Phone, she murmured, reaching into her jacket pocket to pull out the sleek little cell phone she always carried. Nine-one-one. She punched in the number and immediately began to pray. Perhaps she should just play dead, in case they burst into the shop, guns blazing.
Tears pressed at the corners of her eyes and her hand trembled as she waited for the emergency operator to answer. But she refused to give in to fear, pushing back the tears and summoning up her courage. Shed taught herself to control her emotions, to maintain a cool demeanor, but that was for business purposes only. Maybe a gunshot through the window was a good excuse for a little hysteria.
None of this would have happened if shed just kept her mouth shut, if shed just turned around and walked away that night a few months back. But shed been scared back then, scared that everything shed worked so hard to achieve was about to be taken from her.
The closest shed ever come to breaking the law was fudging a few numbers on her tax return and ignoring the speed limit on the I-90. Now her business records had been impounded, her past scrutinized, her partner thrown in jail, and her reputation left nearly in tatters. She was a material witness in a murder and money-laundering trial against a very dangerous mana man who obviously thought nothing of killing her before she had a chance to tell her story in court.
Olivia listened as the operator came on the line, then quickly gave her location and a brief description of what had happened. The operator asked her to stay on the line and she listened distractedly as the woman tried to keep her calm. Olivia had always heard that when someone came close to death, their life passed before their eyes. All she could think about was how she hated feeling so vulnerable, so dependent on someone elses help.
Just keep talking to me, maam, the operator urged.
What should I talk about? Olivia asked, her voice edgy. The only subject that came to mind was how quickly her life had changed in such a short time. Two months ago, shed been on top of the game, Bostons most successful antiques dealer. She travelled all over the country, searching out the finest American antiques for her shop. Her client list read like a Whos Who of East Coast society. And shed recently been named to the board of one of Bostons most prestigious historical societies. There was even talk that she might be asked to appear on the public television show Antiques Caravan.
All this for a girl whod grown up not on Beacon Hill, but in a working-class neighborhood of Boston. But shed risen above her rather common beginnings, leaving her past far behind and creating a whole new identity for herselfa wonderful, exciting identity, filled with travel and parties and influential friends. And financial security. She had saved only one thing from her childhoodan interest in anything one hundred years old or older.
My parents were antique fanatics, she murmured to the operator, surrendering to the memory. They used to haul me from auction to auction as a child, eeking out a living with a tiny little secondhand shop on the North End. We never knew where the next meal was coming from, never knew if wed scrape together enough to pay the rent. It was frightening for a child, that uncertainty.
Dont be frightened, the operator said. The police are on their way.
When I got older, Olivia continued, they turned to me for authentication and I became an expert in 18th- and 19th-century New England furniture makers. My parents never had a very good eye for fine antiques and when I was just out of high school, they decided to try the restaurant business, managing a truck stop off the interstate in Jacksonville, Florida.
The police are just a few minutes away, Ms. Farrell.
She continued talking, the sound of her own voice soothing her fears. As long as she could talk, then she was still alive and the fear couldnt consume her. I stayed behind to attend college. I worked three different jobs for pocket change. I lived from hand to mouth for nearly my entire freshman year at Boston College, scraping to pay tuition and rent. I hated that. And then I found my very first treasure, a Sheraton chair I bought for $15.00 at a tag sale and resold for $4,000.00 at a consignment auction.
From that moment on, Olivia had paid for her college education by buying and selling antiques. She discovered she had an uncanny eye for spotting valuable pieces in the most unlikely placesgarage sales, thrift shops, estate auctions. She could tell a reproduction from an original at fifty paces and was a skilled bidder.
Even though I majored in art at Boston College, I fell naturally into a career in antiques. I rented my first showroom space the year I graduated. Six years later, I formed a partnership with one of my clients. Kevin Ford was a man with money. I thought I had it made. He bought a beautiful retail space on Charles Street at the base of Beacon Hill. Olivia sighed. How could I have been so naive?
The police will be there in approximately thirty seconds, maam, the operator said.
