Kitabı oku: «The Mighty Quinns: Conor», sayfa 2

“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 interested anymore.”

“Why not?”

He’d been mulling over that question for weeks now, but Conor hadn’t been able to come up with an answer, at least one that made sense. “I’ve been trying to make this city safe for more years than I’d care to count. I honestly thought I could make a difference and I haven’t even made a dent. For every hooker and bookie and scam artist I put behind bars, there’s another one right behind. What makes me think I could do better with murderers?”

“Because you will,” Danny reasoned in his own guileless way.

“Hell, I’m sick of playing it safe. It’s time I started living my life. I want to get up in the morning and look forward to the day. Look at my brother Brendan. He chooses what he writes, when he writes, if he writes. He’s living life on his own terms. And Dylan. What he does makes a difference. He saves lives. Real lives.”

“So what are you going to do? You’re a cop. You’ve always been a cop.”

“Maybe that’s the problem. I went from taking care of my family to taking care of this city. I was nineteen when I went into the academy, Wright. I had responsibilities at home, I needed a steady job. Maybe I would have chosen differently. I certainly would have enjoyed going to college rather that taking years of night courses to get a degree.”

Danny gave him a sideways glance. “You’ll feel better when the lieutenant lets you out of the doghouse,” he said. “He can’t stay mad forever.”

“So what kind of scut work does he have for us this evening?” Conor asked. He took a long sip of his soda, then wiped his hand across his mouth.

“Actually, it’s pretty interesting, sir,” Danny said. “We’re protecting a witness in the Red Keenan case. We’ve got to transport the guy out to a safe house on Cape Cod and then keep watch for a few days. Kind of an odd place for a safe house, don’t you think?”

Conor shook his head. “I guess they figure they can monitor everyone coming and going this time of year. One highway, one airport. Easier to spot suspicious characters.”

Conor pushed back from the bar and started toward the door, Wright dogging his heels. He gave Sean a wave, then called out a farewell to his brothers. When he reached the street, he pulled up the collar of his leather jacket and turned his face into the wind. He smelled the ocean on the stiff, damp breeze and he knew a storm was on the way. For a moment, he worried about Brendan, almost two days late on a return trip from the Grand Banks where he’d had a last run with the swordfishermen before they started to work their way south. Why he’d decided to write a book about swordfishing, Conor would never understand.

Hell, swordfishing had been the ruin of their family life, the reason their mother had walked out, the reason their father had left the parenting to Conor. He sighed and cursed softly. Brendan could handle a storm at sea—he’d spent many a summer vacation making runs with their father. And Dylan could handle a fire out of control. It was Conor who was having trouble handling his life of late, making sense of it all.

His head bent to the wind, hands shoved into his pockets, Conor strode down the rain-slicked street toward his car, Danny hard on his heels. He glanced up when he heard footsteps coming his way, his instincts automatically on alert. A slender woman with short, dark hair passed, nearly running into him in the process. Their eyes met for only a moment. He glanced over his shoulder, thinking he recognized her. Bunko artist? Hooker? Undercover cop?

He watched as she slowly stopped in front of Quinn’s, then peered through the plate-glass window. A few seconds later, she started up the steps, then paused and hurried back down, disappearing into the darkness. Conor shook his head. Was he so jaded that he now saw criminal intent in a perfectly innocent stranger? Maybe a few days of solitude on Cape Cod would put everything back in perspective.

The District Four station house was buzzing with activity when Conor and Danny arrived in the unmarked sedan. Conor was used to working the day shift, but days and nights would mean nothing now that he’d been assigned to protect a witness. Just endless hours of boredom, bad takeout, and what amounted to nothing more than baby-sitting.

According to Danny, the witness had been transported earlier that evening from the downtown station house. The lieutenant had been vague on the particulars of the case, preferring to speak to Danny and Conor in person about their new assignment—no doubt to use the meeting as a lesson for an unruly detective.

But when they strode into the squad room, the lieutenant’s office door was closed. Conor checked for messages, grabbed a cup of coffee, then searched the mess on his desk for his pocket pad, the leather bound notepad that each detective carried for witness interviews. He remembered that he’d had it last in the observation room while he watched an interrogation through the one-way window.

