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

1

LIAM QUINN’S NOSE itched as he stepped into the musty attic, dust kicking up with every step. The place smelled of old wood and the floorboards creaked beneath his feet. A decrepit horsehair couch sat in the corner, and against the far wall he saw a tiny abandoned fireplace, probably used by a former household servant. The first three stories of the Charlestown home were in the midst of renovation, transformed into condos, like so many in this old neighborhood of Boston. But the attic held clues to a different past, when Irish immigrant families had replaced the wealthy shipbuilders who had founded the neighborhood.

Liam glanced into the shadows behind airy cobwebs. Somewhere in the dark corners he knew there were bats waiting to swoop down on him. Hell, he hated bats. “Could it be any colder in here?”

“The presidential suite at the Four Seasons didn’t happen to be on the right street,” Sean muttered.

“I had a date tonight, you know. Cindy Wacheski was supposed to meet me at the pub at ten.”

“You’re going to run out of women in Boston to charm,” Sean muttered.

“Luckily, new women arrive every day,” Liam teased. “I could introduce you to a few, boyo. How long has it been?” He picked up the camera he had hanging from a strap around his neck, peered through the lens at his older brother and snapped the shutter. “You look like a guy who needs sex and a lot of it.”

The flash illuminated the dark attic and Sean cursed vividly, holding his hand up to his eyes. “This is a stakeout. Anyone on the street can see that flash.”

“I’m sure there are hordes of tourists on the street looking up at this place. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was on the historic Boston tour.” He shook his head in derision. “Couldn’t you have found a place with heat? What could possibly be worth photographing in this attic?”

“It’s not here. It’s across the street. Take a look.”

Liam reached down into his camera case and pulled out his telephoto lens, then exchanged it with the one on his camera. He walked to the grimy attic window and looked out at the street. To his eye, there wasn’t anything worth watching outside. The sidewalk below was empty, the narrow street lined with parked cars.

“This is an important case,” Sean said. “If you’re in, you’re in for good. No backing out later.”

“You could at least start acting like you appreciate me more,” Liam muttered. “I’m your brother and your roommate. I pay half the rent, and tidy up after you and collect your messages when you’re out of town. I don’t have to help you out with this case. I have important work of my own to do. What if I get an assignment from the Globe? Being a stringer means that I have to be available. I had a nice photo on page three of the sports section last week. Did you see it?”

“They pay you pennies. And you haven’t paid the rent in three months.”

“So, I’m a little short right now.”

“If you do this job for me, I’ll split my fee with you.”

Sean had been working on and off as a private investigator for nearly four years, starting right after he’d washed out of the police academy—or, more accurately, got kicked out for chronic insubordination. Of the six brothers, Sean was the odd one, quiet, reserved and fiercely private. The only people he truly felt comfortable with were his brothers, and half the time they couldn’t figure out what was going on in his head—especially in the past year or so.

Sean had built his business on tailing cheating spouses and deadbeat dads. He supplemented his income by tending bar at their father’s South Boston pub. And when he needed help, he usually called on his little brother. Liam could always use an extra buck or two.

Sean made a perfect P.I. He was always silently watching those around him. Their eldest brother, Conor, was known as the steady one, and Dylan, the strong one. Brendan had always been a dreamer, an adventurer. Sean’s twin, Brian, liked the spotlight, and was confident and gregarious.

And then there was Liam. His place in the family had been carved out early on. Liam was known simply as the charmer, the pretty boy who breezed through life with more friends and admirers than he could count. Though Liam had always considered his social skills rather ordinary, people just seemed to be drawn to him. Early on, he had learned how to read people. He could see inside their heads and understand exactly what they wanted from him. And if he needed something in return, he would give them what they wanted. Sometimes it was nothing more than a smile or a compliment or simple reassurance. His brothers called it charm.

Maybe that’s what made him a good photographer. He could look through a lens and see a story inside the people he photographed—all their fears and conflicts and doubts. He knew what the public wanted to see in a photograph and he gave that to them. Unfortunately the photo editors at the Boston Globe considered his work a bit too “artistic” for a daily newspaper. “Just give me a news photo,” his editor would say, “not a damn masterpiece.”

“So just how much am I going to make on this job?” Liam asked.

