I hiss at him, not using words to correct him, and in a moment of clarity, his eyes flare, and his scent drops in realization. I get a mumbled thanks, and then, together, we work to trolley, then carry the first two in.
As we get the third one on the trolley, a sensation like a pinch in my stomach has my awareness projecting like a thrown net into the darkness.
“Someone’s here, Walsh,” I whisper under my breath, keeping my body as relaxed as I can.
“They’ll wait till we’re gone, it’s how we do it. Don’t be stressing now, lass.” He laughs haughtily. Clearly, his drugs are starting to wear off, and I’m left staring at his back after he storms off.
Of course, I’m chasing after him in the next moment.
I’m not sure which version of Walsh I like most. Actually, I do. None of them. He's one of those people who constantly grates on my nerves, but I can’t pass up the opportunity of being around him. Using him to get to the bottom of who’s taking children. And where the fuck Oscar is. And discovering who’s responsible for the increasingly noisy coup to overthrow the O’Connors which might just be the O’Connors themselves. It wouldn’t be the first time in history the discontent and trouble is actually from within.
Joe’s sage advice that one day I’ll discover my own reasons pushing me to chase down Oscar, as opposed to hiding behind the promise I made to Mom, seems fitting to each of those reasons I’m babysitting Walsh. The O’Connors are edging ahead of my career objectives because they are my scent-matched pack. Although those supposedly infallible bonds we share are no doubt going to be tested after Rafferty’s heat when I try to explain all this. Thinking of them, my mother’s final words, and Joe are the reminders I need to pull my head out of tomorrow's issues to focus on what’s currently happening around me.
Which is pretty freaking important. Walsh is completely unaware, but there’s a subtle but noticeable difference in the air. We were only gone a few minutes, but it feels like we’ve stumbled into an alternate universe. My awareness blazes to life, drowning out the white noise in my head.
The way the lift operates means our backs are to the open space at both the top and bottom levels. It leaves us completely vulnerable, and all the hairs on the back of my neck are standing up.
I really should have grabbed my gun. It’s a haunting thought.
Walsh is too hyped on this being our last trip through the dark pub and down to the cellar again to notice anything. He doesn’t even pick up we’re not alone until he’s walking backwards out of the lift with the trolley in his hands.
“Walsh,” I hiss, trying to warn him.
Whether he stumbles or realizes is lost under the sound of him dropping the trolley and the keg. It’s deafening, like a sonic boom, because of the small space. With the sound ringing in my ears like a warning, I tumble out of the confined lift area and bounce into Walsh.
“Jesus. Fuck. Mary and Joseph. I swear I didn’t do that, Tally. The cellar was empty.”
“Ssh.” Panicking isn’t going to help us.
We’re trapped in the world’s smallest space, with a dead mafia man at our feet. Not a great place to be, no matter the shoes you wear.
I can see very clearly that Arthur Kelly, Paddy O’Connor’s second-in-command, is no longer with us, despite him staring right at me. The front of his white shirt is stained with his blood. The deep, long cut on his throat ensures nearly every ounce of his blood is now soaked into his expensive clothes, changing the deep navy material to a saturated plum color.
“Walsh, is Arthur your contact?”
His words dry up as his mouth opens and shuts like a fish gasping for air as his shock takes hold. Then, to make the whole situation infinitely worse, his only response is to empty his baggie into the palm of his hand and snort the pile of powder. I lose what little patience I had with Walsh, and my mask drops.
“You fucking useless piece of shit. Go wait in the truck.” I shove at him, making him stumble into the service lift.
No chance of losing my cool any more than I already have, I risk my arm getting caught in the lift door to slam on the up button, getting him the hell away from me.
With more room and less distraction, I start assessing the scene. The lack of blood at his feet means Arthur was killed elsewhere. I touch a hand to check for a pulse, finding that his skin is rapidly cooling, but he’s not cold, indicating he was alive not that long ago. Making a call to the local Garda isn’t something I want to do, but in the scheme of things, it’s the expected civilian’s reaction. When I dial 999, the lack of ring tone is a sure sign the old pub we’re in is surrounded by stone. The foundation makes it cold but also provides an impenetrable shield, a dead zone for mobile phones.
It’s going to be impossible to distract Walsh for the time it takes to search the scene. Instead, I leave it to the professionals but take photos of anything that piques an interest. There’s notmuch, and the jump I make to the scene being staged isn’t a difficult one. The fact there is so little contamination, though, is a sign we’re not talking bumbling idiots, either. But what worries me more than that is why they haven’t acted yet. Why set up a murder so Walsh sees, then whoever set it up not do anything about it?
I take a photo of Arthur, focusing on the position of his body, the placement of his limbs. Then I move down to his hands, taking photographic evidence there aren’t any defensive wounds before I take a series of shots of the room, including the lack of entrances and exits.
Calling down for the cellar lift, I move my investigation into what I can see. Again, the sheer lack of evidence inside the lift is a tale of the sinister foresight and planning that went into taking out one of Paddy O’Connor’s main men.
Coming here tonight, I really thought the meet would be with Oscar. I never, for a second, considered it would be a Kelly. If anything, I had the Kellys as being the instigators, with Oscar being a decoy or something, but now I have more questions than answers. Including, are the O’Connors really locked in their apartment with their Omega in heat, or is that going to be the biggest shock still to come?
Walsh is at the truck, his head back against one of the front tires, leaning back. From a distance, I think he’s succumbed to the stress of the night, completely defeated, and when I’m close enough, I see the blood.
“God’s sakes,” I mutter, reaching into the cab to find something for him to hold against his nose. The blood is pouring from it. As if I haven’t seen and smelled enough blood to last me a lifetime.
“Mustn’t have been cut up enough. Cheap gear,” he explains, his eyes more glazed than ever, his breathing equally erratic.
“Stellar.” The snarl of my frustration is impossible to hide, though he’s also so far gone, I doubt he’s coherent to much going on.
