Chief Anderson peeks at the handful of officers staring and confused. “We can talk about this back in my office.” His voice wavers, the hulk of a man crumbling before the five-foot-three Irish leader.
“No. I’m not leaving. I need to find a killer. Apparently, I need to do your job. I can’t lose any more men. I—” Aoife’s hand with the gun falls, her shoulders sagging as a whispered sobbursts from her lips. Chief reaches forward, hauling her into his body, and I stiffen.
Quickly, my panic over watching Aoife break, over her pulling the gun, morphs into something that curls at the back of my mouth, and I can’t spit it out. I swallow, fighting the rawness grating like a knife. She and him? Or they at least know each other. I stew through the possibilities. Lovers? Friends? They can’t possibly be related. I’d done my research on Aoife O’Donnell when she first stepped into her new role. She’s an only child. No cousins. The O’Donnell name is hers and hers alone. Who the hell is Ace?
I rack my brain for Anderson’s first name, and before I know it, my jaw aches from grinding my back molars as I stew.
Anderson holds her for several seconds before letting her go. I backpedal. Aiming to place distance between myself and both of them. There’s always been a pass for the Irish in the department. Chief has always allowed her to do more,seemore. Has she been hiding the fact they know each other—well, apparently—from me this whole time? I was under the impression Anderson assumed her help would be warranted, needed even. And it has been for the most part. We’d never have had the leads on the other mafia men if it weren’t for her. Did our chief know this?
Aoife steps back, tears wiped away on his jacket. Not mine. As if this weekend—hell, did it mean anything?
“I’ll meet you back in your office. I want answers.”
He nods. The Chief of Police reduced to nods. I shake my head, and when she glances toward me, I look away.
She strips all the expression from her face, hollowing into nothing as she thuds across the pavement, holsters her gun, and pushes toward her bike. She slips her helmet on, slides her leather gloves over her fingers, and when she grips the handlebars, I bark out a laugh.
Then she’s gone.
“Detectives. You’ll be needed in my office.”
Reed bristles. “If I may, Chief. Why are we catering to the Irish on this?”
He snarls. “None of your damn business, Detective.”
But I study Anderson, caving into the bitterness strangling my chest. “He has a point.”
“Don’t.” He turns toward the black SUV he came in, and on his way, he yells back. “My office when you’re finished here.”
Reed mumbles under his breath again. “I wonder if the mayor knows he’s being paid under the table by the Irish and is not fit for the position of police commissioner.”
I snort, now realizing it doesn’t matter. The mayor is putty in Aoife O’Donnell’s dainty hands. Shit, we all are.
“She’s got the mayor in her pocket,” I say, loud enough Reed hears me.
He leans in, mouth hovering outside my left ear. “Nooneperson should have that much sway over the elected officials in this city. Part of me wishes I wasn’t wasting my holiday time trying to solve the murders of the made men in this city. Don’t you?” His tone is seething, and yet, I have a hard time disagreeing.
Was I so blinded by this woman? By her charm? I stare off, catching a gray cloud stretching across the sun and dimming the crime scene.
“Grayson?”
I glare at Reed but ignore him and turn back toward Ronan’s body. I need a report. I have a job to do. Right now, I can’t listen to Reed, and I can’t stand here in my thoughts. This is a crime scene, and I’ll be damned if I don’t do my job. I’m not manipulated by the crime families, and I never will be.
CHAPTER 15
AOIFE
Ipush my boot off the wood of Ace’s desk, and the chair pivots, spinning until I come back around and finally kick the drawer I was poking around in shut. The leather groans as I turn again, letting the sick twist in my stomach evolve into full-blown nausea while the room blurs around me.
The light in the room falters as the saturated clouds mute most of it. His office always reminded me of my dad’s at O’Brien’s. Empty, with the sour tang of leather lingering, and the dying plants. Ace’s fern is on its last leg. It’s the stupid details my brain pulls out while I avoid my thoughts of Ronan. The pair of battered gloves that hang on a hook by his office door, the crooked blinds, like he shut them in a hurry, and the squeak of the leather chair big enough for two grown bodies.
But I think the biggest reason it reminds me of my dad is the smell of the daily grind and the work ethic that’s not masked by fancy furniture. It’s got a lived-in, humble feeling despite the imposing positions they’re in.
It isn’t long before I’ve torn through all his paperwork: incident reports, arrest logs, budgets, briefing notes. The man needs a filing cabinet next to his desk instead of this disorder and chaos. Now, I sit in silence, listening to the wail of sirensand the murmur of city life, trying to find answers. Why Ronan? Was he convenient? I was otherwise occupied this weekend with Grayson, so Ronan had more free time to himself. Was it a case of the right made man at the right time? Did the killer go after him specifically?
I wipe at my leaking tears and crush the nearest piece of paper into a crumpled ball, then slump back into the chair.
Damn it, Ronan.