“We’re working for a bank,” Sean replied. “Management found a quarter million missing. They think a pair of employees embezzled it, then took off. After tracking one of them to Boston, they called me. If we find the money, we get ten percent.”

Liam blinked in surprise. Split in two, that was over twelve thousand dollars! He barely made that in a year as a stringer. Twelve thousand would buy a lot of film and lab time. “Why don’t they just call the police?”

“Bad P.R. for the bank. They brag about security on all their television commercials. It would look bad to admit the money is missing.”

“All right. I’m in. What am I looking for?”

Sean stepped up to the window and pulled the moth-eaten curtains back. “She lives there,” he said, pointing to a window across the street.

“She?” Sean handed Liam a photo and he held it up to the light from a streetlamp outside. It revealed a rather plain-looking woman wearing glasses. Her hair was pulled back from her face and she wore a starched shirt with a scarf artfully tied at the neck. “She looks like my third-grade teacher, Miss Pruitt. We used to call her Miss Prunes.”

“Eleanor Thorpe, twenty-six, graduated summa from Harvard business school. Took a job as an accountant at Intertel Bank in Manhattan right after graduation. Considered a stellar employee. Six weeks ago she quit without giving any reasons and showed up here in Boston. She’s looking for another job in banking. She went back to Intertel for references.”

“Isn’t that a little odd for an embezzler to ask for references?” Liam questioned.

“It diverts suspicion. She lives there.” He pointed in the direction of the place across the street. “Third floor in that redbrick, three-flat. All the windows are hers, bedroom on the right, living room on the left. Watch her, keep track of her visitors, keep a schedule of her movements.” He handed Liam another photo, this time of a conservative-looking man. “Her partner, Ronald Pettibone, thirty-one, a co-worker at the bank. I want to know if he shows up. I need photos of them together.”

“That’s it? I’m just waiting for him?”

“Yep. If they were in it together, they should make contact so they can divide up the loot. When I get back from Atlantic City—”

“What’s in Atlantic City?”

“A cheating husband,” Sean said. “Big money and an infidelity clause in the prenup. She needs proof.”

“Why don’t you let me take that job and you can stay in this freezing attic and spy on the bean counter?”

“I wanna know who she sees, where she goes,” Sean said.

“Why don’t you just bug her apartment?”

“You can go to prison for that.”

“And not for spying?”

“Nope.”

“So, how long are you going to be gone? If I were going to Atlantic City, I’d have a little fun, meet some pretty girls, do a little gambling. I know this one lady down there who has a killer—”

“It’s strictly business,” Sean muttered.

Liam laughed. “It’s hard to believe you’re a Quinn. When they were handing out the hound-dog gene, they skipped over you.”

“I don’t spend every spare moment chasing woman,” Sean murmured. “I have better things to do with my time.”

“Hey, I don’t chase women. They just happen to chase me. And why they keep chasing you, I’ll never understand. Maybe they like that aloof, silent act of yours. Or maybe they enjoy the challenge. I can hardly wait for the Quinn curse to catch up to you.”

“It won’t if I stay away from women,” Sean murmured. “You’re the one who should worry.”

Liam frowned. “I happen to love women. All kinds of women. And if I keep moving from one to another, none of them will catch me.”

Still, Liam’s joking about the Quinn curse could only go so far. Throughout their childhood, their father had warned them of the dangers of love, hiding his own mistrust of women in the tales of the Mighty Quinns. But now that three of Seamus’s sons had fallen under a woman’s power, Seamus had declared that they’d been the victim of a long-ago curse.

He’d told the new tale to his sons one night when they were all gathered around the bar at the pub. And though the three oldest brothers scoffed at the idea, the three youngest weren’t so skeptical. Liam wasn’t about to be caught in the same trap that had caught Conor, Dylan and Brendan. In truth, he knew the secret, the reason Olivia, Meggie and Amy had managed to snare themselves a Quinn. “Never ride to the rescue of a damsel in distress,” Liam murmured. For some reason, once a Quinn came to a woman’s rescue, it seemed he was doomed.

He glanced down at his watch. Had this been a normal Friday night, he would have been behind the bar at Quinn’s, scoping out the female clientele and deciding exactly which women he was going to charm that evening. Just because the three eldest Quinn brothers were off the market, women hadn’t given up on the younger trio.

