by Sam Burns
A trial, four reconstructive surgeries, and years of physical therapy later, and he could move his left arm—slowly, but he could move it. If a person didn’t know about it, or they weren’t paying close attention to him, they wouldn’t even know the difference. That meant the only people who knew the extent of the problem were Keegan’s father, Brigit, and his old friend Mickey Martin. Mick was the guy who had been there every day, had driven him to and from doctor and physical therapy appointments, and then, once he’d talked Keegan into it, actual therapy appointments.
Mickey had gotten used to the hospital when his mother was wasting away from cancer, and he knew what illness did to people. Therapy had helped his ma, he said, so it would help Keegan too.
More than any surgery or physical therapy, it had.
Keegan was still sure he was responsible for that boy’s death. He could still picture that innocent face, the school picture with the gap-toothed grin that had been splashed all over the news. But some days he could almost see that he wasn’t the only one with innocent blood on his hands. That maybe it wouldn’t have helped anything for him to go to prison. Maybe, just maybe, Keegan wasn’t a child killer.
Kid-Killer Quinn.
There were few things in the world he hated more than the moniker the press had stuck him with.
He still heard it in his nightmares.
So yeah, the house he grew up in wasn’t Keegan’s favorite place to be. For his father, though, he’d go anywhere—the house, prison, even the playground where that boy had died because he’d had the misfortune to cross paths with Keegan Quinn.
He shuddered at the thought and tried to shake it off as he walked into the house.
Wilkes, the butler, was shocked to see him. “Sir, how are you this afternoon? Is your father expecting you? He didn’t tell us to—”
Keegan waved the man off. “Nah, he’s not expecting me. Don’t worry about it, I know where to find him.”
Wilkes nodded. He had no qualms about giving Keegan the run of the house. He’d been working for the Quinn family for nearly twenty years. Keegan headed straight for his father’s office.
The room was like something out of a regency novel: all ornate wooden shelves full of first edition literature—none of which had likely been touched since Keegan had read Robinson Crusoe to Owen as a bedtime story—wood and red-leather seating with decorative brass rivets, and a giant, intimidating desk in the middle.
Keegan was probably the only one who knew the truth about that desk—his dad didn’t keep a damn thing of importance inside it. He just kept it to look impressive, but he’d told Keegan once, “It’s the first place the feds would look, isn’t it? You can’t go keeping your important documents in the easy spot. If they’re going to go through the trouble of looking, you’ve got to go through the trouble of making it hard for them.”
Even Keegan had never known where his father kept the important documents. He wondered if anyone did.
Brendan looked up when he walked in, a half-smile crossing his face. “Keegan, m’boy, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
Usually, he looked just as imposing as the room, with a cocksure attitude and smug grin to match his ridiculously expensive suit. Today, he looked tired.
They both knew that it wasn’t an ordinary social call. Keegan didn’t come to the house unless he had to. He hadn’t been able to go back to his previous life after the accident, and his father understood that, even if he didn’t like it.
He took a moment to gather his thoughts before speaking, so his father filled the void.
“Is it the FBI? Are they harassing you?” His father gave a gusty sigh and flung his feet up onto the surface of the desk. “A damn pain in the ass is what they are. Seem to think that Patty going to jail is going to get them somewhere in this town.”
Keegan shrugged at that. They should have been right. The previous December, his father’s oldest friend in the world, Patrick O’Hanrahan, had tried his hand at a coup and failed. Brendan, out of love and loyalty for the man he’d once called brother, had allowed Pat to turn himself in, as long as he only implicated himself and went to jail for the rest of his life. The FBI hadn’t seemed to understand the confession and had opened a full investigation into the family, for all the good it was doing them.
“Tempting to have the old bastard killed on the inside just for the inconvenience,” Brendan said, but Keegan knew his heart wasn’t in it. Even if Uncle Pat had tried to kill him, to Brendan, Pat was still his best friend. Brendan Quinn was loyal, even when that loyalty wasn’t deserved.