He grabbed a pen and backtracked, finding the door to the room open. But his search for the missing notepad was stopped short when he glanced through the one-way window into “the box.” The featureless interrogation room contained a single table with a chair on each side, a light above, and the mirrored window on one end, through which Conor now stared.

The sole occupant of the room was a woman, a slender figure with ash-blond hair, patrician features and an expensive wardrobe. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but he was certain she wasn’t a call girl or a drug dealer or a con artist. He’d be willing to bet his badge that she hadn’t committed any crime. She lacked the hard edge to her features that most criminals acquired after working the streets. And she looked genuinely out of her element, a butterfly in the habitat of…cockroaches.

He stepped closer to the window and watched her for a long moment, noting the tremor in her delicate hand as she sipped at the paper cup filled with muddy coffee. Suddenly, she turned to look his way and he quickly stepped back into the shadows. Even though he knew she couldn’t see him, he felt as if he’d been caught looking.

God, she was beautiful, Conor mused. No woman had a right to be that beautiful. He found in her features sheer perfection—a high forehead, expressive eyes, cheekbones that wouldn’t quit and a wide mouth made to be kissed. Her hair fell in soft waves around her face, tumbling just to her shoulders. Conor’s hand twitched as he imagined how soft the strands might feel between his fingers, how her hair would slide over his skin like warm silk.

A soft oath slipped from his lips and he turned away from the window. Hell, what was he thinking, fantasizing over a complete stranger? For all he knew, she could just be a better class of call girl, or some drug-runner’s high-living girlfriend. Just because she was beautiful, didn’t automatically make her pure.

Old habits did die hard. How many times had he looked at an attractive woman only to have his father’s voice nagging in his head? All those cautionary tales, hidden between the lines of Seamus’s old Irish folk stories. A Quinn must never surrender his heart to a woman. Look beyond the beauty to the danger lurking beneath.

He turned back to the window in time to see her wrap her arms around herself. Her shoulders slumped and then she rocked forward, her body trembling. When she tipped her head back, he saw the tracks of her tears on her smooth complexion. Conor’s heart twisted in his chest at the fear and regret in her expression, the raw vulnerability of her appearance. She looked small and all alone.

Had she been standing next to him, she might have crumpled into his arms, hiding her sobs against his shoulder. But the glass between them was like an impenetrable barrier and he’d become nothing more than a voyeur. He’d never seen a woman cry before, except for the hookers he’d arrested, but those tears were usually just for show.

She cried for a long time while Conor watched, memories of his mother’s pain flooding his mind. He knew he should leave and allow her the privacy of her emotions, but he couldn’t. He felt as if his feet were glued to the floor, his gaze caught by her beauty and her pain. The tears had opened her soul and for a moment, he could see inside. He fought the urge to pull open the door and go to her. Whoever she was, criminal or not, she deserved a shoulder to cry on.

Conor reached out to turn the doorknob so he could enter the box, but just as he was about to open the door, he saw Danny Wright stroll into the room, a grocery bag in his arms. Slowly, he drew his hand away, stunned by the unexpected change in the woman’s expression. The transformation was astounding. Almost instantly, the vulnerability vanished and her expression became cool and composed, almost icy. Surreptitiously, she brushed away all traces of her tears and glanced up at his partner, her lips pressed into a tight line.

Conor flipped the switch on the intercom, then braced his hands on the table beneath the window and listened to Danny’s voice, crackling through the speaker.

“Ms. Farrell, I’m Detective Wright. My partner and I have been assigned to protect you until the trial. I’m sorry you’ve been waiting so long, but we’ve been making arrangements to take you to a safe place.”

Conor sucked in a sharp breath. This was his witness? This woman who’d drawn him into her troubles with just a few tears and a stunningly beautiful face? “Aw, damn it,” he muttered, throwing his notepad onto the table. He figured he’d be baby-sitting some wimpy little accountant or slimy two-faced informant. Considering his reaction to Ms. Farrell so far, spending the next two weeks in her company would be hell on earth.