“I bought you beer and sandwiches,” Sean said. “In the cooler. There’s take-out Chinese just down the block. Coffee shop on the corner. If you need to leave, set up the video camera. I’ll be back Sunday night, Monday night at the latest.”

“What am I supposed to do if this guy shows up? Do I tail him or her?”

“Call me. You’ve got your cell phone and my number. Then get as much on him as you can, the make of his car, his plate number, anything that we can use to track him down. Hell, break into his car if you have to.”

“Can’t they put me in jail for that?” Liam asked with a grin.

“Only if you get caught,” Sean said as he walked to the door.

Liam watched as his brother closed the attic door behind him, then turned back to the job at hand. Though the conditions weren’t ideal, his side jobs for Sean were usually pretty easy. He turned back to the window and focused his telephoto lens on the third-floor apartment. The lights were on in all the rooms and he found the subject of their surveillance sitting in the living room. Her back was turned to Liam but he could tell she was reading a book.

Suddenly she stood, holding the book in one hand and gesturing wildly with the other. He quickly scanned the apartment, wondering who the hell she was talking to. Then he realized she was talking to herself. “Ground control, we have a loony here,” he murmured.

Liam let the lens move along the length of her body. She was tall and slender with dark hair that fell to the middle of her back. A pair of faded jeans hugged her backside and her T-shirt was tight enough to reveal delicate shoulders and a narrow waist. “Come on, Eleanor,” he murmured. “Turn around and give us a look. I’m not used to spending Friday night without some feminine companionship.”

But she didn’t turn. Instead she dropped her book and walked into the bedroom, too fast for him to focus on her face. When he caught her there again, Liam watched as she stood in front of the closet. Then, in one slow, sinuous movement, she grabbed the hem of her T-shirt and pulled it over her head. Liam held his breath for a moment, then let it out slowly. “Wow,” he murmured.

Though he felt a bit like a peeping Tom, he couldn’t drag himself away from the telephoto lens. He snapped a picture and the autowind on his camera whirred ahead to the next frame. “Turn around, turn around,” he whispered.

But as if she were teasing him, she refused. Her jeans were next and she skimmed them off her hips and kicked them away. Dressed only in her bra and panties, she bent to pick up the jeans off the floor, offering Liam a tempting view of her backside. “Hmm, black underwear. Pretty racy for an accountant.” He snapped another photo.

Suddenly the damp chill in the attic didn’t seem to bother him. His blood pumped a little quicker, warmed by the subject in his viewfinder. He leaned forward, pressing the camera even closer to the grimy window. “Now the bra,” he murmured. “Or the panties. I’m easy. You choose.” And then she turned around and seemed to look directly at him, her dark hair tumbled around an exquisite face.

With a soft curse, Liam jumped back from the window, letting his camera drop against his chest. She was beautiful, nothing at all like the photo he’d been given. “Oh, hell,” he muttered, raking his hand through his hair. He’d probably been watching the wrong window. He snatched up his camera and focused it on the building, counting the floors, reviewing the description his brother had given him.

But he was trained on the right place, and when he found her, she had turned again, reaching around for the hook on her bra. He swallowed hard. He’d been to strip clubs before and watched women take off their clothes for entertainment. But this was something more than just a gorgeous body, it was almost…intimate. And when she slipped into a silk robe, he breathed a long sigh of relief.

Who was this woman? She certainly wasn’t the woman in the picture, all conservative and efficient-looking. But maybe that was all a part of it. Sean had said Eleanor Thorpe was a suspect in the embezzlement of a quarter-million dollars. What better way to pull off a crime like that than to play the part of the dependable, quietly forgettable employee?

She moved to the window. “No,” he murmured. “Not the curtains. Leave them open.” But his plea went unheard.

He dragged an old easy chair over to the window and sat, kicking his feet up on the sill. Liam watched the apartment for a long time, his mind spinning images of the woman inside. And when the lights of the apartment went off a few hours later, he took a long sip of the beer he’d opened.

Tipping his head back, he closed his eyes, ready to settle in for a long night. He saw her in his head, turning to face him, letting the silk robe drop to the floor. He imagined her body, perfect breasts, a slender waist, and long and supple legs. And then she began to move, a provocative dance caught by the lens of his camera.

