I give her a long, flat look. “Who says you’re coming?”
“I do.” She adjusts her jacket. She looks like she’s been through hell, and I’m sure I’m no better.
I shake my head.
“Call your chief. I’m coming,” she insists.
I dip my head toward her hulking bodyguard outside her window. She turns and rolls down her window, then tosses Ronan’s phone at him. “I’ll be with the detective for the day. Only forward emergencies my way. I want Mark to follow up with our contacts at the terminal. Figure out what the hell happened and report back.”
“Miss O’Donnell?—”
Aoife rolls up the window, and I grin at Ronan’s exasperated look behind the glass once again.
We stop at a Dunkin’ Donuts, and Aoife picks at me for actually getting a donut. She’s still laughing about how I fallinto the stereotypical cop mold with a donut. Really, I just need the sugar to help me get through this morning. I’m exhausted. There was no way in hell I could sleep with Aoife sitting in my passenger seat.
As I pull up to the first victim’s home in South End, my phone dings with a response from my chief. I’d texted him while Aoife was using the bathroom, while I was waiting for my donut and her coffee. The idea that I wanted this to be routine struck me as I sat there staring at the women’s restroom like she might disappear, and for some reason that completely made me derail in thought.
I look down at my screen, cricked on my lap.
Let her tag along.
I frown. Why?
I don’t have much time to think about it because Aoife exits the car and starts toward the house. Several police officers and the forensic technicians roll in and out of the house with bags. An officer stops Aoife as she approaches the multi-story Victorian row house, one hand extended, the other moving to hover over his sidearm.
I scramble out of the car, forgoing the need for another cigarette, and follow the path between evidence tables and techs toward where Aoife waits with Deputy James. Her hip juts out to the side, the leather hugging her generous curves and ample ass. I drag a hand down my face, feeling the rough stubble poking across my chin, and sigh.
“She’s with me, Deputy,” I say, grabbing Aoife by the elbow and dragging her along toward the front steps.
“So handsy, Detective,” she croons. “Awfully bold to manhandle the Irish Mob, don’t you think?”
“You’d know if I was manhandling you.”
We ascend the steps, ducking under the tape. Mrs. Morris waits off to the side with two officers, and when we enter, Aoife smiles.
Confused, I ask, “Something funny?”
She shakes her head. “Reminds me of the brownstone in Beacon Hill I grew up in. So many memories.”
“Your father doesn’t live there anymore?”
“He owns it, but it sits uninhabited most of the time since they travel a lot. They’ve been abroad for a while now.”
“You didn’t want to stay there?” I ask, grabbing a pair of gloves from the technician holding them out to me. I take another set for Aoife.
She wrinkles her nose but takes them anyway. “I wanted my own place andthoroughlyenjoy my condo.” She waggles her eyebrows.
Something burns deep in my chest, and I clench my jaw at her cavalier words. What does she mean? And why does it feel like a faceless male is gloating in my face, along with her torturing words? I turn away from her, seeking out Reed.
Aoife follows me through the hallway. “I mean, me and all my ice cream dates with reality TV in my pajamas,” she mutters.
My shoulders slump, and I exhale. Damn it, I need to focus.
Unfortunately, Aoife keeps talking. “This house isn’t necessarily inexpensive. What did he do for work again?”
“Accountant for …” I pull out my phone and open my notes. “A law firm downtown.”
She purses her lips, eyeing the paintings in the hallway. “Does an accountant make enough to buy multiple million-dollar paintings to hang in his hallway?”
