Zach sat up so fast his head spun. “Can we talk later?”
“Meh. I have to catch up on grading. Thanks for listening.”
“Any time.” Zach ended the call and opened Molly’s text. Confirmed for Saturday with Grace.
This was his opening: time to fight. He tapped the phone icon to call her.
“Zachary?” He wasn’t sure whether that was surprise or caution in her voice.
“Hey, what are you up to?”
“Did you get my text?”
“Yeah, you’re all set for Saturday. You talked to Grace?” He hopped up to pace his narrow living room.
“She’s scheduled the next stop on the grand tour of gettin’ married.”
“Where are we going now?” Zach paused at his bookshelf, his gaze landing on the jazz trivia game she’d gotten him at the Kennedy Center.
“‘We’? Ah, but you’d look good in a weddin’ gown, I’m sure.”
He’d see her sarcasm and raise her. “I do have the legs for it.”
Molly said nothing for a minute. “Loath as I am to disabuse you of that notion, I’m afraid you don’t. And she might find that odd, don’t you think?”
“I’ll grant you that.”
She got back to business before he continued the banter. “We’re goin’ Saturday at three, which makes my third weddin’ appointment with her. Remind me again what Jason’s bringin’ to this relationship?”
Zach stopped short in the middle of his worn beige rug. Molly’s voice carried a double edge of teasing and steel, but she wasn’t wrong. He couldn’t let her do all the work. “Maybe he’ll come up with a romantic plan to whisk Molly Ryan away from the torture of dress shopping.”
“Zachary, I’ll try on every weddin’ gown in the state if it means savin’ lives. Any day could be another Omagh.”
For a second, he was thrown back to when he first met Molly. She’d done everything in her power to protect him from the mob in the parish. The mob he was investigating, so it wasn’t the most helpful thing, but even as a civilian, she’d lived for this.
“You’re lucky Grace hasn’t roped you into a fittin’ room,” Molly said.
“Aw, Molly, you know.” Zach slipped into Jason’s drawl. “I can logisticate my way out of anythang.”
“That so? Then we’ll have to find some equivalent sufferin’ for you.”
Zach wandered into his kitchen and started a slow circuit around the table. He was supposed to fight for her, wasn’t he? “Maybe she’ll make us practice our first married couple kiss.”
“This isn’t The Weddin’ Singer.” Molly’s tone turned terse.
Man, she was right, completely cliché. “Hasn’t stopped Grace so far.”
Molly fell silent. Had he escalated too quickly? Better back off. “So, your backup. Do you want me?” He let the question end there, hoping she’d read into it.
“I talked to X. He said I don’t need backup anymore.”
He had to convince her he should be there. “Did he? I dunno, Molly. I mean, you’ve done okay, but look how it almost turned out last time.”
She was quiet for a long time. “I’ll be grand. She didn’t tell me the shop’s name anyway. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
Molly quickly ended the call. But she’d joked with him. Progress. Right?
Definitely groundwork he could build on.
Grace fidgeted on that stupid, ugly sofa Thursday night, unable to stop her foot’s bouncing. She uncrossed her ankles and shifted in her seat. Pearse was late. Later than he’d ever been at the pub.
What if Allen wasn’t some poor sap? What if he were a sleeveen, even working for the police?
No. Impossible. How could Pearse have come to the police’s attention? He wasn’t even living under his own name.
Ed flipped on the television. “Can’t make him appear by worryin’.”
“I know that,” Grace snapped.
“Tried callin’?”
“Three times.”
Ed shifted on the couch to change the channel. “He’s grand.”
She said nothing, but recrossed her ankles, her foot taking to bouncing again.
A key sounded in the lock, and the door swung open slowly — not Pearse’s usual lead-laden entry. Grace managed to not jump up. “Where have you been?”
Pearse slammed the door and stalked to the kitchen. “Where’s that boxty?”
“Fridge.” Grace clasped her hands until her son returned with a cold potato pancake. “Where in the thirty-two counties have you been?”