Liam wasn’t sure how long he’d slept or what woke him up—a noise from the street or maybe a sense of something happening. He rubbed his eyes, then looked at his watch. It was nearly midnight and the attic was frigid from the damp spring wind that had picked up outside.

He sat up and rubbed his arms, then raked his fingers through his hair. The apartment was still dark across the street, but he grabbed his camera and looked through the telephoto lens anyway. Somewhere in the distance a siren sounded, and nearby a dog barked. And then a strange light appeared in the window of Eleanor Thorpe’s apartment.

Liam slowly stood and focused the lens. The light seemed as if it was coming from a moving source as it cast odd shadows against the living-room windows. “What the—” He adjusted the telephoto, searching, trying to see inside the darkened room. The light moved closer to the window and Liam realized that there was someone inside Eleanor Thorpe’s apartment—someone dressed in black and carrying a flash-light.

“What the hell?”

Was this the man he was waiting for, Eleanor Thorpe’s partner in crime? Or was Eleanor Thorpe about to become the victim of a burglary? Liam wasn’t going to wait around to find out. As he ran to the door and raced down the stairs, he grabbed his cell phone from his pocket and dialed 9-1-1. “Burglary in progress,” he said, bursting out the front door. “Six-seventeen Summer Street. Send a patrol car right away.”

Liam found the front door of the three-flat ajar and he took the steps two at a time, trying to keep quiet as he approached. He knew that the police wouldn’t arrive for at least a few minutes and hoped he wouldn’t be facing some fool with a gun.

When he reached the third story, he slowly pushed the door open and allowed his eyes to adjust to the light. Then he saw him, a figure of average height and weight, moving around the living room, his face hidden by a ski mask. Liam took a deep breath, knowing it would take the element of surprise to subdue the guy. If he could just knock him off his feet, his greater height and weight would win out in the end.

He steeled his resolve and said a silent prayer that the guy didn’t have a gun. Then he launched his body across the room, hitting the burglar square in the back and knocking him to the floor.

ELEANOR THORPE’S EYES opened suddenly and for a moment she wasn’t sure where she was—or what had brought her out of a deep sleep. But when she heard a thud come from the vicinity of her living room, she bolted upright in her bed and wiped the sleep from her eyes.

She held her breath and waited, wondering if the sound came from the street. She’d locked the door before going to bed and she lived on the third floor, too high for someone to crawl in the window. But the back porch allowed easy access. After moving from Manhattan, she was well aware of the perils of city living. But there was no denying the fact that someone was in her apartment!

Her mind began to whirl with the possibilities. Should she call the police first and then try to lock her bedroom door? Or should she make sure of her safety first? She reached for her bedside table, then remembered that she didn’t have a phone in her bedroom here, only in her old apartment in New York.

She slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the door. Only to realize it didn’t have a lock! Now what? Ellie took a ragged breath. She had two choices—get to a phone or take her chances with whomever was banging around her living room. Well, three really. She could hide under the bed. Or scream until someone came to her rescue—that was four.

Gathering her courage, she started down the hall. As she stepped into the living room, she grabbed a lamp. Suddenly a figure appeared out of the dark. Ellie shrieked as loud as she could, then swung the lamp at his head. The ceramic base cracked and a soft curse slipped from the man’s lips as he fell to his knees.

“Jeez, what the hell are you doing?” He rubbed his head. “That hurt!”

Ellie clutched the lamp tighter, determined this time to hit her mark. She raised it high. “Lie down on the floor and put your hands behind your head.”

“What?” He cursed again. “I came in here to—”

“Do it,” she threatened. “Or I’ll knock you senseless.”

“I’m not the one,” he said, feebly pointing across the living room. “It was him.”

Ellie glanced in the direction he pointed and noticed a dark figure crawling along the floor toward the open door of her apartment. Her first instinct was to find another lamp and throw it at his head. But she already had one of the burglars subdued. With his help, the police would be able to track down the other.

She caught movement from the corner of her eye just in time to find the man at her feet making a lunge for her waist. With a tiny cry of alarm, she brought the remains of the lamp crashing down on his head. He hit the floor with a thud as the other intruder stumbled down the stairs. Taking in another ragged breath, Ellie hurried over to the light switch and flipped it on.

The man lying on her Oriental rug didn’t look nearly as frightening as he had in the dark. She gave him a poke with her toe just to make sure he was out, then raced through the apartment to find something to bind his hands and feet. Plastic wrap and a few pair of panty hose would have to do.

