by Kim Karr
“Shit!” Logan said, slamming his hands on the table. “She has to stop after two attempts. O’Shea isn’t stupid. If he sees the red light blinking, he’ll know someone was trying to break in and it won’t be too hard to guess who.”
Miles hunched over his laptop and hit a few keys. “You’re right. I say we put that idea aside for now, but at least we know that the panic room isn’t connected to the home alarm, which is good news because then O’Shea won’t get an alert.”
My phone beeped, this time with a text. I would have turned it off, but I was worried Michael might be trying to reach me, and I needed to be accessible for Clementine. I pulled it out of my purse again. The text read, Blessed are those who do not walk in step with the wicked or stand in the way that sinners take or sit in the company of mockers.
Shivers went through me.
“Let me see.”
I handed it to Logan.
He stared at it for the longest time. Perplexed, angered, and worried, he shoved my phone in his own pocket. “We’ll talk about this later.”
“Another message?” Declan asked.
Logan nodded. “A Bible verse. Doesn’t make much sense.”
“The Priest?”
“Would seem that way.”
“Can I see?” Miles asked.
Logan handed him the phone and Miles stared at the screen for a bit, as if in contemplation.
With Logan’s trust fund now accessible to him, he could afford to pay Miles and had asked him to work full time on this. Miles had agreed and taken a leave from his security job at the hotel. Sliding the phone back to Logan, he seemed to blink away his thoughts and went on. “Let’s focus on something different, like trying to gain access to O’Shea’s computer. Maybe we can learn something from what he has in his files that will help Elle come up with what the code could be.”
Logan nodded in agreement.
“Okay, what do I need to do?” I asked.
“That’s easy. Hang on,” Miles said, and then started tapping his keyboard.
The muscle in Logan’s jaw was tight with tension and his shoulders were rigid. I leaned over and placed my hand on his thigh and whispered, “Hey, it’s going to be okay. I’ll be careful.”
He sucked in a deep breath and took my hand. “I don’t like this at all. If there was any other choice, you’d stay clear of O’Shea altogether.”
I squeezed his hand. “You know I have to do this,” I whispered.
He gave me a nod and stood up. I watched as he paced the room and then came back to his empty chair and gripped it with his hands. “What are you looking for, Miles?”
“O’Shea’s IP address.”
“You can find that?” I asked.
He gave me a grin. “I can do just about anything.”
“How?”
Miles turned the computer toward me. “It’s something I learned a long time ago working a short stint in white-collar crimes. Do you have an old email from him?”
I nodded and took control of the keyboard, logging into my Gmail account. “Here’s one,” I said.
Miles faced the computer again and started tapping some keys. “And . . . I got it.”
“Won’t he know?”
“Not at all,” Miles reassured me as he turned the laptop around. “Here you go. Just enter his user ID and password and we’re in.”
My fingers were shaking and I think Logan knew how nervous I was, because he moved behind me and placed his warm hands on my shoulders. This helped calm my nerves, and I typed Michael’s email address in the user name box. I had used that the other day and it worked. Then I typed Clementine’s birthday in the password field. Incorrect password flashed across the screen.
“Try again.” Miles pointed to the screen.
Slowly, I typed it for the second time, careful to hit every right key. Incorrect password flashed again. I glanced up, feeling defeated. “He must have changed it.”
“Are you sure you have the right password?” Miles asked.
I nodded and swallowed, more nervous than ever. Maybe Michael was more suspicious than I thought he was. Or maybe he had traced the site I had been on and knew I was lying to him. I hadn’t divulged any of the lies I’d told to Michael yesterday to either Logan or Miles.
“Do you think he writes his passwords down anywhere?”
“I’m not sure, but I know he jots a number of things down. I’m going over there tomorrow to have breakfast with Clementine. I’ll go in his office then and look around.”
The noise that escaped Logan’s throat sounded like a growl. “If he’s on to you, he’s not going to leave his password anywhere.”
I tried to calm him by grasping his hands, which were still resting on my shoulders. “You’re probably right.”
Miles said, “Chances would be slim anyway, but the other thing you could do is install a program on his computer that will allow me to monitor his keystrokes so I can gain access that way.” He started to tap the keyboard again and then pulled a small thumb drive from the side. “Insert this in one of his computer ports and when it loads, then hit install. It’s untraceable and the next time he logs on, I’ll be able to see every stroke.”
“Elle, I don’t want you doing this,” Logan hissed as he took his seat beside me.
I needed to come clean. To tell him I doubted that Michael would ever hurt me. That he wanted me to be with him. But the fact that I had entertained those plans when I thought Logan had left me made me feel so guilty that I had a hard time getting the words out. Before I could push them up my throat, the door to the employee lounge flung open.
“Sorry about that, boys,” Frank said, dragging his arm across his forehead. “Molly’s going to burn the fucking place down with all these new electronics she’s installing. Her latest gimmick is some fancy margarita machine that—” His eyes fell on me and for a moment they seemed haunted. I’d seen that look before on Sean McPherson the first time he saw me. The ghost of Emily Flannigan, I thought this time. It should have bothered me, but it didn’t. Logan assured me I was nothing like her beyond a superficial similarity and that what he felt for me had nothing to do with her.
