not, Logan, what I think is irrelevant. It’s the evidence that tells the story, and the evidence in this case is very convincing.”
It would be easy enough to clear up the identification of Elizabeth with a few more photos. The messy part would be explaining why Elle was pretending to be her. And I didn’t want to bring her into this at all. I sat down. Not. One. Fucking. Bit. “What do you want?”
“I want to know where you got the drugs. Who had them before you moved them to Lucy’s.”
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.
I knew it.
She knew.
Fierceness tightened my features. “I had nothing to do with that.”
She picked up the folder. “You and I both know that’s bullshit.”
I stared her in the eyes.
She opened the folder and pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to me.
I glanced at it. I knew I was looking at compounds, but what the values meant, I had no idea.
“You can keep that,” she said with a smile.
“What is it?”
“Evidence.”
“Okay, I’ll bite. Evidence for what?”
That smirk wasn’t fading. “To convict you of a felony. We found traces of an acidifier compound on the bags of cocaine that were picked up at Lucy’s, and traces of the same agent were found in your vehicle during a recent forensic search.”
My brows drew together in concentration. “An acidifier compound? What the hell are you talking about?”
The bricks of coke were in bags of salt.
“Flora Crystal Clear is what it’
s called. It’s a salt compound used to increase the life of fresh-cut flowers.”
No fucking way.
A light bulb went on in my head at the same time a conversation I had with Killian presented itself in my mind.
“O’Shea, he’s Mickey the florist’s boy?”
“Yeah, that’s him. He’s an attorney.”
My gramps raised his brows. “And young O’Shea’s claiming he isn’t involved?”
“That’s what he told Pop, but I’m not so sure.”
Gramps shook his head. “I’m with you. Not sure I’d believe him.”
The tiredness in the back of my eyes faded at the realization I might be right. “Why do you say that?”
Shifting on the bed, he brought his large frame to the head and settled back. “I can’t say, really. It’s a feeling based on what I know of his old man. When Mickey O’Shea was a teenager, he was a small-timer hoping to hit it big. Always doing stupid things. I warned your father to stay away from him in school. And it was a good thing I did. At nineteen, Mickey did a five-year stretch for hijacking a fleet of trucks. His first big job and he gets caught right out of the gate. Fucking idiot. When he got out, he started up his own gang. Some shit went down with his wife and after that the gang folded. Lucky for him, his mother had passed and he took over her flower shop. He seemed to give up on making his fortune and settled for domestic life. Then his wife was killed in some gang-related crime and I haven’t heard his name since. But if the young O’Shea is anything like his old man was, he’s a dreamer hoping to hit it big the easy way.”
Holy fucking shit. Mickey O’Shea was the Priest, and that’s the connection to Michael O’Shea.
It has to be.
Holy.
Fucking.
Shit.
Blanchet eased her body forward on the table. “What is it?”
My enlightenment must have registered all over my face. “We’ve been missing a huge piece of the puzzle. The source of the drugs is the unknown. Right? The reason we haven’t been able to make heads or tails of this.”
“No shit. That was your job. Remember? We thought we’d get to the source the night the drugs just miraculously turned up outside a strip club.”
I ignored that comment. “If I tell you what I know, will you let me out of here?”
Doubt was written all over her face. She didn’t think I knew what I was talking about. “Depends if the info is good or not, McPherson.”
I had to trust it was, and also trust that she was going to let me out of there. I decided to keep the name “the Priest” to myself for now. It could be leverage for later. “Ever hear of Mickey O’Shea?”
She nodded.
“Then you know there was a time years ago that he operated his own gang.”
She looked bored. “I know the story. Small gang. Gang wars. It folded. Patrick branched out on his own after that.”
“Did you also know that he’s a florist?”
She tapped her pen on the table as if excited. “Go on.”
“This is just a theory. Other than the compound you mentioned, I have no proof. But what if he’s been trying to resurrect Patrick’s old gang . . . and what if he’s the source?”
That got her attention and she slowly nodded her head. “Why not his own gang?”
“Some kind of payback?”
“Very plausible lead, McPherson.”
That might have been a pat on the back. “Good. Now are you ready to drop the bullshit trumped-up murder charges?”
Her huff of laugher had to be admired. “You’re pushing it. I never said that.”
“Come on. You know it’s bullshit. It will take me all of two minutes out of this room to convince anyone I didn’t do it. Yeah, I was in Elizabeth’s O’Shea’s vehicle and I moved some things around; the rattle must have been one of them. And you know Elle Sterling was driving her sister’s vehicle. She was the woman with me that night. I didn’t lie. I never met Elizabeth O’Shea.”
She shrugged. “Then why worry about it?”
I narrowed my eyes and came clean. “I don’t want Elle involved.”
“Very admirable of you, Logan, but I’m afraid the law doesn’t work that way.”
