by Sam Burns
He’d gone into business because it was expected of him, and when things had gotten ugly, he’d run for the hills. Because he was the boss’ son, he’d gotten away with it. He’d opened a bar in a nice part of Old Town, and neither he nor the bar seemed to have any connection to the Quinn family business—hence Jon being sent to do the interview on his own. They didn’t think Keegan Quinn was important, so they didn’t need to send someone with him.
He tried to stifle the sigh that brought on. Just once, he wanted to be the scary guy sent as muscle for someone else’s interview. Being the good cop got old.
He almost hoped there would be trouble. He’d gone through the training exactly like everyone else, dammit. He was as dangerous as every other agent. But because he dressed nicely, used his hands while talking, and spoke in a certain tone, he was dismissed as a pushover. Well, he was not going to be pushed over by Keegan Quinn.
He paused for a moment in front of Wilde’s to straighten his coat and tie, then pushed the door open and marched in, standing as straight as he could and trying not to look nervous.
A cute blonde girl at the hostess stand gave him a smile. “Just one this afternoon?”
“Actually, miss, I’m here to see Keegan Quinn. Is he in?” he asked, using his best FBI-guy voice.
Her eyes went a little wide and her gaze slipped toward a hallway to one side of the main dining area. “Um, I’m not sure. May I ask who’s inquiring?”
It wasn’t an unusual response, even for someone who was a completely law-abiding citizen. Being put on the spot made people nervous. He pulled back the bottom corner of his jacket without unbuttoning it, enough to show her the badge attached to his belt.
She sucked her bottom lip between her teeth, and her nervous look intensified. “And your name, Agent?”
“Brookfield,” he answered. “He doesn’t know me, and he’s not expecting me.”
She gave a small smile, and no one was reassured by it. “Let me check if he’s in his office.” Her shoulders were slumped as she walked toward the hallway, head bowed. She was worried about her boss. Score one for Quinn, then, if he had such loyal employees.
Of course, employees of the Quinn family tended to be loyal. That, or dead.
She came back a moment later looking peppier, which was confusing. He quirked an eyebrow at her, and she shook her head. “Sorry, Agent Brookfield, he’s not in his office. He must have left for the—” she broke off mid-sentence, her face falling as her eyes focused on something behind Jon.
“Someone to see me, Brigit?” came the voice from behind Jon. The sound of it practically slid down his spine. Deep, smooth, and amused, with a hint of Chicago around the edges.
She sighed and nodded dejectedly. “Yeah. Agent Brookfield.” She waved an unenthusiastic hand at Jon, and looked like she’d offered the man a plate of week-old leftovers.
Jon fought to not take offense, but it was a little hard. He turned, pasting a smile on his face and holding out his hand to shake. It faltered when he got his first look at Keegan Quinn in the flesh. His mugshot had been a horrible, filthy lie. He’d looked decent in it, but nothing like the man in front of Jon—a GQ model, complete with the artistic stubble, piercing eyes, and Armani suit.
Keegan Quinn returned Jon’s smile with one of his own. It was slow, but not hesitant. Amused, really. He took Jon’s hand and shook it, so slowly that it seemed more intimate than the gesture should have. “Agent Brookfield. The FBI? I had wondered when you would get around to me.” He looked around for a moment, then raised an eyebrow at Jon. “What, I don’t even rate two agents?”
“Apparently not,” Jon answered, offering his most confident smile. “They thought I could handle you myself.”
There was an odd, strangled noise from the right, and when Jon looked, the girl was clutching a stack of menus to her chest, looking dumbstruck.
“Down, Brigit,” Quinn cautioned, but his voice still hid a laugh behind it. Then he turned back to Jon. “You want a table or my office, Agent Brookfield?”
Jon wasn’t sure what to say to that. Between Quinn’s unexpected perfection and the girl’s strange attitude, he felt completely off kilter. He hadn’t been so wrong-footed in an interview since his first days out of the academy. Shaking his head, he took a deep breath and answered. “Your office, I think. Quieter. Less chance of interruption.”
