My stomach rumbles in time with her words, and I stand, catching my coat from flapping open to expose my two guns and badge. It isn’t until we’ve left the meeting room and madeit down the ramp that I take a full breath. So much power pretending to be civilized—threatening tones, deals wrapped in casual conversation. I’d need to go to confession if only to admit I was in the same room as them as they negotiated like they were at Sunday brunch.
Dusk settles over the harbor walk and frost clings to the railings. Holiday lights switch on, and the lampposts scattered in the seaport flicker.
“I hate that this feels like a dead end.” Aoife’s shoulder brushes mine as we walk side by side back to the garage. Her breath materializes like a puff of fog in the air, the cold from the setting sun bleeding through her coat. She shivers.
“We have a name. I’ll go back to the station and check in with Reed. Let him know the updates.”
“And I’ll speak with the Yakuza. Try to get Souta’s movements before he went missing,” Aoife says, striding with her chin tucked into the collar of her leather jacket.
No. I don’t like her talking to these organizations alone, or better yet, getting involved in this investigation at all. “I don’t need you to do that … Ididn’task you to do that.”
“You didn’t. I’ll take Ronan with me or something. It’ll be fine. I deal with them all the time.” She smiles, her straight white teeth chattering against the cold.
It does something to me I can’t control. Draws me in when I should be pushing her further away from me. From this investigation. My hand betrays me, reaching for her arm and allowing my fingers to slide down until they’re tangled in hers. Warmth sears through that single point of contact before I rip away.
Wanting her is one thing. Inviting corruption into my arms is another.
The second week in December comes quicker than I’d like. Solving this case before Christmas feels like a giant ass beating. What’s worse is that an invitation to the Boston Christmas Gala sits on my desk, the date next weekend. I hate,hate,this event. It’s the one time my parents can’t get out of seeing me, making the event always awkward and depressing.
I toss it in the trash beside my desk as there’s a knock on the door.
“Headed home?” Deputy Bromley leans through the office threshold.
“Think so. Why?”
He glances behind him and lowers his voice. “Chatter on the coms has something going down tonight at the container terminal docks. Rumor has it it’s mob business and they might get a visit from the cartel.”
“So? What does the captain say about it?”
“Nothing. He said to leave it alone.”
“Then why tell me?”
His gaze probes me. “Thought you might be interested. Have a good night, Detective.”
“Night.”
I move around my office, tidying up and reorganizing the investigation board. Reed must’ve messed with it because the details are wrong, but I can’t help Bromley’s parting words nagging my mind.
Mob business. I huff. Boston is crawling with organized crime. The Irish and the Yakuza are the two most prevalent organizations here, but that’s only because the O’Donnells somehow negotiated the Cosa Nostra away. But the Albanians?The cartel? Are we as law enforcement prepared to deal with this?
They aren’t all like the Irish and willing to assist the law.
I shake my head and grab my holster and badge from the top drawer of my desk, moving to the coatrack for my jacket. It’s late, so the station has slowed, but I give a few departing head nods, then move outside.
The night air cuts sharp, making the tip of my nose tingle as I jog down the steps of the precinct. The Christmas wreaths sag on the lampposts while strings of light wrap around them. There’s no snow or ice left on the sidewalks, but I pull my coat tighter at the biting chill.
A bell tolls in the distance for Wednesday night Mass, its echo threading through the streets as an annoying reminder of something I used to believe in, used to appreciate. By the time I reach my car, my jaw aches from clenching it, and the bells fade off into nothing. Christmas. Church. It’s nothing more than an excuse for family or old friends to check in: mail a card, extend a half-hearted invite, brag about the new car or the baby. Just to keep up appearances.
I hate the holidays.
Once in my car, I dial Reed, curious if his interview with our first victim’s employer resulted in anything. It rings and rings, eventually going to voicemail, and I throw my car into drive, ready for leftovers and bed.
My studio apartment is in Back Bay, but as I reverse out of my parking spot, instead of going home, I drive through the streets toward South Boston, then farther toward the Conley Container Terminal. My tires hum low against the asphalt while the glow of downtown falls away in my rearview. Ahead, the lights of the skeletal cranes poke through the night, and stacks of containers create a maze I can’t imagine navigating.
I don’t know why I’m here or what I’m looking for, but I roll down my window listening. Gravel dusted with salt crunches as I inch over the worn patches of pavement tucked behind a half-fallen chain-link fence. I’m not here in any official capacity, but from this location, the edge of the main loading zone is visible. I’ll keep my car here, slipped in the shadows, and only dart through the fencing if I need to.
I kill the engine and the lights, and shift in my seat, leaning an elbow on the door’s window ledge. It’s colder here, by the Reserved Channel. A breeze howls low between the metal containers and sweeps in through the cracked window, carrying the scent of diesel fuel. Occasionally, there is a distant crane moving, or the beeping of machinery, but it’s relatively quiet tonight. Eerily so.