My ability to remain calm was surprising even myself. “Look, there’s a much bigger picture here. You have Patrick Flannigan in custody for a long stretch, but that isn’t going to put an end to the mayhem in the streets. You need the source of the drugs. What I’m giving you, what I can give you if you let me out of here, will help you do that as well as bring down a possible gang that you weren’t even aware existed.”
Her lip twisted and I could tell she was hungry to dig into the information. “Okay, I admit the murder charges are bullshit.” She took a piece of paper from the folder and tore it in half. “And I’ll even let the small detail of similar compound traces on the drugs and in your car get buried.” She took another sheet of paper and stuck it in the middle of all the others in the folder. “For now.”
I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms. “This is what I can do . . .” I told her how I planned to get to the source. It was sketchy. I had to lay the whole thing out, but if it was Mickey O’Shea, and on the surface it looked like it was, how hard could it be? I knew Blanchet wasn’t going to be able to uncover the truth alone, and so did she. She didn’t have enough. Not yet. And she needed me. I had connections she would never have.
The clock on the wall read eight thirty when she slid the keys to the Rover my way. “You’re free to go.”
“Just like that?”
She shrugged. “You were never formally booked or charged. In fact, there is no record of you ever having been here. I’ve also already let the FBI know the terrorist charges couldn’t be validated.”
I shook my head in disgust.
“It’s a task force, Logan, that I’m in charge of. I have certain leeway not everyone has. And letting you go is one of the things I can do.”
I got to my feet.
“But, Logan,” her voice was stern, “don’t screw with me, because I may be new to Boston but I’m not new to the streets. I know what you did. The thing is, I can see the bigger picture, and in it, what you did is irrelevant. But that doesn’t mean I can’t and won’t bring you in and book your ass if the need arises.”
As I stood beside the door, all I could think about was Elle. I didn’t care about anything that had happened in here, and I didn’t care what the fuck the bigger picture was. There was time for that later.
All I needed right now was to get to Elle, so I calmly answered, “I understand,” and walked out the door.
Just like she said I could.
ELLE
Mary Poppins didn’t have anything on Mrs. R.
Rebecca Reeves was Clementine’s new nanny and I couldn’t be more pleased. Michael had broken the mold and hired an older, more experienced woman. She seemed completely competent in childcare and took charge right away.
Finally confident that Clementine was in good hands, I was packing my things to return home. My nerves over her care had gotten the best of me. She’d gone through three caregivers since I’d arrived in Boston and with the death of my sister, I wanted her to have some stability during her days.
Knowing that besides Michael, I might be the only anchor in her life, I’d spent Saturday and Sunday night here. Logan was never far from my thoughts, but with Clementine to occupy my time, my heartache didn’t seem so catastrophic.
Aside from the incident where Michael had put his hand on my back, nothing in his behavior the rest of the weekend had pushed me to feel the need to say anything to him about it.
Just as I was zipping up my bag, the house phone rang. “Hello,” I answered.
Michael had to leave unusually early for work and I had agreed to stay until the new nanny arrived so I could introduce her to Clementine. Things had gotten off to a great start and they were busy getting acquainted in the nursery.
“Elle, is that you?” The familiar voi
ce shouted my name.
“Yes, is this Heidi?” I knew by the German accent that it was.
“Is Michael home?”
Michael? Not Mr. O’Shea. Interesting. “No, he left for work early.”
With a huff, she said, “I’m at his office and his secretary has informed me he won’t be in until later today.”
I set my bag down. “Can I help you with anything?”
She sighed. “I need my paycheck. I’ve been staying at a hostel, but I have to be out in a few days. Could you tell him to please leave it for me at his office and I’ll come by again in the morning?”
Curiosity took control of me. “I’ll let him know. Do you mind if I ask why you left so hastily?”
She laughed. “I didn’t leave. He ordered me out.”
Stunned, I didn’t hold back. “Why?”
“You must know what he’s looking for.”
My skin bristled. “I know he wants someone competent to look after Clementine.”
“Right, that’s what he wants.”
I flinched at the tone of her voice. “Did your departure have to do with a disagreement over Clementine?”
Her laugh was dry. “Not at all.”
“Then what?” I was pushing it and I knew it.
“I didn’t want—” She stopped. “I said no, and he ordered me to leave—Never mind, I’m not looking for any trouble, just please tell him I’ll come by his office in the morning.”
Once she hung up, I stood there at the night table near the bed, reeling. What was going on with him? I didn’t like what I was thinking. Why had he lied to me about Heidi quitting and also about having to go into work early?
The website I saw on the piece of paper in Heidi’s former room came to mind and I found myself back in there. Traci hadn’t arrived yet, so everything was the way it had been left. First thing I did was look at the crumpled paper again. It had been cut to about a quarter of the size of a normal piece and I could tell it had been folded down the middle. I’d seen one like this before in Michael’s secretary’s desk. The secretary he fired over a month ago.
Tossing it back in the wastebasket, I glanced in the open drawers and then under the bed. Nothing. I went into the bathroom. Nothing. I hurried to the nightstand and when I pulled it open, I found nothing there either.