There was a chorus of hey, how are you from around the table.
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t know we were in mixed company,” Frank said, and he wiped his hands on his jeans before walking toward me and extending one. “Frank Reilly.”
I smiled at him. “Elle Sterling.”
I’d seen him once before, but he wasn’t paying attention to me that night. He’d just wanted his daughter away from Logan. I wondered if with Patrick in jail and Tommy dead, he still felt that way.
“So what did you need?” He directed his question toward Logan, extending his hand and then pulling Logan toward him for a slight hug.
Frank was a big, billowy man. He’d been an informant for the BPD for years and had been the link between Agent Blanchet and Logan while Logan was being coerced to assist the DEA. As I watched the interaction between the two men, I couldn’t help but observe the fondness Frank felt toward Logan. Odd; up until now I thought he didn’t care for him.
But then again, he had allowed the break room at his pub to serve as the meeting place for this renegade task force, which, depending on what was really going on, could put him in harm’s way.
“Got a minute to sit down?” Logan asked him.
“Yeah, sure,” he said, and took a seat in one of the flimsy folding chairs that surrounded the small rectangular table.
The room was a hodgepodge of items that looked to be worn-out pieces from days better seen in the pub. Broken beer signs hung on the wall. The table was warped and the wood laminate was peeling off. Of the six chairs surrounding it, only two were sturdy enough to hold any real weight. I was worried the ones Miles and Frank were sitting in might just collapse.
“I want to pick your brain,” Logan started.
Frank eyed him warily but gave him a slight nod.
“My grandfather told me a story once about
Mickey O’Shea.” He paused for a moment, and I knew the thought of Killian McPherson still made his heart heavy. I could see it on his face. With the slightest shake of his head he pushed the sorrow away. “He told me that when Mickey was a young man he went to prison, and that when he got out of prison he started up his own gang,”
“Yeah. They were small-time, though, a skeleton crew of twenty men at most. At the time, Paddy Flannigan was his number two. I don’t know how much income they generated. I know they were extorting protection payments from the strip clubs, which is how Paddy got the idea to run his businesses through them, lots of cash I guess. But back then, they ran the cash through Mickey’s mother’s flower shop.”
Logan nodded as if he already knew that.
Declan sat up straight.
And Miles eased his chair closer to the table.
“What do you know about Mickey?”
Frank looked uneasy.
“What?”
He shook his head. “I can’t say.”
“Is it about his gang?”
“His wife,” Frank said flatly.
Everyone perked up. “What about her?” Logan asked.
Frank closed his eyes for a moment before speaking. “Have you seen a picture of his wife?”
I had, but everyone else around the room shook their head.
"Rose O’Shea was a knockout. Picture Maureen O’Hara mixed with Lana Turner and eyes the color of the clearest blue sky.” He seemed to shake his head at the very thought of her but then cleared his throat, probably when he remembered I was in the room. “She was one of those women who turned every man’s head no matter if he was in love, straight or gay, and she knew it. She loved the attention and often sought the company of other men. Word on the street was that she was a tease, which was ironic because she claimed to be such a good Catholic girl. Went to church twice a week.”
Something like anticipation crested under my skin. The way he was talking drew all of us in, even the man I loved sitting beside me.
Logan crossed his arms over his chest and stretched those long legs. “Do you know how she died? I mean people say it was gang related, but that’s all. Never any details.”
Frank exhaled and looked away. “I do, but I swore on my life to keep it to myself.”
Uneasiness moved through me. Whatever it was didn’t sound good at all, and I wasn’t sure any of us should know.
Logan eased forward. “Anything you can tell us about Mickey would be helpful.”
Frank looked contemplative.
“Listen, Frank, this is going to sound crazy but I have reason to believe Patrick’s former gang, the Dorchester Heights Gang, is reassembling. And that maybe Mickey is running it, going by the name ‘the Priest’ to keep his identity secret.”
Doubt passed over Frank’s face like a shadow.
“It sounds crazy, but it’s not completely out of the question,” Logan said.
Frank was shaking his head.
“Think about it—over the past few years the drug trafficking on the streets of Boston has been pegged to one supplier, but no one knows who he is. Cocaine use has more than doubled across all income levels, which means someone with a substantial network is supplying it. What if it’s been Mickey this whole time using former Dorchester Heights members? The ones Patrick didn’t welcome into Blue Hill?”
My stomach twisted into a thousand knots. Clementine’s grandfather running one of the biggest drug rings in the history of Boston meant that if word got out, she would be in constant danger. Kidnapping threats. Death threats. Mob danger. And to make things worse, I had no idea what Mickey felt for Clementine, if anything. At least I knew that Mickey wasn’t involved in his granddaughter’s care as far as I had observed. In fact, aside from my sister’s funeral, I’d only seen him one other time, over at Erin’s for her son Conner’s birthday. I’m not even sure we ever spoke another word after we were introduced there. Still, the thought that he might be leading a secret life didn’t make me feel good about Clementine’s environment.
Frank stood up and walked over to the sink in the corner of the room. He opened the pine cabinet beneath it and rummaged around for a bit before he pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. He raised the bottle. “Anyone else need a drink?”