“I don’t understand why I can’t just disappear,” she said, a sharp edge to her voice. “I can go to Europe. I have business associates there who would be happy to—”

“Ms. Farrell, we’ll keep you safe. There’s nothing to worry—”

She brought her palms down on the table and shot out of her chair, the action causing Danny to jump. “I don’t need you to keep me safe,” she cried, her voice suffused with anger and frustration. “I can keep myself safe. I don’t want your help.”

Danny took a step back, caught offguard by the intensity of her outburst. “But—but we won’t have any assurance that you’ll return to testify.”

“What if I don’t testify?” she demanded. “Then you’ll have to let me go, right?”

“Keenan will find you eventually, Ms. Farrell. Because, if you don’t testify, he’ll be out on the street and he won’t leave any loose ends.”

She gripped the back of the chair with a white-knuckled hand. “That’s what I am? A loose end?”

Danny blinked, then shook his head. “Th-that’s not what I meant. I was just telling you what Keenan would think. Listen, I’m going to go find my partner and let him talk to you. He’s a good cop. He won’t let anything happen to you, either.”

Conor snatched up his notepad and stalked out of the observation room, straight through the squad room to his lieutenant’s office. He wanted a reassignment and he wanted one now. He’d even settle for desk duty if that got him out of watching over this woman. Conor rapped on the door, then closed his eyes as he waited for an answer.

“Lieutenant went downtown,” Rodriguez called. “The commissioner is holding some big press conference on his Cops and Kids program. He talked to Danny a few minutes ago. I think your witness is in the box.”

Conor turned on his heel and walked back through the squad room, muttering beneath his breath. He met Danny halfway down the hall.

“There you are,” his partner said. “Are you ready to roll?”

“Lieutenant’s gonna have to find someone else for the job,” Conor muttered. “I’ve got too many open cases to take time off. Besides, District One should be handling this witness. It’s their case.”

“What? You can’t bail on me now. I need you to talk to the witness. Her name’s Olivia Farrell. Red Keenan’s guys took a shot at her earlier this evening and she’s pretty shook up. She doesn’t want to testify. I don’t know what to say to make her—”

“So let her take her chances on the street,” Conor muttered. “If she doesn’t want to testify, she doesn’t have to.”

Danny frowned. “What are you saying? We’ve got a chance here to nail Keenan. Besides murder and drug dealing, the guy’s been running us ragged in vice. You should want him off the street.”

Conor raked his hand through his hair and shook his head. “I do. But I’m not going to talk to her. She’s your responsibility, Wright. You’re the point man on this one. You get her ready to go and you drive her out to Cape Cod. I’ll be in the backup car watching your ass.”

“I gave her some clothes,” Danny said. “Lieutenant figured we should sneak her out of here in disguise, like a suspect transfer. We’ll drive past the South Boston station house on the way out of town, and if you don’t see anyone on our tail, we won’t stop until we get to the safe house.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Conor muttered. “I’ll wait for you in the parking lot and follow you out.”

Conor shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and started down the hall. Suddenly he needed fresh air, time to breathe. What had this woman done to him? With just one look, she’d sapped his strength and sent him running for cover. If he didn’t know better, he’d have to believe his father’s warnings were true. But this was just a job and he could certainly maintain a professional demeanor if he had to. Besides, as with all women in his life, the fascination would soon fade.

Consumed by his own thoughts, his gaze fixed on the floor, he didn’t notice the figure who stepped out of the doorway to the box. She slammed into him and he grabbed her as she bumped against the wall. With a soft curse, Conor looked into the most incredible green eyes he’d ever seen.

She’d changed out of her designer clothes and was now dressed in a faded T-shirt, tattered chinos and a slouchy hat. An old camouflage jacket was clutched in her hands. If he didn’t know her, he might mistake her for one of the vagrants who hung out down on the waterfront. Conor stepped to one side and, at the very moment, she made the same move. Twice more, they tried to get past each other, the two of them participating in some bizarre little tango right there in the hall.

Finally, he grabbed her arms and impatiently moved her against the wall. But the instant he touched her, his anger with her dissolved. Her skin was warm and so soft. A current shot up his arms, and as if he’d been burned, he snatched his hands away. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“It—it’s all right,” she said. “It was my fault. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

The sound of her voice surprised him. The intercom in the box had distorted it until she sounded like some harpy fishwife. But here, standing so near to him, her words were low and throaty, wrapping around his brain like a mind-numbing drug, immediately turning him into an addict for the sound. “No, it was my fault,” he said, hoping she’d speak again.