She quickly trussed him up like a Thanksgiving turkey, sitting on the small of his back as she tied his feet to his hands. Then she sighed softly and began to search his pockets for some kind of identification. If he managed to escape, at least she’d have his name.

He groaned softly and Ellie jumped away from him, retreating across the room. She grabbed up the phone and dialed 9-1-1. “I’m calling the police,” she shouted. “Don’t try to escape.”

“Don’t bother,” he muttered. “I already called them on my way over here.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was here to help. I saw that guy breaking into your apartment, so I followed him in.”

Ellie frowned. “I don’t believe you.”

“Fine,” he said. “Let the cops sort it out.”

The emergency operator answered and Ellie quickly gave her the address, only to learn that the police were already on their way. Ellie informed them that she’d tied up the burglar and he’d be waiting for the police when they arrived. Then she hung up and watched her captive. Deciding she’d need another weapon, she ran to the kitchen and retrieved the biggest knife she could find. She perched on the arm of the sofa and watched him warily.

The burglar winced as he shifted, trying to get comfortable. “These knots are a little tight.”

“Shut up,” she said.

A long silence grew between them. Ellie tried to slow her pounding heart and replenish her courage.

“So what do you think he was after?” the burglar murmured.

“Who?”

“The guy you let get away. Is anything missing? When I came in, he was going through your desk. Do you keep money in there?”

“I’m not telling you where I keep my money,” Ellie said. For a criminal he was awfully concerned about her welfare. A guy so handsome shouldn’t have to make his living on the other side of the law. She opened his wallet and began to flip through it. “So…Liam Quinn, what made you turn to a life of crime?”

“What makes you so sure I’m a criminal?”

Ellie wasn’t sure. But what choice did she have? Criminals weren’t known to be the most honest people in the world. She wasn’t about to fall for some line. “If you’re not a criminal, then what are you?”

“A photographer,” he said. “I string for the Globe and one of the news syndicates. There’s a clipping tucked in my wallet, next to the money. That was the first photo I had published.”

She pulled out the folded newspaper and smoothed it on her knee. It was a photo of a little girl dressed in a huge firefighter’s jacket, clutching a ragged teddy bear. Her gaze dropped to the credit line. “Photo by Liam Quinn.”

“I took that three years ago. Her house burned in a fire. Her family lost everything.”

“She looks so sad,” Ellie murmured.

“Yeah. She was. But that photo caused a lot of publicity for the family. People sent money, and by the end of the week there was a fund established to help her family replace everything they’d lost. I felt like I’d done a good thing.” He twisted and sighed impatiently. “Can you just loosen my feet? I’ve got a cramp in my thigh that’s killing me. I promise I won’t try to run.”

Ellie hesitated, glancing down at the photo. She riffled through the rest of his wallet. She found a press pass for the Boston Globe, three credit cards and punch card for a place called Cuppa Joe’s. She also found a small photo of a family at a wedding, an elderly couple standing next to a beautiful bride and handsome groom. They were flanked by six tall, dark and handsome men. One was Liam Quinn.

This didn’t add up. He looked like such a nice guy. Maybe he was only trying to help. “I have a knife,” she said. “And I want you to stay on the floor.”

“Deal,” he said.

Ellie approached him and untied his feet. Then she stepped back. He rolled onto his back and wriggled over to the sofa, then leaned back against it. For the first time she got a good look at his face and she realized that the picture of him in his wallet didn’t do him justice. He was most likely the most gorgeous man, criminal or not, that she’d ever set eyes on. And he also had a cut on his forehead that was dripping blood.

“You’re hurt,” she murmured.

“I’m not surprised,” he said with a chuckle. “You hit me pretty hard.”

Ellie knew she shouldn’t trust him, but he seemed content to wait for the police. She got up from the sofa and backed toward the kitchen. “Don’t move.” She quickly grabbed the box of bandages from the drawer beside the sink, then wet a wad of paper towel. When she returned to the living room, he was right where she’d left him.

“I’m going to bandage the cut on your forehead. If you even twitch, I’ll stab you with this knife. Understood?”

“Understood.”

She knelt beside him, setting the knife next to her on the floor. Then she leaned close and dabbed at the cut with the damp paper towel. “It doesn’t look too bad,” she said. “I don’t think it will need stitches.”