Logan gave a shake of his head and leaned back on the wooden chair. I worried it might not withstand the pressure and tried not to wince.
“I’ll take one,” Declan said.
“Me too,” I chimed in. I wasn’t a drinker, but thinking about Clementine in possible perpetual danger drove me to want one.
With a quiet thump, Logan brought his chair upright and leaned forward. “You okay?” he whispered so only I could hear. It was as if he was thinking the exact same thing I was and also didn’t like what that meant.
I nodded and put my hand on his knee. Just touching him made me feel so much better.
Frank continued to rummage around.
The room waited in quiet anticipation.
Logan placed his hand over mine, as if in reassurance that he’d make everything okay. The sentiment touched me. What we had together was so real, at times I had a hard time believing it. With Logan in my life, I knew what Charlie and I once shared wasn’t real love at all because real love doesn’t fall apart when someone is broken. Real love toughs it out . . . no matter what. Besides, according to Logan I wasn’t the least bit broken, and I chose to believe him.
The liquid poured easily into the glasses Frank found above the sink and went down even easier. Logan’s touch had already started to settle my nerves and this finished the deal.
Frank, on the other hand, downed one, then another glass. When he finished, he looked toward Logan, who seemed to have switched gears and suddenly gained patience. A slight trickle of perspiration broke on Frank’s forehead. “It’s not Mickey. I’m almost certain of that.”
Logan looked perplexed. “What do you know, Frank? What makes you say that?”
He gulped another sip. “This is dangerous information. What I’m about to tell you has to remain in this room. Promise me it won’t get out.”
Logan raised his right hand. “I promise. I swear on my own life.” He glanced around and Miles and Declan did the same, and then his eyes landed on mine. I didn’t raise my hand. I didn’t have to; he knew I’d never do anything that would hurt him.
Frank’s words sputtered out. “He’d never run a gang once run by Paddy Flannigan. Never. Besides, he wouldn’t have any trusted members. No one would work for him.”
“What makes you think that?”
“Everyone knows his wife died because of him. He broke code and didn’t protect his family. No one would work for a man like that.”
“What really happened, Frank?”
“His wife took a bullet meant for Paddy.”
Everyone’s eyes widened to the size of saucers.
Logan twisted in his seat and his right foot was tapping furiously on the floor. “Are you certain about that?”
Frank nodded. “It happened right here, in my pub, in front of me.”
“Who pulled the trigger?”
His response was an empty, “Mickey.”
What?
I felt like the room was spinning. All the air was sucked from my lungs. I think I gasped. A chill went down my spine and I suddenly felt very cold. Mickey and Rose were Clementine’s grandparents, and learning details of their tainted past made those knots in my stomach tighten even more.
Logan moved closer to me and the gesture warmed me instantly. I couldn’t believe how much I needed him.
“What happened, Frank?” he asked, with a softness in his voice that surprised me.
Frank squeezed his eyes closed. “It was 1989, just after the New Year. The weather was miserable and the pub was empty, so I sent the bartender home. I’d thought about closing early, but my wife had just left me and the thought of going home to an empty bed wasn’t appealing. In walked Paddy and he ordered his usual. He came in a lot back th
en. I used to joke with him that I was his therapist and was going to start charging. He and his wife were having trouble and I was no stranger to that.”
Logan narrowed his eyes in concentration. “So you and Patrick Flannigan were friends?”
The hollow laugh that escaped Frank’s throat sent chills through me. “Friends. That would be a stretch of the word. I did what I had to in order to stay on his good side. Molly’s was between Blue Hill and Dorchester Heights turf but hadn’t been claimed by either. That was enough to make me his best friend if he wanted me to be.”
“You were afraid he was going to make you pay for protection?” Declan asked.
He nodded. “Fuck yeah, I was. Listen, things had changed by then. The Irish Mob was no longer about the cause; the IRA had long been forgotten. Like now, it was about profit, but it was also about pride. I was lucky I hadn’t been forced to pay for protection like everyone else around me. I didn’t care whose friend I had to be; I just wanted to keep it that way.”
Declan raised a hand. “I’m not judging. My old man paid right up until the day Patrick Flannigan turned his back on everything Dorchester Heights for his shiny new Blue Hill Gang. That’s the only reason we were able to save enough to expand our business.”
Sympathetic looks passed between the men.
Logan squirmed a little, knowing he was the catalyst behind the merge, but in this case, it turned out to have had a positive impact on at least one family. “Go on, Frank. What happened next?”
“An hour or so had passed and he was pretty wasted. The door opened and Rose O’Shea came in, dressed to the nines. She was wearing a tight black dress, high heels, and a brand-new fur coat. I noticed it because I found it hard to believe Mickey could afford something like that. She strode right over to Paddy and sat down. Like it had been arranged. He ordered her a drink and they started talking. I didn’t know if the two of them knew each other, but Rose had come in enough that I was aware nothing but trouble could come out of her flirting with him. Sure enough, it didn’t take long for her to down a few martinis and for them to disappear into the bathroom.”
My heart was in my throat. What if Michael was like his mother?