“Pub.” Pearse sank onto the sofa and kicked his feet onto the battered coffee table. His gaze stayed on his food.
“Pearse, you look at me and tell me what took you so long.”
He obeyed. “I got sacked.”
The world tilted on its side. The words seemed to go together, but Grace couldn’t parse them at first. Pearse, sacked? From his job? Grace forced air into her clenched lungs. This couldn’t happen. They needed that job — for the money, the matériel.
“Sacked?” Ed demanded. “What’ve you done?”
“Someone noticed we were shortin’ them.”
Ed smacked his forehead. “Ya buck eejit, ye! We haven’t got enough since you —” He pointed at Grace. “ — insisted we sell off the bits, and you —” He pointed at Pearse. “ — used what we had!”
Grace cut him off. “Did you at least bring more home?”
Pearse set his jaw and narrowed his eyes at his dinner. “They were waitin’ for me me as soon as I walked in.”
Grace sank into Ed’s recliner, cradling her head in her hands. Her heart seemed to crumple in her chest. She never should’ve trusted this to Pearse.
“We don’t have enough for your client and our squib.” Ed’s pronouncement was laden with the finality of the door slamming on all their plans.
Grace looked up. “We’ll get it.”
They had to. There was no alternative.
Friday afternoon, Molly plowed through the last of her week’s paperwork — and thought of anything but Nate or Zachary.
She’d tried to mentally avoid Nate all week, since she couldn’t very well dump him via mobile. If only she’d avoided Zachary’s call a couple of days ago.
Okay? She’d done okay? Look how it almost turned out last time? She’d torn her own heart out in front of Grace, twice. She’d directly led to the capture of one of Arizona’s most wanted criminals. She had a standing job offer from another major field office. Was Zachary’s “okay” supposed to be a compliment?
She’d show him “okay.”
Her computer chimed with a new email. Molly clicked on the notification, opening the commissioner’s reply. She leaned forward.
Dear Special Agent Malone,
I hope your parents are well. I apologize that this has taken so long; I’ve been on holiday.
I haven’t any record of any Canavans, and I’ve taken the liberty of checking with the Police Service too. Naturally, members of active paramilitaries strive to maintain low profiles.
Dealing with individuals within these movements is like dealing with anarchists: it’s hard to keep them in line dogmatically because they thrive on disorder.
Wish I were of more assistance.
Raymond Hassan
Molly read the email twice before letting disappointment sink in. She didn’t think Hassan was still cataloguing violent paramilitaries, but she’d hoped he had one small lead. She’d already checked with Irish law enforcement as well: nothing.
Before she could sigh, her mobile rang. She checked: Zachary. She almost didn’t answer — but this was work, and they were on the same side, weren’t they? “Hello?”
“Hey, I wanted to talk about tomorrow. Now a good time?”
“Perfect. Commissioner Hassan just emailed.”
“I’ll be right —”
“I’ll read it to you,” Molly cut him off.
He was silent for a beat. “Go for it.”
She read the messa
ge over the telephone. “Disappointin’,” she confessed once she’d finished, rocking back in her chair.
“Not much to go on. Guess we could double-check with the Guards — I mean, your parents said they saw them in Dublin, didn’t they?”
“They did, and I’ve already contacted the Gardaí. They had nothin’ as well. I think Hassan’s right — I doubt they’d make trouble in Dublin after lyin’ low so long in the North, especially if their objective was clear passage here.” Molly clicked to file the email on her computer.
“You’re just trying to get out of dress shopping tomorrow, aren’t you?”
“You know I amn’t.” Molly shifted the phone to her other ear. “But don’t you remember how much ‘fun’ weddin’ plannin’ with Grace is?”
“I can’t forget. Let’s just say I’m glad to be in the office this afternoon.”
Of course. A week ago, Grace had been parading them down Michigan Avenue on her relentless wedding quest.
Including a pâtisserie. And a garage with an event Grace hadn’t planned.
She had to stop this train of thought. She clicked on the search bar of her web browser and entered Phoenix apartments for rent.