He winced as she pressed on the cut to slow the bleeding. “I didn’t twitch,” he said. “That was just a reaction to pain.”

Ellie let her gaze drift down to his eyes, an odd mixture of green and gold. She stared at him for a long moment, her heart skipping a beat. She saw no evil in his gaze, no malicious intent. Instead she saw warmth and—amusement?

“Stop it,” she murmured.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Ellie said. This was what always got her in trouble! She’d encounter an attractive man and, before she knew anything about him, she’d fabricate a wildly romantic and dashing personality for him. She just loved being in love. It was like a sickness. In fact she’d just read a self-help book, Loving Out Loud, that advised a daily reality check when it came to romance. “Fracture the fairy tale,” the author had written.

Love had been precisely the thing that had sent her running from New York and a job she’d adored. Actually, it wasn’t love, but the lack of love. Not on her side, but on— She cursed inwardly. Ellie had vowed never to speak or think his name again. All right, Ronald Pettibone. When she’d first met him, she’d thought his name was so aristocratic. And he had a nose to match his name. And then she’d—

“Maybe you should call the police again,” Liam said. “They’re taking a long time to respond to a 9-1-1. I could have had a gun. You could be lying dead in the middle of this room right now. My brother is a cop, and I understand what kind of pressure they’re under, but this is ridiculous. My hands are starting to fall asleep.”

“I suppose I could untie you and you could—” She hesitated. “No. No, no, no. I’m doing it again. I can’t believe this. After Ronald, I swore off men and now—” Ellie ground her teeth. “You’re very nice-looking. I’m sure you know that. And if you did save my life, I’m grateful. But I’ve been entirely too trusting when it comes to men and that’s got to stop. Right now.”

Liam frowned. “Who’s Ronald?”

“None of your business!”

“Hey, I’m just making conversation, Eleanor.”

Ellie frowned. “How did you know my name?”

He paused for a moment. “You gave it to the police when you called.”

“I said Ellie.”

“I assumed Ellie was short for Eleanor. Isn’t it? Or are you Ellen? Eloise? Elfreida?”

She tore the wrapping off the bandage and quickly covered the cut. “Ellie. That’s all you need to know.”

“And who’s Ronald?”

Ellie sat back on her heels and picked up the knife again. “My ex-boyfriend. But I don’t want to talk about him. In fact, I don’t think we should be talking at all.”

“We could always talk about you.”

Ellie wagged her finger at him. “Oh, no. Don’t try to turn on the charm. I’m not going to fall for that. I’m impervious. I’m a rock.”

He chuckled softly. “All right. Then maybe you could get me a glass of water. I’m a little—”

The thud of footsteps on the stairs interrupted his request and Ellie jumped up, anxious to put as much space as she could between her and Liam Quinn. He was exactly the kind of man she always fell for. In truth, he was a whole lot nicer looking than the men in her past. And if he really was a photographer, then he was probably a lot more interesting, as well. And he had a better body and a decent fashion sense. And he knew how to choose men’s cologne.

“Police!”

Ellie turned to the door, setting the knife on a nearby table. The two officers rushed into the room, their guns drawn. Ellie sat on the sofa and watched as they patted Liam down and pulled him to his feet. Then they shoved him up against the wall and searched him more thoroughly.

“Would you like to tell us what you were doing in this lady’s apartment?”

“I was passing by on the street and I saw an intruder slip in the front door.”

“Yeah, right. How did you know it was an intruder and not this lady’s husband?”

“Oh, I’m not married,” Ellie piped up.

“He was wearing a ski mask,” Liam explained. “I figured my first impression was probably right. Hey, we can clear this all up right now if you just call the downtown station house. My brother is a detective there. Conor Quinn.”

They turned him around. “We’re from the down-town precinct,” the taller officer said, “and I don’t know any detective named—”

“I do,” the other officer said. “Conor Quinn. He’s in homicide. Tall, dark-haired guy. Wife just had a baby. In fact, this guy looks a lot like him.”

“She’s got my ID,” Liam said, nodding toward Ellie.

Ellie quickly stood and handed the officer Liam’s wallet. “He’s telling the truth. His name is Liam Quinn and he’s a photographer. And—and I think I may have made a mistake.”