Olivia could already hear the sirens in the distance over the traffic outside the gallery. But even the police couldnt get her out of the mess shed made of her life. She blamed herself for this whole thing. When Kevin bought the building, shed had her doubts. Though he was wealthy, he certainly didnt have the millions to buy retail space on Charles Street. But all Olivia could see was the next stage in her meteoric rise to the top of Boston societyand all the business that would come her way.
Had she trusted her instincts, she might have realized that Kevin Fords bottomless wallet came from underworld connections. That fact had been proved when Olivia overheard a late-night conversation between Ford and one of Fords most important clients, Red Keenana man she later learned was a Boston crime boss whod ordered a handful of murders last year alone.
The sound of more glass smashing made her jump and she prepared herself for the worst. But then a familiar voice brought a rush of relief. Ms. Farrell? Are you all right?
Olivia poked her head up over the back of the chaise. She waved weakly at Assistant District Attorney Elliott Shulman, the man in charge of the murder case against Red Keenan. IIm still alive, she said.
He hurried through the shop and helped her to her feet. This is just unacceptable, he muttered. Where was the police protection I ordered?
Theyre still parked outside my flat, Olivia murmured, a warm flush flooding her face.
Shulman gasped. You went out without telling them?
She nodded, her spine stiffening at his censorious tone. II just needed to get some work done. The shop has been closed for almost two months. I have bills to pay, antiques to sell. If I dont work with my clients, theyll go someplace else.
Shulman grabbed her by the elbow and led her toward the front door, his fingers firm on her arm. Well, youve seen what Red Keenan is capable of, Ms. Farrell. Maybe now youll listen to us and take his threats seriously?
Olivia yanked her arm from his grasp. I still dont understand why hed want me dead. Kevin can testify to the whole sordid business. I just overheard them talking. And I didnt hear that much.
As I told you before, Ms. Farrell, your partner isnt talking. Youre the only witness who can put the two of them together. After what happened tonight, were going to have to hide you. Somewhere safe, out of town.
As I told you before, Ms. Farrell, your partner isnt talking. Youre the only witness who can put the two of them together. After what happened tonight, were going to have to hide you. Somewhere safe, out of town.
Olivia gasped. II just cant leave. Look at this mess. Whos going to repair the window? I cant let the weather come in. These antiques are valuable. And what about my clients? This could ruin me financially!
Well call someone to replace the window right away. Until then, Ill leave a patrolman outside. Youre coming with me down to the station until we find a safe house for you.
Olivia grabbed her coat and purse from a circa 1830 primitive wardrobe next to her desk, then reluctantly followed Shulman to the front door. Maybe it was time to go into hiding. It was only for a couple of weeks, until the trial started. At least shed feel safe again. When she stepped out onto the sidewalk, she gave her keys to the patrolman and murmured detailed instructions on the security code. When she finished, she closed her eyes and drew a long breath.
Promise me Ill have my old life back soon, she said, trying to still the tremor in her voice.
Well do our best, Ms. Farrell.
CONOR QUINN knew the meaning of a bad day. Drugs, hookers, booze, smutthis was his life. Working vice for the Boston Police Department, he couldnt recall a day that hadnt been tainted by societys ills. He reached inside his jacket pocket for the ever-present pack of cigarettes, his own private vice, then remembered hed quit three days ago.
With a soft oath, he slid his empty glass across the bar and motioned to the bartender. Seamus Quinn approached, wiping his scarred hands on a bar towel. His dark hair had turned white and he now walked with a stoop owing to years of back-breaking labor on his swordfish boat. Conors father had given up fishing a few years back. The Mighty Quinn now bobbed silently at its moorings in Hull harbor, brother Brendan using it as a temporary home on the rare occasions he stayed in Boston. Seamus had moved on, using his meager savings and a gambling boon to purchase his favorite pub in a rough and tumble section of South Boston.
Buy you a pint, Con? Seamus asked in his rugged brogue.
Though Ireland was still thick in his fathers voice, little of the Quinn brothers birthplace remained in their memories. Yet, every now and then, Conor could still hear traces of the old country in his own voice, traces that he sometimes caught in Dylan and Brendan, too. But they were Americans through and through, all of the brothers had become naturalized citizenssave Liam, whod been born in Americathe day their parents took the oath.
