We hang up, and after I put my phone away, Grayson and Reed stare down at me. I rip my helmet out of Reed’s hand. Touchy little?—
“You know Luka Morozov?” Reed asks, leaning in eagerly to hear the answer.
Grayson and I both look to him. “Do you?” I ask, but it’s like Grayson hangs on for the answer, too.
“Nah. Only in name.” Reed swallows and pulls out his phone, answering what appears to be a text message. “ME wants to see us.”
Grayson reaches for his suit jacket, hung on the coatrack by the office door. “Thank you, Miss O’Donnell. We’ll be in touch with any more questions.”
I quirk an eyebrow, ready to fire off something inappropriate just to piss him off. But there’s an eagerness in his expression—a mix of worry and urgency that I can’t mock right now. Not when he’s going to go see Finn.
I swallow the baseball lodged in my throat and stand. “Good luck, detectives.”
They both rush out their office door, letting it bang open behind them. I glance down at Grayson’s desk, at the phone pushed perfectly in the corner, and the notepad parallel with a cheap pen.
I poke the desk phone enough so it’s cricked. It’s nothing, only a breath out of place, but on his ordered desk it’s a sliver of chaos. He’ll see it. Notice it. Know someone nudged his perfect little world off balance. I smile, knowing he’ll think of me.
CHAPTER 3
GRAYSON
“And he left alone from what you remember?” I ask the grocery store clerk. I’ve spent the last two days retracing Finn’s steps, and I lose his movements right as he exits this store.
“Think so!” The young girl bats her eyelashes at me. “He grabbed a pre-made sandwich, two waters, and … I’m not sure what else.” She pops the oversized bubble of her gum, and it sticks to her upper lip. She caresses it with the tip of her tongue and giggles.
“Thank you for your time,” I say.
She pouts but turns back to her register.
I dig into my raincoat, cursing the sleet that picked today of all days to fall, and pull out my notepad, thumbing through to the latest entry. I scribble down all the unhelpful information the girl gave me and flip to the next page. I freeze.
Scratched in ultra-feminine block print:This notepad is now under investigation for being extremely outdated.With a heart.
I rip it out and crumple the page into a ball, fisting it as I walk out of the store. I toss it in the trash. Climbing into my sedan, I sit there in the warmth of my car while answering a few emails. Finn’s trail is growing cold already. Whoever dumped him didn’tstrip anything off his body. No other DNA. Not many defensive wounds, and the motive could be anyone with a beef with the Irish Mob. Though the fact a Yakuza member was the previous victim certainly raises the hair on my arms. Two mob men? Knowing whether our John Doe was in the mafia, too, would help paint a better picture.
Sighing, I toss the car into drive and navigate the streets of Beacon Hill until I’m outside O’Brien’s. It’s an old Irish bar with a thick wooden door, the kind you’d expect ripped from a European castle. I don’t want to go in. I don’t want Miss O’Donnell’s help. However, the idea I’ve got a serial killer disturbs me more than the Irish’s overlooked money laundering and underground fighting at the moment. Not to mention, the chief won’t let any officers near the damn mob.
I open the door, the rich scent of leather and whiskey cutting the brisk cold. I jam my hands into my coat pockets as the door thuds shut, sealing off the sunlight and sinking the pub into a dim haze. Lunch patrons crowd a few booths and standing tables, the bar buzzing with more bodies than expected for a Thursday afternoon.
A bulky man dressed in all leather, with a nose piercing and gauges in his ear, steps forward. “Can I help you?”
I flip my coat open, allowing the glint of my detective’s shield to catch his attention, then let it fall closed again. “I’m here to see Miss O’Donnell.”
“She doesn’t take walk-ins.”
“Very funny.”
He stares at me, not laughing.
“Could you tell her Detective Grayson Holtz is here to see her. It’s about Finn.”
The man’s eyebrows raise. “What’d you do? Pick him up for driving too slow?” He chuckles, and my brow furrows. She didn’t tell this man Finn is dead. Interesting. “Give me a second,” hesays, before he wanders past the bar and toward a hallway in the back.
I look around, savoring the rich smell of hearty stew drifting from the kitchen. My stomach twists, churning the early morning burned coffee in protest of being the only thing I’ve fed it. Thyme, rosemary, sweet onion—hell, I’m about to sit at the bar and order some when the man comes back out.
“She’ll see you.”
I follow him toward an employee-only area and down the hallway to an office. The door is open, and Aoife’s blonde hair is piled on top of her head, pieces falling every which way. She looks to be in workout clothes, leggings and a tank top, and there’s a sheen to her skin I work to avoid dwelling on.