The girl sighed, and Quinn shot her a meaningful look. “Brigit.” His tone finally had a note of warning in it that concerned Jon.
“I’ll make sure no one interrupts you, Key,” she told him. “You guys want anything? Some lunch? A bottle of wine?”
Jon turned to look at her, incredulous. “What?”
She didn’t seem to think the suggestion was in the least out of place. “You know, in case—”
“That’s enough of that,” Quinn said, and stepped between them. He motioned for Jon to precede him into the hallway.
Normally Jon would have balked at the idea, but Quinn had showed no reticence to be interviewed, and didn’t seem the least bit bothered by the presence of an FBI agent, so he went along with it. It was a stupid, rookie mistake that might have gotten him killed under other circumstances. A smart agent didn’t allow themselves to become so affected when trying to conduct interviews.
Once they got into the hallway Quinn took the lead, and Jon relaxed. “Sorry,” the man told him. “But Brigit was getting that look in her eye.”
“That look?” Jon asked. He had formed a fair idea of what they were talking about, but it seemed too ridiculous.
Quinn turned back to him and raised an eyebrow. “You know the look.” He raised his voice an octave and injected excitement into it. “Oh my god, you’re gay? I have a gay friend! You should date!”
Jon tried not to laugh, but failed. It was too much. “She does know I came here to interview you about an ongoing FBI investigation—”
“Into my father, yeah, I’m sure she has a clue. She knows who my father is, she knew you were an agent, and she’s not a complete idiot.” Quinn stopped to think about it, cocking his head to one side. “Well, not usually. When she thinks she might get me to go on a date, that changes pretty fast.”
“I’m not sure if that’s sweet, or horrible,” Jon said. He frowned at the familiarity between them. He was already way off track, and he hadn’t even started yet.
“Both,” Quinn said. “It’s sweet because she means well, but it never turns out too good for me. You want some water?” He walked over to a small refrigerator set up in the corner and flipped it open, revealing neat rows of plastic bottles.
“Sure, that sounds good.” He sat down and tried to focus. He couldn’t figure out why he was so off his game. Keegan Quinn was attractive, sure, but it wasn’t like Jon had never met an attractive criminal in his work. It was probably the girl’s idea about them drinking wine and doing god only knew what else.
Quinn seemed to know Jon was feeling off too. “We’re not what you expected.”
“No,” Jon agreed. “I don’t know what I expected, but a girl sidekick who tried to set you up with me wasn’t it.”
Quinn came back with two bottles of water clasped between the fingers of one hand. He held the hand out to Jon, letting him choose one for himself. “No one expects Brigit.” He motioned toward the chairs that faced his desk. “Or the comfy chairs, come to think of it.”
Again, Jon failed to stifle his laugh. He was in so much trouble. The smart move was to go back to the office and tell Jones he couldn’t do the interview. The way things were going, he could miss something important and set the investigation back.
“Can I be honest with you, Agent Brookfield?” Quinn asked, surprisingly serious all of the sudden.
“I’d prefer it, Mr. Quinn,” Jon answered automatically. It was a question he got often, and he always answered it the same way.
“Keegan, please. No one calls me Mr. Quinn anymore.”
That was interesting. “Keegan, then,” Jon agreed.
“You guys aren’t gonna find what you’re looking for,” Keegan told him bluntly. “I know what you’re doing, and I know why, but it’s not gonna change anything.”
Jon’s lips pursed, and he raised an eyebrow. “Is that right?”
“Nah, don’t give me mister-FBI face now. I thought we were gonna have a real conversation?” Keegan asked, sitting back in his chair. He looked tired, and more than a little bit sad.
“Okay, why not then?” Jon asked him.
Keegan shrugged. “You think Patty’s confession changed something, or meant something had already changed. I can tell you now, nothing in my dad’s life has changed, other than that his best friend turned himself in to the cops.”
“So, what, O’Hanrahan had an attack of conscience?” Jon asked dubiously. No one believed that Patrick O’Hanrahan even had a conscience.
