Grayson circles around us, ignores the rest of the conversation, and starts his car, lighting up a cigarette once inside. Ah, that explains it. Smoker. Aren’t they always grumpy when they need nicotine?
He takes off, and Reed gets in his vehicle while I take one last look around the trail and crime scene. There’s nothing but a peaceful dusky breeze barely making a sound. It’s still, and it’s almost like the police presence is intruding. Bright yellow crime scene tape flutters in the wind against the dark gray backdrop.Who did this to you, Finn?
Stupidly, I wait around, like his ghost might actually whisper in my ear, but it’s calm and nothing comes.
Then, I head to my bike, snap on my helmet, and swing a leg over the seat to settle in like I’ve done a thousand times. The engine hums beneath me, and I grip the handlebars. I smile, remembering how slow Finn drives—drove. Summer used to complain, and then I did. He never liked my Ducati. Said it was “too fast,” that the Irish Mob couldn’t risk losing their leader without an heir for the O’Donnell line. Truth was, he cared. He wanted me safe.
Salt stings my chewed lips as I take off and let the wind wick away my tears. I twist the grip, and the engine snarls in response. The vibration shoots up my arms and pounds into my chest. I lean into it, weaving through traffic toward downtown Boston.
This is what it feels like to be alive. Too bad Finn isn’t still here to experience it.
The police station in Beacon Hill doesn’t scream police station. It’s tucked between rows of weathered brownstones and iron-fence stoops. The red brick is faded in places, and the cold-stressed ivy clings to cracks in others.
I pull my bike up to the front steps, still slick with ice despite the crusting of salt spread over them. A tarnished green copper plaque with its district number scrubbed away sits half hidden beneath garland draped over the double doors. Matching evergreen wreaths with red bows hang on each one.
I park and pull myself up the steps using the iron railing wrapped in blinking string lights. Well, at least on my side. The other railing lights are dead. Pulling open the door, the inside smells like burned coffee and cinnamon potpourri. A short Christmas tree strung with colored lights sits in the corner of the lobby. Its ornaments look handmade by kids, and as I step closer, the salt-dough handprints have photos of the officers, their families, and their children pressed into the palms.
I smile. Summer and I made these once. Allie, our housekeeper—may she rest in peace—was so mad we hijacked the oven for most of the day, baking them on the lowest setting. She’d said she had a roast to cook, and we’d stolen her oven.
I’m not sure what prompts me, but I scan the tree for Grayson. Maybe I want to see the woman who’d marry a man like him, or if his children have his eyes. But when I find his ornament, the photo is only of him. He stands in front of his work desk, alone. Huh.
I shake my head and wander in, attracting the attention of deputies and office personnel. They stare unblinking as my boots traipse across the creaking wooden floor. Deputy Bromley looks up from his cubicle in the bullpen and offers me a quick wave. I wink back, and he blushes.Him, I like.
More garland hangs over the doorframes of the private offices and interrogation rooms, curling at the ends. Someoneeven stapled a Santa hat over the Most Wanted corkboard above a man charged with armed robbery. Beside him … another poster. This one with a silhouetted man wanted for multiple murders.
Reed pops his head out of one of the offices, searching, and when his eyes land on me, he gestures with his hand for me to come in. I tuck my helmet under one arm and stride to the office. The brass plaque on the door reads Detectives Grayson Holtz and Reed Carver.Lovely.
I push into their office to find them both standing in front of a wall-sized investigation board. Two desks sit facing each other. One cluttered with paperwork, leftover sugar cookies, and a frame of two men fishing. The other desk has a phone and a notepad. Could he be any more predictable?
I snort, looking at them both. “Cliché much?”
Reed smiles, but I don’t miss the slight curl of his lips as he turns toward the board.
Grayson steps forward, wheeling out his desk chair. He gestures at it.
I shrug and sit, spinning a few times before they both glare at me.
“When can I take Finn’s body?” I ask. We’ll bury him, properly. The Irish way. The mob way.
“Autopsy usually takes forty-eight hours, but I’d be lying if I said we weren’t swamped right now. I’d say in about a week,” Reed answers.
I nod, not wanting to rush it anyway. Lizzy, my aunt, is a loudmouth, and despite her retirement from O’Brien’s and the mob, she’s still a pain in my ass. Checks in with me every day. She and Cormac both.
Grayson takes a grainy traffic camera photo of Finn and tacks it to the board below three others. But …
“Hey,” I say, standing. “Do you know who that is?”
Reed sidesteps to look at the photo. “Name says Souta Takahashi. He was our third victim.”
I glance between the two men. Frankly, I’m shocked they’ve invited me into their office instead of an interrogation room. Must’ve had a conversation with their chief I suppose. I’ve proven helpful in the past, and unlike my father, I don’t oppose law enforcement. I use them.
“Do you not know who he is?”
Grayson looks at the photo and shakes his head, rubbing a hand through his thick dark hair. “You going to tell us?”
“He’s Yakuza.”
Reed sucks in a breath. “No, shit …”