“It’s not the feebs, Dad. They haven’t even talked to me,” Keegan told him, trying to nip the conversation in the bud.
Brendan looked up at him, surprised. “What, not at all? They’ve been here a dozen times, like it’s their mission in life to make me miserable, and they haven’t talked to my oldest son even once?” The astonishment made his slight Irish brogue thicker than usual, something that had never failed to make Keegan smile.
“I’m so far away from the business even they know I’m out, Dad.” He hated to put it that way, because Keegan knew that his unwillingness to come back had hurt his father. He could see the disappointment in the old man’s eyes every time they spoke of it.
Brendan let his feet drop from the desk and leaned toward Keegan, giving a raspy little cough at the sharp motion. “What, then? If the feds aren’t bothering you, what could be so dire as to bring you to the house you grew up in?”
Keegan flinched back at the callous words. “Dad,” he started, but Brendan cut him off with a wave.
“I know, I know. This isn’t a home for anyone. That crackerbox you live in is homier than this palace will ever be.” The words were meant to be sarcastic, to point out how ridiculous the idea was, but his father’s tone betrayed something else. Something softer.
“Right,” Keegan said. His penthouse wasn’t a crackerbox, and was more of a home to him than the sprawling monstrosity where he’d grown up. “I’m here because I’ve been hearing things I thought I needed to talk to you about.”
Brendan’s eyes narrowed. “Your brother’s been talking again, has he? It’s a good thing he’s planning on joining the law and not us. We’d be dead inside a week, the way he can’t keep a damn thing to himself.”
“Is there something he should have kept to himself?” Keegan asked, carefully keeping his voice neutral.
“Oh, stop it,” his father said, and gave another cough, this time longer. They looked at each other for a long moment, and Brendan looked away first, dropping his hand to his lap and clenching it there. “The two of you are as bad as a wife. You know what I’m talking about, and your brother needs to keep his concerns to himself.”
“You don’t look like you feel good, Dad,” Keegan said softly. “That cough sounds terrible.”
“I’ve got a bloody cold, so what?” He made to stand but then didn’t, just sinking into his desk chair, still clenching his fist, and refusing to look at his son.
As always, Keegan tried to ease his father into accepting the obvious. “It’s April. Kind of an odd time for it.”
Brendan waved a dismissive hand. “I get sick when the weather changes. I’m old, it happens.”
Keegan sighed and rolled his neck, trying to relieve the tension gathering there. “I love you, Dad, but you’re the most stubborn asshole ever born.”
“Damn right I am,” his father agreed, and he looked happy about it. “I’m fine, I tell you. I’d know if I were sick, and it’s just a damned cold. So leave it. You and your brother are what’s going to be the death of me, not a little cough.”
Keegan gave him a wry smile. “I hope so, Dad. I really do.”
He hadn’t worked for his father in five long years, and they had argued constantly even then, but there wasn’t a person in the world Keegan loved more. He wasn’t sure there ever would be.
“Back to your restaurant with you, then.” Brendan started to wave him off, but then turned a sharp, cal
culating eye on him instead. “Maybe you’ll stay for dinner, though? For your old da’s sake?”
“Sure, Dad, I can do that.” He’d already driven all the way to the house, he figured he might as well stick around for dinner. It gave him a chance to check things out for himself. And as loathe as he was to admit it, part of him wanted to stay. Part of him wished he hadn’t ever left. Part of him would still do anything his father asked of him.
Brendan gave him a wide smile, interrupted only by the ringing of his cell phone at his side. He frowned down at it, looking at his watch and then back at the phone. Instinct told Keegan to find out what was going on and offer to help. That was why he had moved out of the house. He couldn’t be out of the business and live with his father. He didn’t know how Owen did it.
Keegan stood and headed for the door. Stopping for a moment to grip the frame with his good hand, he turned and nodded to his father. “I’m gonna go up and talk to Owen for a few, see how school is going.”