Conor shook his head. Im on duty in a half hour, Da. Dannys picking me up here.
Seamus gave him a shrewd look, then set a club soda in front of Conor, before serving the next patron. Conor watched as his da expertly pulled the Guinness, tipping the glass at the perfect angle and choosing the exact moment to turn off the tap. He set the tall glass on the bar and the pale creamy foam rose to the top, leaving the nut brown brew beneath.
His father didnt bother asking. Though the rest of the patrons profited from Seamuss sage advice, over the years the Quinn boys had learned to handle their own problems without parental involvement. In truth, Conor had been the one to dispense advice and discipline to his younger brothers. He still did. Nearly his entire life, from the time he was seven, had been consumed with keeping his family intact at all costs and keeping his brothers on the straight and narrow. Making life safe had been his job, then and now. Now, he was just watching out for a city of a half million instead of five rowdy boys from Southie.
He glanced around the bar, searching for a diversion, anything to get his mind off the events of the day. Seamus Quinns pub was known for three thingsan authentic Irish atmosphere, the best Irish stew in Boston and rousing Irish music played live every night. It was also known for the six bachelor brothers who hung out at the bar.
Dylan was playing pool with some of his firefighter buddies, all dressed alike in the navy T-shirts of the Boston Fire Department. A bevy of girls had gathered to watch, sending flirtatious looks Dylans way. Brian worked the other end of the bar this night and was occupied charming the newest barmaid. Liam had found himself a lively round of darts with a pretty redhead. And Sean stuck to the rear of the pub, dancing to the music of a fiddle and tin whistle with a striking brunette.
It was no different for Brendan when he was in town, finished with another magazine assignment or a research trip for his latest book. A soft and willing woman was the first thing he looked for. And though their fathers warnings about women had been drilled into their heads from an early age, that didnt stop the six Quinn brothers from sampling what the opposite sex offered so freelywithout love or commitment, of course.
But lately, Conor had tired of the shallow interaction hed enjoyed in the past. Maybe it was his mood, the indifference he felt for life in general. Hell, the blonde at the end of the bar had been giving him come-hither looks for the past hour and he couldnt even manage a smile. Though a woman to warm his bed on this blustery fall night was tempting, he was too tired to put out the effort to charm her. Besides, he only had a half hour before he had to report to the station housenot nearly enough time.
Good evening, sir. Ive got the car outside when youre ready to leave.
Conor glanced to his right to see his partner, Danny Wright, slide onto the bar stool beside him. The rookie detective had been assigned to Conor last month, much to Conors dismay. Although Wright was a good detective, the kid reminded him of a great big puppy, wide-eyed and always raring to go.
You dont have to call me sir, Conor muttered, taking another sip of his soda. Im your partner, Wright.
Danny frowned. But the guys in the squad room said you like to be called sir.
The guys are pulling your leg. They like to do that to rookie detectives. Why dont you have something to drink and relax for a while.
Anxious to please, Danny ordered a root beer, then grabbed a handful of peanuts and methodically began to shell them. When hed arranged a neat little pile in front of him, he popped a few into his mouth and slowly munched. Lieutenant wants us down at the station house by the end of the shift. He says hes got a special assignment for us.
Conor chuckled. Special assignment? Special punishment is more like it.
Danny sent him a sideways glance. Lieutenants pretty steamed at you, he murmured. The guys say youre a good cop who just has a bit of a temper. Lieutenant says the skell is bringing brutality charges though. Already hired himself a lawyer.
Conors jaw tensed. That slime bilked an 84-year-old woman out of her life savings. And when she wouldnt give up her credit cards, he beat her within an inch of her life. I should have knocked his teeth through the back of his head and tied his arms and legs behind him. He got off easy with a split lip.
The guys say
What is this, Wright? Dont you ever speak for yourself? Conor said. Let me tell you what the guys are saying. Theyre saying this isnt the first time Ive gone off on a suspect. Theyre saying Conor Quinn is getting a reputation. And that reputation doesnt help my chances of moving over to homicide. Combine the split lip with my other misadventures and the brass has got me pegged as a rogue cop.