She looked up at Sullivan. “How did you drill such a tiny hole—” She halted abruptly, shocked at the expression on his face.
His eyes were dark with pain, and the skin over his cheekbones seemed to have tightened, sharpening the hard angles of his face. His lips were a tautly compressed line, and when he spoke they barely moved.
“I didn’t drill it. It was formed that way, or at least that’s what my father told me. He carried it on him for years. After he died, it was sent to me along with the rest of his final effects, and now I keep it on me, just like he did. He said it was his talisman.”
As if he couldn’t help himself, he held out his hand for the shell and she handed it back. As soon as his fingers wrapped around it, he seemed to relax, and carefully he dropped it into his pocket again.
“Psalm 91,” he said, his voice once more edged with rueful humor. “‘The arrow that flieth by day, the pestilence that walketh in darkness.’ Thomas Sullivan believed that as long as he carried it, he would be protected from them, and now his son’s carrying on the tradition. I guess there’s a little superstition in me after all.”
Superstition hadn’t been the cause of that terrible bleakness she’d seen on his face, Bailey thought, shaken. But she knew the man well enough to realize that if that was what he wanted her to believe, nothing she could say would get anything more out of him. Needing suddenly to bring some semblance of normalcy back to the conversation, she reached for her purse on the chair beside her and pulled out the file.
“I guess this is called withholding evidence,” she said, hoping that her voice sounded steadier than she felt. As if he was just as eager to seize upon a new topic as she was, Sullivan took the slim sheaf of papers she handed him.
“Obstructing the police in the commission of their duties, at least.” He flipped through the first few pages of Jackson’s report, scanning them rapidly. “Nothing here that you didn’t already know, is there?”
“Just details.” She lifted her shoulders. “But they’ll help. He mentions the name of the hotel, for example, and the number of the room Plowright and his playmate were staying in.”
“And the photos he took.” Sullivan was on the last page of the report. “This is a list of them, with a description of where and when each one was taken. Listen to this. ‘Roll 2, frame 16: Subject Plowright beside bed. Unidentified female companion on bed, wearing negligee. Blinds on hotel suite’s French doors fully open.’ He must have been using a telephoto lens to get that shot.”
He handed the report to her. After a moment she looked up from it in disappointment. “That was the spiciest one he got. Before Plowright got down to business he closed the blinds.”
“Yeah, I noticed that. Frame 19 is him, shirtless, closing them, according to Hank’s list.” Sullivan shrugged. “Still, it’s pretty conclusive, even if they weren’t caught on film actually doing the wild thing with each—”
“Little pitchers have big ears, Terry,” a brisk voice said from the doorway. “I know it’s asking a lot of you, but try to keep it clean for the next few minutes.”
Bailey looked up swiftly. The woman who had spoken was fixing Sullivan with a glare from blue eyes that looked a lot like his. Her hair was as almost the same midnight shade as his was, too, and not much longer, its urchinlike cut framing an angry, heart-shaped face. Beside her was a young girl with long coltlike legs and a mane of coppery hair tamed into a thick braid that was coming undone.
Sullivan looked at his watch and then swore under his breath. “I said seven o’clock, didn’t I?” he said weakly. “I’m sorry, Lee. Something came up and I lost track of the time. But you’re here now, so why don’t we—”
“Some things just never change, Terry. Not where the Sullivan men are concerned, anyway.” The dark-haired woman’s expression was tight and closed. “It’s way after regular office hours, so I’m guessing this isn’t a business appointment.”
She jerked her head stiffly at Bailey, her voice rising. “Like father, like son. It’s obvious that you can’t fit into a normal life any more than Thomas could. Why don’t you just go back to being a damned mercenary, like he did in the end?”
Chapter Four
Swiftly Ainslie turned on her heel. Shooting an agonized look of apology at Sullivan, the young redhead—Tara, Bailey guessed—followed her down the hall. Bailey waited for Sullivan to go after them and work his charm on his sister, but to her surprise he simply stood there, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, his eyes shadowed.
“I screwed up,” he said harshly. “And with Lee, of all people. Dammit, I knew how fragile this relationship was—how the hell could I have let her down in exactly the same way.”
She didn’t understand all the ramifications of the scene she’d just witnessed, Bailey thought swiftly, but she knew one thing. For some reason her presence had seemed to be the decisive element for Sullivan’s sister, the factor that had turned her anger to pain.
Some things never change—not where the Sullivan men are concerned…There’d been a rawness in Ainslie’s voice as she’d made the accusation, and it had been the rawness of a wound that had never fully healed. She’d been there herself, Bailey thought in resignation. She knew what it felt like.
“For heaven’s sake,” she muttered, getting quickly out of her chair and striding to the doorway. “Covering your butt was the last thing I expected to be doing when I came here today, Sullivan.”
She saw them as soon as she stepped into the hallway. Standing by the vacant reception desk—Moira had left for the day just after Fitzgerald and Straub had arrived—they were waiting for the elevator to arrive, and their discussion looked heated. Tara, almost as tall as Ainslie but with the awkward slenderness of a preteen, had her arms crossed tensely in front of her. Despite her antagonistic attitude and the trendy clothes she was wearing—a skinny baby tee that stopped just south of her belly button and jeans that rode low on her nonexistent hips—she only succeeded in looking heartbreakingly young and miserable.
Ainslie, on the other hand, appeared to have regained a little of her composure. She was wearing an outfit that was simply a more mature version of her goddaughter’s—jeans and a multicolored sweater—but instead of looking vulnerable, she looked ready to punch in the elevator door. She was probably more than capable of doing so, Bailey thought nervously. Sullivan had mentioned once that Ainslie had boxed professionally in a women’s featherweight division for a time, and now she trained her own fighters at the gym that she ran downtown.
But I know karate, Bailey told herself hollowly, advancing on them with a confidence she didn’t feel. Besides, I made it to the finish in the Boston Marathon last year. I can probably outrun her.
“If you’re here to relay an apology from my big brother, tell him to forget it,” Ainslie snapped. She jabbed at the elevator call button impatiently. “And tell him his damned elevator’s just as unreliable as he is,” she added with an edge of frustration.
“He’s not unreliable, Auntie Lee.” Tara’s bottom lip stuck out pugnaciously. “What’s your problem with Uncle Sully, anyway? You didn’t even let him explain why he hadn’t shown up!”
“I didn’t need to hear his explanation. The O’Connell women have heard enough explanations