They shared one last look before he left, and he heard his father’s gruff voice trailing after him as he headed up the stairs. “Why are you calling me early?” he asked, sounding annoyed.
That was Brendan Quinn. There was only one way to work with him—always follow the rules, always go by the timetable, and if you’ve done something wrong, don’t call him begging for help unless you want a lecture on how stupid you’ve been. He supposed the lectures were reserved for his sons, though, and his employees were prone to end up with worse repercussions.
He found his brother’s room and looked in on him, leaning into the doorway. Owen looked hopeful, and Keegan gave him a sad smile and shake of his head.
While their father was determined to say that nothing was wrong, they all knew it was a lie. If only the stubborn old Irishman’s insistence could make it so, everyone would be a lot better off.
The real problem was that Keegan couldn’t do much about his father being sick, and they all knew it.
CHAPTER TWO
Jon Is in Over His Head
Everything about Jon’s Monday was a surprise.
He had been thrilled to be assigned to the Quinn investigation weeks earlier, despite the fact that he was mostly doing nonessential interviews. Quinn’s second cousin James in California had been especially helpful, what with having only met the man once in his life. The thing was, Jon believed in the case. Brendan Quinn was a blight on Chicago, and putting the man in prison would be a public service of the highest order. He had his hands in drugs, gambling, prostitution, and racketeering all over the city and its suburbs.
When the next name on Jon’s list was another Quinn family member, he was relieved to see that they lived in Chicago and he wouldn’t have to fly somewhere to have a pointless conversation. When he opened the file, though, he almost dropped it. Half a minute later, he was knocking on his superior’s door.
“Agent Jones?” he asked.
She looked up from her desk, where she was frowning sleepily at a cup of the office’s burnt coffee. Her appearance was as professional as always, sharp-lined yellow suit a perfect contrast to her mahogany skin, but her eyes were red with what he assumed was a lack of sleep. He couldn’t imagine Jones ever being hung over. “Brookfield?”
“I, um, I think there’s been a mistake,” he told her, and held out the file. “I don’t think this was meant for me.”
It was the truth, but damn, did it hurt. Jon was an out and proud gay man in the FBI, and the bureau didn’t have a problem with that. The problem was that he wasn’t one of those guys with biceps the size of a normal person’s thighs, who had a deep voice and easily passed for straight. Jonathan Brookfield was one of those guys that everyone knew was gay. He had a leanly muscled swimmer’s physique, not the bulk of a body builder. It meant that being taken seriously by hardened criminals was a challenge sometimes, and it was a challenge that the FBI wasn’t always willing to take a chance on.
That non-threatening vibe he gave off had benefits too, in that most people found him charming and easy to talk to. So Jon was assigned the fluff interviews like the second cousin in Redding. No one was going to assign him to interview Brendan Quinn’s older son, who had a file full of criminal charges. They certainly wouldn’t assign him to go to the guy’s place of business and interview him alone.
She lifted her head, squinted across the room to read the name on the file, then looked at her computer screen. “Quinn, Keegan. Twenty-nine years old, owner of Wilde’s, a bar in Old Town.”
Jon scowled. Old Town. Surely they weren’t playing into some stupid stereotype that all gay men hung out in one part of town, and so Jon should be sent as a—what, a human sacrifice? Did they think Quinn’s older son was some kind of leather daddy who ate skinny little FBI boys for breakfast?
Oh god, was he?
“Brookfield?” Jones was asking. “Jesus, man, you look like you’re about to toss your cookies. Old Town’s all upscale these days, isn’t it? I’m sure it’s not a biker bar or anything.”
He shook his head, trying to clear the images that inspired. He was going to have nightmares about leather daddies and biker bars that night for sure.
“Right,” he agreed. “It’s a Quinn establishment, so they probably only sell coke out of the back. No roving biker gangs.”
She laughed at that, but then gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Probably. But you’re not going to bust up their drug sales. All you have to do is ask the guy about his father.”