Keegan shook his head, a wistful half smile on his lips. “I’m sure he didn’t. But your logic is wrong. The FBI thinks weakness in Uncle Pat is weakness in the family. It isn’t.”
Jon thought he understood Keegan’s point. It was an angle the department was considering, but it seemed so far-fetched that they’d mostly dismissed it. “O’Hanrahan was in trouble with your people. He was getting out of the way. But your father could have him killed in prison just as easily, couldn’t he?”
Keegan gave him an amused smirk. “If my father were able to do things like that, then yeah. But Uncle Pat is his best friend. He would never hurt him. No matter what he did to get himself tossed in jail.”
Everything fell into place. O’Hanrahan had crossed Quinn, and prison was the boss’ way of getting rid of him without having to kill his friend. And Keegan was right. Nothing had changed in the family, and the investigation was going to turn up what it always did, unless another angle cracked open.
Jon let his head fall back, and let out a deep breath.
“For what it’s worth, Agent Brookfield, I’m sorry about how much this sucks for you guys.” Keegan offered.
Slumping against the back of the chair, which really was as comfy as it looked, Jon gave Keegan Quinn a long look. “But not sympathetic enough to help us out, right?”
Keegan slid his water bottle back and forth on his desk, looking hard at Jon. “You actually asking me to turn on my own dad, or you just frustrated?”
Jon slipped down a few inches into the chair. “You already know the answer to that, because I already know the answer to my question. Can I ask, though?”
“Ask what?” Keegan asked.
“Why?” Jon said. “You seem like a nice guy. You’ve gotten out, started an honest business that seems to be doing pretty well. Why would you defend a business that hurts people?”
“I wouldn’t,” Keegan answered as soon as the last word left Jon’s mouth. “I think someone ought to crack down on the drugs, and guns, and things that are hurting the people in Chicago. But if you’re asking me why I would defend my dad, well, that question kinda answers itself, doesn’t it?”
Jon nodded. “I wouldn’t turn my dad in.”
“Not even if he was Brendan Quinn?” Keegan asked, looking apologetic and sad.
Jon didn’t even have to think about it. “Not even if he was Brendan Quinn.”
“So, you’ve got questions you need to ask me?” Snatching the bottle of water up with his left hand, Keegan twisted the cap off with his right and tossed it into the trash can on the opposite side of the room. It was an impressive feat of dexterity, so much so that Jon almost missed the stiff way the man’s left hand gripped the bottle. A well-practiced maneuver, that.
Jon sat back up and nodded. “Yes. I have a standard list that I’m sure you’ll be familiar with.”
Keegan took a swig of his water and sat back in his chair, looking comfortable in a practiced way. Every line of his body said that he was at ease. It was either a calculated act, or Keegan Quinn wasn’t even slightly concerned about Jon’s questions. Jon suspected it might be both.
After running through a list of standard questions that Keegan deflected or answered easily, he hung up on the simplest one of all.
“When was the last time you saw your father?” Jon asked, and Keegan flinched.
The room was quiet for a long moment while Keegan stared at his desk. “Two days ago.”
Jon was shocked. For some reason, he’d believed that Keegan leaving the business meant Keegan leaving his family. In retrospect, it was a stupid thought. “And where was that?”
“His home,” Keegan answered quietly. “I went to see him at his house.”
As much as it made him feel like an ass, he had to ask. “And that was regarding?”
Keegan’s eyes flashed with anger, and he bent forward. His palms hit the desk. “Me being his son, dammit. Not everything in his life is about business. I went to see my father. Is that not allowed?” Jon put his hands up in front of him, and Keegan threw himself back in his chair so hard that it scooted back a few inches. “I’m sorry. I—”
“No, I’m sorry,” Jon interrupted. “You’re right. Your relationship with your father is none of my business.”
“But it’s your job to ask,” Keegan said, waving a hand dismissively. “He’s sick. I’m worried. It’s making me act like an ass.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Jon said by rote, then flinched. How many times had he wished ill on Brendan Quinn, and now he was saying he was sorry the man was sick? He felt like a hypocrite.
