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Callum made a face. “Squirrely bastard. Well, I guess he’ll be takin’ a dunk soon.”
“Bootie’s on it.”
Tommy, Alfie, and I had all agreed not to mention the mole until we knew more. Callum was strictly a don’t-bring-me-problems-bring-me-solutions man. Callum nodded, staring distractedly off into space for a moment. It was uncharacteristic of him to brush something like this off. And I was pretty sure I knew why.
Tommy fidgeted, probably tracking along the same line of thinking I was. “What’s going on, Cal?”
Callum sighed. He pulled a file from his desk and held it in both hands as if weighing it.
“Somethings’ come up.” Another long pause. When he spoke again, Callum sounded like he had aged ten years. He looked at Tommy. “Your sister is back in town.”
Tommy went still. “How long?”
“Two years. She’s been working at BMC. Rents a studio out in Shawmut.”
Callum tried to hand the file over, but Tommy just stared at the floor. Face blank. Eyes hollow. Damnit, I should have told him first. For once, I couldn’t tell what was going beneath that hawk of his, but by the way his expression was darkening with each passing moment, none of it was good.
“I didn’t call you in here for a family reunion, son,” Callum said gently, “and I haven’t told your pa any of this—I’ll leave that up to you. We’ve got bigger problems, and I don’t want Michael stressing out any more than he has to.”
“What problems?” I asked. I was pretty sure I already knew.
“Cassidy was there when Johnny died. She claims he was murdered.” Callum tossed the file down on the desk. “She’s been down at the cop shop all day, running her mouth off to anybody who’ll listen.”
“Christ.” This was worse than I thought. “Do we know who killed Johnny?”
“Moretti’s guy. We’ve got the situation contained, but she is going to be a problem.”
“You said she was there when it happened,” Tommy said. “Did the axman see her? Is she okay?”
“She got a little banged up, but if Moretti’s guys didn’t know about her before, they sure do now, the way she was carrying on down at the station.”
“Fuck!” Tommy’s chair tipped over as he jerked to his feet, and he kicked it viciously. “This is just fucking like her, riding that goddamn white horse of hers to hell in a blaze of fucking glory. Where is she? If anything’s happened…I swear to God…”
As Tommy’s rage-fueled babbling descended to a truly prolific level of foul-mouthed threats, I picked up the file from the desk.
I recognized Sloane’s neat handwriting right away. Cassidy Quinn, aka Cassidy Brannigan. Age 28. There was an address written down, a list of friends and colleagues. The colleges she attended. The woman in the photograph neatly pinned to the inside cover was indeed our troublesome little doctor, but not as I’d seen her the day before. In the photograph, she was smiling at someone off camera. It was a full-body smile, shoulders scrunched forward as if she were holding in laughter, her green eyes crinkling at the corners. Her hair was down, loose waves that framed a heart-shaped face, two dimples curled on either side of her mouth. I thought I could even detect a hint of lipstick, not that she needed it. Hers was the kind of beauty that was lit from within, shining through her with a lightness of spirit that made her smile infectious, her laugh mesmerizing, and my heart did a funny little flip in my chest.
She was lovely.
I frowned, struggling to reconcile this photograph with the woman I had met yesterday. That woman had looked haunted. Beaten down. That spark still burned inside her, but it smoldered now with anger and hatred, its venom poisoning everything she touched. Suddenly, the stories about the Quinn falling-out made sense. Cassidy wasn’t just channeling righteous anger over our less-than-legal activities. She blamed them for her mother’s death.
My heart went out to her. I knew what that kind of resentment felt like, and I knew what it could do to a person.
No wonder she hated us.
“I’ll handle it, Callum. I’ll make her see reason.” Tommy’s voice snapped me back to reality. I’d been so engrossed in the file that I hadn’t even heard their conversation.
“Handle what?” I asked as Tommy left the room.
Callum didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached inside his desk, pulled out a bottle of 21-year Bushmills, and poured himself a glass. He didn’t offer me one.
I sat back in my chair to wait him out. My uncle had made his feelings about me plain, and I knew from experience that becoming a study in efficiency, competency, and silence was the only way I was going to earn any kind of respect from the man. Good thing I excelled at all three.
“Little Cassidy Quinn has provided us with a problem,” Callum began, “but she has also provided us with a solution. One that can be mutually beneficial to all parties involved.”
I didn’t like where this was headed. Callum was a straight-shooter, and it wasn’t like him to hype something up like this.
He took a long sip of whiskey, staring into the bottom of the glass like it held the secrets of the universe. “I met with Michael after yesterday’s little fiasco. I was ready to tear you a new asshole for bringing Johnny to a publicfuckinghospital like some noob still wet-behind the ears.”