“And you don’t think I should bring backup for that?” he asked, waving the file. “The guy is Brendan Quinn’s son. He’s probably, like, his second-in-command or something. You actually want me to go down there and ask him questions by myself?”
For a moment, she seemed to consider that. “I don’t remember seeing anything important on Quinn’s sons in the files,” she mumbled, searching through the mess on her desk. “You know, I don’t think either of them are in the family business.”
That was odd. “Neither of them?”
Jones snatched up a file and waved it triumphantly. Then she ripped it open and started scanning the pages. “Here it is. Keegan Quinn. Killed some kid down in Englewood a couple years back, and I guess it shook him up enough to get him out of the business.”
Jon stared at her for a long moment, not blinking. “He murdered someone? Why isn’t he in prison?”
“Because his father has more money than god, Brookfield. Hired some slick lawyer and got him off. You know how this stuff works.” She slapped the file shut and yawned. “Gah, I hate Mondays.” She looked back up at him, apparently confused. “What? Do you need an invitation? We don’t think he’s a material witness to anything, we just need you to go confirm it. So, you know, go confirm.”
He turned, mechanically, and walked back to his desk.
“You look shattered,” an amused voice came from the desk across from his. “Jones take away your travel papers?” Agent Maxwell Currey, another member of Jon’s work group, was leaning back in his chair looking amused.
“No, she beat me up and stole my lunch money,” Jon told him, rolling his eyes. “Do you know anything about Quinn’s kids?”
Max gave a chuckle at that, a grin spreading across his face. “Seriously, man, how’s that for karma being a bitch?” When Jon gave him a blank look, Max continued. “Neither of them willing to touch his business with a ten-foot pole? One’s been asking about joining the bureau, and the other is like, a bartender or something.”
“Not a murderer?” Jon asked, turning his computer on and watching the loading screen with less patience than usual.
“What?” Max asked. “Oh, you mean that thing with the kid.”
Jon’s eyes skidded back to Max. “Yes, that. He killed a child?”
“Nah,” Max said, shaking his head and scrunching up his nose. “I mean, that trial was some ugly stuff. You grew up in Chicago, didn’t you? It was, like, six years ago. Didn’t you see it on the news?”
“I was at Quantico six years a
go,” Jon reminded him.
Max thought for a moment before nodding. “Be glad you missed it, man. It was a mess. The locals really screwed the pooch on that one. Grabbed Quinn for it because he was the only guy they found on the scene. Only, he was there ‘cause he’d been shot too. His lawyer made a big thing of it, the cops blaming a victim of the shooting ‘cause they couldn’t be bothered to go find the ‘real perpetrator’ and all that.”
Jon’s racing heart started to slow. They weren’t sending him into the lair of some kind of monster without any backup. Keegan Quinn was an ex-gangster who got shot and got out. That wasn’t so bad.
“You okay, man?” Max asked.
Jon looked up at him and smiled, even if it was a touch strained. “Yeah. I’m good. I’ve got an interview.”
He gathered the files he’d need to take with him, and took a few minutes to do some research on Quinn before he left. There wasn’t much to find. Quinn didn’t have any personal social media accounts, and he’d been conspicuous in his absence from the news since the shooting. There was the arrest report, which was nothing new, and the mugshot, a picture of a man who looked as world-weary as anyone Jon had ever seen.
Finally, he stood and grabbed his briefcase, inclining his head to Max.
“Good luck,” Max said with a wicked smile. “I hear Quinn’s sons are both gay too, you know.”
Jon didn’t even try to hide his eye roll from the other man. “Great. I’ll remember to give him the secret handshake.”
#
He didn’t call ahead to ask about Quinn’s whereabouts, or warn that he was coming. That kind of consideration often led to mysteriously vacationing interviewees, and he really didn’t need the hassle. The file and a quick—okay, extensive—online search told Jon everything he thought he needed to know about Keegan Quinn.