Zachary did her the favor of changing the subject abruptly. “The Fourth Protocol’s on tonight — Michael Caine, Pierce Brosnan, double agents?”
“Always liked that one.” But she needed to end this conversation before she forgot her self-control. “I’ll give you a ring after we’re done tomorrow.”
“Great. I was thinking we could take a look at the reception rooms at the Irish American Heritage Center, too, if we need something else to do.”
“Too many people know the real Molly Malone there.”
“Okay. I’ll keep thinking. Good luck findin’ the perfect dress,” he drawled. “’Cause it wouldn’t be a weddin’ without the star of the show in a ridiculously expensive dress.”
How much did wedding gowns cost? She hadn’t looked last time. Molly opened another tab on her browser to check. “If that’s what we’re goin’ for, I have a few Irish dance dresses we could use. That’d guarantee every eye was on me.”
Zachary didn’t laugh. “You never have to worry about that, Molly.”
Her heart hit a speed hump.
“What you should be worried about,” he finished, “is backup.”
“Are you this much of a control freak about weddin’ dresses?”
“Just trying to help.”
She folded her free arm across her chest. “A cold case I solved helped put away one of Arizona’s most wanted criminals, Zachary. Did I need your help then?”
“I — really?”
“The Phoenix field office has offered to transfer me back once we’ve finished with the Canavans, and honestly, I’d rather work with people who trust I can do my job.” Not to mention people she wasn’t hopelessly in love with — who didn’t love her back.
She waited three seconds for Zachary to respond, to correct her, to say he did believe in her. But he didn’t. She ended the call and turned back to her paperwork.
Flying solo tomorrow was definitely a good thing. In fact, it was probably a good thing forever.
Zach knocked on the Evanses’ door and shoved his hands in his pockets Friday night. His third blind date in as many weeks. Tonight would be just like the last two: utter disaster.
Had he secretly always been such a loser?
Enough of a loser to try to steal a friend’s girlfriend. But tonight, he was just doing the SAC a favor. All he had to do was make sure this date didn’t go as badly as the last few. Or so well that he might lead her on. But that didn’t seem like much of a threat.
A woman answered the door. Brunette, tall, pretty — and she didn’t look crazy.
“Zach?” She stepped out onto the stoop, pulling her coat on. “I’m Tessa.”
They shook hands. “Any Chicago sites you’d like to see? Special requests?”
“Actually, a friend suggested a place that sounds fun. Let me see.” She took out an iPhone and tapped the screen before turning the phone to him. “Heard of it?”
Zach skimmed the emailed review — O’Hooligans, an Irish-themed restaurant on the Northwest Side with classic Chicagoan cuisine. “Nope, sorry.”
“Do you mind? She thought I’d like it.”
“Sure. It’ll take us a little while to get there, though.”
Tessa turned back to her phone. “That’s okay. I’ll get directions.”
He nodded and started for the car, and Tessa followed. If their date went as bad as his last few, at least he wouldn’t have to blame himself with her glued to the phone.
Once they were in the car, though, the conversation picked up when they discovered their shared love — for college basketball. They debated the merits of the current AP and coaches’ poll rankings between Tessa’s navigation.
They broke the conversation only to get Zach’s name on the restaurant’s waiting list. He barely had time to notice the tacky pseudo-Irish décor: shamrocks, green top hats, Guinness harps, farm tools. Maybe it was supposed to be tongue-in-cheek.
“Why aren’t you home watching a conference championship tonight?” Tessa teased.
He made a show of sighing. “Brings back too many bad memories.”
“Your alma mater not fare so well?”
“We were lucky to make it to the second round in the conference tourney.”
“‘We’?” She scrutinized him. “Most people would call their losing team ‘they.’ Do you take everything this personally, or did you play?”
Zach looked away. “We were so bad I don’t like to admit it, but yeah.”
“I understand, believe me.” Tessa wore a sad, sympathetic smile. “I would’ve settled for a winning season.”