“Can you tell me where Detective Wright is?” she asked. “He gave me these clothes to wear but I’m afraid they don’t fit very well.”

She glanced up at him again and he saw the vulnerability return to her eyes, the hard facade gone. “Detective Wright will be with you in a moment, miss,” he said, steering her back through the door to the box. “Wait in here until he returns.”

With that, he turned and strode down the hall, rubbing his tingling palms together as he walked. “See? She’s nothing special,” he murmured. “Just an ordinary witness. Sure, she’s a beautiful woman. But sooner or later they all turn into clinging, grasping shrews.” Conor repeated these words over and over as he walked to the parking lot.

By the time Danny helped a handcuffed Olivia Farrell into an unmarked sedan and roared off into the night, Conor had nearly convinced himself that his words were true. But as he followed the taillights of his partner’s car, memories of the feel of her skin and the sound of her voice flooded his brain.

She wasn’t like the others. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but Olivia Farrell was different. Conor couldn’t help but feel a small measure of regret at the revelation. He’d never really know how she was different, or why she made him feel the way she did.

The only thing he knew for sure was that he damn well didn’t intend to get within fifty feet of Olivia Farrell ever again!

2

CAPE COD during an October nor’easter—Olivia Farrell couldn’t think of anything worse, except maybe a root canal without anesthesia. October was supposed to be warm and sunny. But the sky remained endlessly bleak and the wind blew off the Atlantic, seeping through every crack and crevice in the beach house and rattling the single-pane windows until she was certain she’d go mad from the sound. The fireplaces throughout the cottage blazed but they did nothing to take the damp from the air. And the furnace, meant only to keep the pipes from freezing in the winter, did a pitiful job of staving off the cold.

She peered through a slit in the curtains, staring out at the restless waters of Cape Cod Bay, a sick shade of green and gray beneath the slowly rising sun. Rubbing her arms through the thick wool sweater, she fought off a shiver. How had she managed to get herself into such a predicament?

“Ms. Farrell, please stay away from the windows. We don’t know who might be out there.”

Olivia sighed. She’d been in protective custody for only two days, but already she’d had enough. She couldn’t breathe without permission from Dudley Do-Right, the by-the-book cop that had been assigned as her shadow. Detective Danny Wright looked all of about fifteen years old, with a fresh-scrubbed face and a pudgy build. If she hadn’t known he was a cop, she might have thought the gun he carried was a toy. Olivia ran her hands through her hair, then turned away from the window. “How much longer do we have to stay here? Can’t we find a place with heat?”

“We’re thinking of keeping you here until the trial.”

“But that’s twelve days away!” Olivia cried.

“We’ve got men posted at the airport, on the highway and even at the ferry landing in Provincetown. The only way one of Red Keenan’s men can get past them is if they come over on a private boat and land on the beach. And with this weather, they’d be crazy to try. Local law enforcement knows all the year-round residents on this stretch of the Cape. This is the safest place for you.”

“Then why can’t I at least go out for a while? You said it. I’m perfectly safe here. We could go shopping, or go for a walk. Maybe get some breakfast in town?”

Detective Do-Right shook his head. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, miss. If there’s anything more you need, I can send a man out. Books, snacks, whatever. The district attorney wants you to be comfortable.”

“Fine!” Olivia snapped. “Send him out and tell him to buy me my old life back. I want my own bed and my cat and my hairdryer. My shop can’t survive another two weeks of closed doors. My clients are going to go elsewhere. Will the department pay for all the lost business?”

The officer looked genuinely apologetic. “We’re very sorry about that, miss, but you are doing society a great service by helping us shut down Keenan’s operation.”

She sighed then bit back a sharp retort and flopped down on the sofa. She knew she ought to be grateful for the protection, but she felt like a hostage, held against her will. Her incarceration would probably be much more enjoyable if she’d cut Detective Wright a little slack. “Since we’re going to be spending so much time together, you might as well call me Olivia. I’m getting tired of miss.”

“Actually, Ms. Farrell, it’s best if we don’t get friendly. Department policy says that we should keep our relationship strictly professional.”

