“It’s none of them,” Cami says. “It is a missing person, but it’s a man. Brock Stowe, Declan’s uncle.”
4
ERIK
Joe Sullivan, head of the Irish Mafia in Boston, is my great uncle. His brother was my mother’s father, and, at only two years apart, people say they could’ve been twins. They were both tall and sharp, with an inborn toughness. But my grandfather lived and died in Northern Ireland, while Uncle Joe has been in America since he was a boy.
For a time, I came to Uncle Joe’s often as I was clearing a family debt. Now that’s settled, so I visit on holidays, not at random.
This morning at ten, he called to invite me to lunch, saying I should be at his house by noon. Which means this is not really an invitation. It’s a summons. I didn’t have to heed it, but I’d never disrespect him for no reason.
As my truck approaches the driveway, I crack my knuckles and draw in a long breath. I’d better not be here because my mother’s useless husband lured her back into dire financial straits.
I buzz in through the iron gates and park in front. The white stone house’s domed windows make it look like a resurrected medieval castle. Climbing from my SUV, I squint at the mid-day sun. My phone buzzes, but I ignore it. I’m running late.
Instead, I ring the bell with tension rising in my body. Uncle Joe answers the door himself, and I step inside. The house’s entry has a black crystal chandelier and about ten tons of black and white marble. If Dracula married a Kardashian, this would be their foyer.
Uncle Joe is in his early seventies and still fit. His daily workouts include pumping iron, so he’s got the muscle mass of a much younger man.
“Erik, good to see you.” He gives my hand a firm shake and draws me inside.
I keep my gaze focused on him as we pass the hall’s dizzying mosaic tile. This house is something else.
The kitchen is better. Still an overabundance of marble, but it’s mellow compared to the entry.
He takes a pair of Guinnesses from the fridge and sets them on the kitchen table. “Let’s have a beer. Lunch is nearly ready. Fish gratin.”
My stomach rumbles as I sit and uncap the bottle. I take a swig, and the phone in my pocket rings. I glance down because it’s rare for me to get an unexpected call. On the few occasions when I talk on the phone, it’s always pre-arranged via text.
I frown, worrying there’s bad news. Like a death. After sliding my phone from my pocket, I look at the screen. The call is from Reynolds, not Shane. Good. I swipe to send her to voicemail and set my phone on the table.
Uncle Joe takes several swallows of beer. “The call… important, is it?” The lilt of an Irish accent can still be heard in his voice. It reminds me of my mother.
“Just a classmate from the school newspaper. I’ll call back later.”
“Mmm, the famousDaily Dispatch. I just learned you’re a writer there, and one of the best, so I hear.”
“Did you?” My brows pinch together before I raise my glass to my lips. “Who from?”
“Shane’s girl, Avery. Thick as thieves we are on the college gossip. She keeps me appraised. Says you’re the number one man on the paper, but there’s a smart little Lois Lane nipping at your heels.”
“Hmm.” Tipping the bottle, I take a slow swallow.
“So, was that young Miss Lane buzzing your pocket?”
“Yes.”
“And how are you situated with that?”
“The situation is we’re colleagues and nothing more. She belongs to Declan Heyworth.”
“Ah. Makes sense, him as black-haired and square-jawed as old Clark Kent. And as rich as Lex Luthor. Couldn’t blame a girl for falling in that direction.” He finishes his Guinness and gets another. “As it happens, that’s good news for me, seeing as I have an assignment for you that involves a different girl.” When he returns, he leans forward and taps his thumb on the table. “A certain surgeon needs a favor, and I’m inclined to help him. From time to time, he’s dealt with wayward bullets amongst the family. Plenty of men would’ve been early to the grave if not for him.”
The bottle pauses halfway to my mouth. He doesn’t need to say he was one of the men the surgeon saved. “Go on.”
“Javier has a daughter at Granthorpe. That’s cause for any father to worry these days.”
“He should make her come home.”