“No joke.”
She eyed him a moment. “Bet my team was worse.”
“You’re on.”
“We’ve only been to the NCAAs once, when I was, like, two.”
Zach sucked his teeth to express how much he sympathized. “My team has the honor of never making it to the show.”
Tessa visibly startled. “Is that even possible?” She laughed and Zach joined in — until he saw a familiar couple across the vestibule.
His heart rate hiked higher. The Canavans. Just when it seemed like he might have a normal — even enjoyable — date. If they saw him with Tessa, if they heard his real name and saw him respond —
His pulse spiked again. They had to leave.
“Tessa?” He turned his back on the Canavans and tried to keep his tone casual. “How attached are you to eating here?”
She furrowed her brow. “I guess we could go somewhere else. Why?”
“Just saw somebody I need to avoid.”
“Ex-girlfriend?”
“Worse, if you can imagine.”
Tessa leaned over to look behind him. Not very discreet. “Your parents?”
If she could ID them that easily, either she should be with the Bureau or — Zach checked. The Canavans were walking toward him.
He quickly turned back to Tessa. “Please, go along with whatever I say and don’t ask questions. Or say my name.”
“Okay,” she said slowly.
“Jason?” Grace called from behind him.
Zach whirled around. “Hey, Grace, Ed. How y’all doin’?”
“Grand.” Though she addressed Zach, Grace was staring at Tessa.
“Come here often?” Zach joked, trying to keep the conversation from veering in Tessa’s direction.
“Should think not.” Ed glanced around at the kitschy faux Irish decorations. “Let’s hope the taste they spared in the décor they put into the food.”
Zach did not raise an eyebrow at the longest sentence he’d ever heard from Ed. He needed to get out of this conversation without making it obvious that he was trying to escape. “Y’all might want to stick to The Fifth Province down at the Irish Center.”
“Who’s your wan?” Grace finally asked, nodding t
oward her.
Great. “This is an old friend, Tessa. Tessa, Grace and Ed Canavan.”
Tessa smiled at them, as uneasy as Grace. “Hi.”
Grace shook her head — a typical Irish greeting rather than the negative sign it seemed, Zach reminded himself — and addressed Zach. “Does Molly know you’re out? Together?”
“Oh, yeah, ’course. She’d be here too if she wasn’t workin’.”
“Oh.” Grace laughed, thin and nervous.
Time to go. Zach turned to Tessa, who’d brought out her phone again. “They musta lost our reservation, and I bet the wait’s a coon’s age now. Y’all enjoy your meal,” he told the Canavans. “I’ll tell Molly ‘hey’ for ya.” He placed a hopefully platonic-looking hand on Tessa’s shoulder and led her out of O’Hooligans.
“Sorry about that,” Zach said once they were on the street.
Tessa stayed fixed on her phone. “It’s okay; I know you work with Uncle Rod. There’s a place pretty close that’s got really great reviews, but — let me ask you something.”
Zach held in a breath. He’d said no questions, but that was asking a lot. Being called Jason, talking about Molly, suddenly acquiring a Southern accent, and losing it just as fast? This date had to be over.
“Do you do karaoke?” Tessa asked.
He grinned. “Oh, I’ll give it a shot.”
“We could probably walk to this place.” She showed him her phone. A map placed them only two blocks away from a karaoke bar with four stars from over a hundred reviews: Holy Karaoke. Somewhere the Canavans definitely wouldn’t follow. Zach checked over his shoulder: all clear.
Oh — Lucy’s date, here on the Northwest Side. “I think I know someone who’s supposed to be there tonight.”
Tessa’s eyebrows jumped higher. “Another ‘friend’?”
“No. Not like —” He jerked a thumb at the restaurant they’d left.
He hoped seeing Lucy wouldn’t end up as bad as that last encounter could have. Lucy sometimes brought out the claws at the worst times — like when he had the boss’s niece on a date. But if he could keep running into the Canavans as the only disaster tonight, they might actually have a good time.
Saints & Suspects Page 20