She grabbed the book she’d been reading from the end table. “I’m going to lie down. I didn’t get much sleep last night.” Officer Do-Right was about to issue another warning but she held up her hand to stop him. “And don’t worry, I won’t stand near the windows.”

She closed the bedroom door behind her, then leaned back against it. The least they could do was put her up in a house with heat. It was probably warmer outside. Olivia crossed to the bed and grabbed her jacket, then tugged it on. In truth, she wasn’t tired. She’d been so inactive over the course of her imprisonment she’d gained five pounds. Had she been at home, she’d be heading out for her morning walk right about now, taking her usual route, down Dartmouth to the river and then back again. She’d stop in her favorite coffee shop for a half-caf, no-fat latte, then grab copies of the morning papers, and head for her flat on St. Botolph Street.

Olivia paced the length of the bedroom, then turned on her heel and retraced her steps. She picked up the speed and before long she was jogging in place. If she closed her eyes she could almost feel the brisk morning air on her face, hear the wind rustling in the leaves and smell the river in the distance.

But when she opened her eyes, she was still stuck in what amounted to a prison. Olivia glanced at the window, then walked over and pushed aside the curtains. The drop to the ground wasn’t so bad. She could easily fit through the window without making a sound. All she needed was a little time to herself, some fresh air and exercise.

She reached up and flipped the latch open. Wincing, she slowly pushed the creaky sash up, the wind buffeting her face. The sound of crashing waves filled the room and she waited to see if Officer Do-Right would burst through the door with gun drawn. When he didn’t, she threw her leg over the sash and wriggled out the window. The sandy ground was damp beneath her feet, muffling the sound.

Olivia turned around and pulled the window shut, then stepped out from the shadow of the house and headed toward the beach, avoiding the sight lines from the big wall of windows across the back of the house. The wind cut through her jacket and chilled her to the bone, but the sense of freedom sent her pulse racing and she wanted to dance and sing and shout with joy.

She ran over the dunes, through the wind-whipped sea grass to the hard-packed sand at water’s edge. The roar of the waves filled her head and she jogged along the beach, drawing deeply of the salt air, caught up in the fierce weather. No one had ventured out this morning. Not a footprint marred the damp sand, no human for as far as the eye could see. “There you are, Officer Do-Right, I’m perfectly safe. Not a hit man in sight.”

She wasn’t sure how long she ran but by the time she sat down on a small patch of damp sand, she was breathless. Olivia knew she should go back inside before her watchdog noticed she was missing, but now that she was warm, she just needed a few more minutes to—

Arms clamped around her torso and she felt herself being lifted from the ground. The shock knocked the air out of her lungs and, for a moment, Olivia couldn’t scream. She struggled to catch her breath as she was spun around and tossed over the shoulder of a dark-haired man dressed in a leather jacket and jeans.

He trudged up the dunes, carrying her as if she weighed nothing more than a sack of feathers. Finally, she drew enough air to make a sound. First, she screamed, long and hard, a shriek guaranteed to carry on the wind. Then she began to kick her legs and pummel his back with her fists. “Let me go!” Olivia cried. “This place is swarming with cops. You’ll never get away with this.”

He stopped, then hoisted her up again, adjusting her weight until his shoulder jabbed into her belly. “I don’t see any cops, do you?”

“I—I’ll make you a deal,” she pleaded, staring down at his backside. She’d do well to keep her head about her. Surely she could reason with the man. From the look of his behind, he was young, fit, probably attractive. “I—I won’t talk. I’ll refuse to testify. Your boss doesn’t have to worry. He won’t go to jail. Just don’t kill me.”

She pushed up and looked around, then noticed they were heading toward the house. Officer Do-Right was inside! With his gun! Oh, God, she was about to be caught in a hail of bullets. And the way he was carrying her she’d be shot in the butt first. “You can’t go in there,” she warned. “The cops are in there. See, I’m on your side. I’d never say anything to hurt your boss.”

When he reached the steps to the deck, he grabbed her waist and set her down in front of him, his fingers biting into her flesh.

