call someone to replace the window right away. Until then, I’ll leave a patrolman outside. You’re 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 she’d 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 I’ll have my old life back soon,” she said, trying to still the tremor in her voice.
“We’ll do our best, Ms. Farrell.”
CONOR QUINN knew the meaning of a bad day. Drugs, hookers, booze, smut—this was his life. Working vice for the Boston Police Department, he couldn’t recall a day that hadn’t been tainted by society’s ills. He reached inside his jacket pocket for the ever-present pack of cigarettes, his own private vice, then remembered he’d 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. Conor’s 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 father’s 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 citizens—save Liam, who’d been born in America—the day their parents took the oath.
Conor shook his head. “I’m on duty in a half hour, Da. Danny’s 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 didn’t bother asking. Though the rest of the patrons profited from Seamus’s 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 Quinn’s pub was known for three things—an 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 Dylan’s 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 father’s warnings about women had been drilled into their heads from an early age, that didn’t stop the six Quinn brothers from sampling what the opposite sex offered so freely—without love or commitment, of course.
But lately, Conor had tired of the shallow interaction he’d 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 couldn’t 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 house—not nearly enough time.
“Good evening, sir. I’ve got the car outside when you’re 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 Conor’s dismay. Although Wright was a good detective, the kid reminded him of a great big puppy, wide-eyed and always raring to go.
“You don’t have to call me ‘sir,”’ Conor muttered, taking another sip of his soda. “I’m 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 don’t 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 he’d 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 he’s got a special assignment for us.”
Conor chuckled. “Special assignment? Special punishment is more like it.”
Danny sent him a sideways glance. “Lieutenant’s pretty steamed at you,” he murmured. “The guys say you’re 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.”
Conor’s jaw tensed. “That slime bilked an 84-year-old woman out of her life savings. And when she wouldn’t 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? Don’t you ever speak for yourself?” Conor said. “Let me tell you what the guys are saying. They’re saying this isn’t the first time I’ve gone off on a suspect. They’re saying Conor Quinn is getting a reputation. And that reputation doesn’t 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.”
“I—I didn’t mean to—”
“You don’t have to worry, Wright. It’s not contagious,” Conor muttered.
“I’m not worried about me. You’ve been waiting for an assignment in homicide for two years and there are only two slots open. You’re a good detective, sir. You deserve one of those slots.”
Conor shook his head. “I’m not sure I’m even