Olivia swallowed hard, looking up at an expression as fierce as the weather. Even through his anger, she could see he was a handsome man—for a criminal. And his features were strangely familiar. She knew this man. “You!” Olivia cried. “I saw you at the station house. You’re—you’re a—”

An unexpected smile touched the corners of his hard mouth. “I’m the man who just saved your life. Now get in the house.”

Olivia gasped, then narrowed her eyes. “You’re a cop!”

He nodded once, dismissively, and she felt her temper rise. She let out a colorful oath, then drew back and kicked him squarely in the shin. “I thought you were a bad guy!” she cried, ignoring his yelp of pain and the little one-footed dance he did as he rubbed his bruised leg.

“Damn it, what did you do that for?”

“You scared me half to death! I thought you were going to kidnap me. And—and then, put a bullet in my brain or—or fit me with cement overshoes. My life flashed before my eyes. I nearly had a stroke. I could have died.”

He stared up at her, bent double with the pain. It was only then that she noticed his eyes, an odd shade of hazel mixed with gold. She’d never seen eyes quite that color. Eyes filled with cold, calculating anger—directed at her. “Yes, you could have died,” he muttered. “And I want you to remember how scared you were. Because that’s what it’s going to be like when Keenan finally gets you. Now get in the house,” he continued, emphasizing each word. “Or I’ll shoot you myself.”

With a sniff, she spun on her heel and flounced up the steps. Of all the nerve! What right did he have to treat her like some—some recalcitrant child? Next thing, he’d be throwing her over his knee and spanking her. Olivia risked a look back as she walked in the door. Good grief, why did that notion suddenly appeal to her?

When she got inside, she found Detective Wright nervously pacing the room. He looked up and relief flooded his expression. Olivia almost felt sorry for him and was about to apologize when the door slammed behind her. “What the hell were you thinking, Wright? You never, ever, let a witness out of your sight. She could be dead now and then where would we be?”

Olivia turned and sent the dark-haired cop a livid glare, one he returned in equal measure, sending a shiver down her spine. “Don’t you think you’re being a bit dramatic? Besides, it’s not his fault. I snuck out.”

He took a step toward her and she backed away. “Did I ask for your opinion?” He turned back to Detective Wright. “Why don’t you watch the road and the perimeter? I’ll stay with Ms. Farrell for now.”

“I don’t want you here,” Olivia said, tipping her chin up defiantly. “I want Officer Do-Right to stay. You can leave.”

“Officer Wright is needed outside. And since you’ve decided to ignore his warnings, you’re stuck with me. Or more precisely, I’m stuck with you.” His gaze raked the length of her body and stopped at her toes. “Give me your shoes.”

“What?”

“Take them off.” He turned and stalked to her bedroom, then emerged a few moments later with the boots and loafers she’d hurriedly packed after the incident at the shop. “You can have them back once I’m sure you’re going to stay inside. Now, give me your shoes.”

Olivia had every intention of refusing but the look in his eyes told her otherwise. She sat down on the sofa and yanked both shoes off, then threw them in the direction of his head. Then she crossed her arms and sank back into the cushions, watching him suspiciously and waiting for the next demand.

He drew Detective Wright aside and spoke softly with him, giving Olivia a chance to observe him in an objective light. He stood at least half a head taller than Wright and his dark good looks stood in sharp contrast with Dudley’s clean-cut choirboy features. When his face wasn’t filled with fury, the guy was actually quite handsome—high cheekbones and a strong jaw, a mouth that looked as if it had been sculpted by an artist. His hair was dark, nearly black, and his eyes were that strange shade that she couldn’t quite describe in words. Fascinating. Unearthly. Riveting.

While Dudley looked conscientious and trustworthy, this new guy had a wild and unpredictable air about him. His hair was just a little too long, his clothes a bit too casual. He had a sinewy build, long legs and broad shoulders and a flat belly that showed no evidence of too many donuts. When they both turned her way, she averted her eyes and casually picked at the fringe of a throw pillow she’d pulled onto her lap.

Detective Wright approached the sofa. “Ms. Farrell, I’m going to leave you in the care of Detective Quinn. He’ll be with you until the trial. I hope you won’t give him any more trouble.”

She forced a sweet smile and slowly rose. “That all depends upon Detective Quinn’s behavior. As long as he can stifle his Neanderthal tendencies, it will be pure bliss.”