“It’s okay,” Keegan said, a wry grin taking over his face. “I know nobody in the FBI is gonna be too sad about it if it’s serious.”
Jon took a moment to consider that, and then nodded. “That’s true. But it doesn’t change the fact that I’m sorry it makes you unhappy.”
Keegan quirked an eyebrow at him, and leaned forward, arms on his desk. “That right?”
“Yes?” Jon asked more than answered.
“That’s pretty sweet, Agent Brookfield. Maybe you oughta be careful about that, or I’ll start thinking Brigit’s right, and I should ask you out.”
Jon felt his mouth fall open. The thought of Keegan Quinn asking him out on a date was—it was unthinkable. Dating Brendan Quinn’s son breached every code of ethics on the planet, no matter how far away from the family business he was. No matter how damned pretty he was.
“I, uh, I have to—to go,” Jon said, fumbling even the words necessary to escape. “I’ll have to come back and finish this another time.” Another time? He cringed inwardly at the words. The last thing he needed was to come back and talk to the beautiful, distracting, wicked Keegan Quinn again.
Keegan gave him a placid smile and nodded. “See you another time then, Agent Brookfield.”
Jon hardly even noticed the blonde girl watching him as he hurried out.
#
Jon didn’t go back to the office. He didn’t really want to face Currey, Jones, or anyone else right then. They were great coworkers, but they wouldn’t let him hear the end of it if he went back looking shaken by a boring family interview.
Keegan Quinn had flirted with him, and he had so badly wanted to flirt back. He hadn’t realized that until after he left. He thought he was just flustered, horrified, or maybe a little annoyed. But the truth was that a beautiful man flirted with him, and he’d wanted to flirt back.
So instead of going to the office, he called in a half day and then went to his parents’ place down in Hyde Park. His family would be more sympathetic.
Maybe it was strange for a grown man to be closer to his family than friends, but he worked so much that he hardly had time for friends. It was easier to go complain to his mother or father, since they were always willing to make time for him. It helped that they already knew him, so he didn’t have to go through the whole process of figuring out people well enough to make close friends.
When he arrived, his older brother’s car was in the driveway. It seemed that Jon hadn’t been the only one in need of some parental wisdom.
He cut around behind the h
ouse straight to the kitchen, letting himself in the back door. Sure enough, his dad and Miles were making cookies. The whole kitchen smelled of warm chocolate, which was comforting all by itself.
“That bad?” he asked the two of them.
Miles sighed, scooped a finger of raw cookie dough out of the bowl and stuffed it in his mouth. He looked more unkempt than usual, wearing his sweats and a ratty t-shirt, with his long hair flopping into his eyes. If they hadn’t looked so much alike, with their golden brown hair and blue eyes, it would have been hard for Jon to believe Miles was his brother.
“Leigh sent him a wedding invitation,” his dad said, looking unimpressed.
Jon furrowed his brow. “Why?”
“Because she’s a vindictive, unpleasant person,” his dad said cheerily. “And I, for one, am glad I won’t have to call her my daughter-in-law.”
Considering the fact that the woman had taken a baseball bat to Miles’ computer when they broke up, Jon had to agree. He hadn’t liked her much when she and Miles had been dating. Most of the family hadn’t liked her, actually. Miles had, though, so they’d kept their noses out of it.
“So you’re unhappy that you’re not marrying her?” He gave his brother a dubious look.
Miles cringed. “Oh god, no. I just—” he broke off, sighed, then sat on a stool at the island counter. “This sounds so stupid when I say it out loud, but it feels like my crazy ex-girlfriend is more lovable than me.”
Laughing, Jon patted his brother on the back. Then he unbuttoned his jacket and abandoned it on the stool beside Miles’. “No, she’s not. She spent all of her free time looking for a husband. You work, like, sixty hours a week instead.”
“I know that. Kind of.” Miles reached for the cookie dough again, but their dad pulled the wooden spoon out of it and smacked him on the back of the hand. “No eating raw eggs. You’ll get salmonella. And I swear to god, Miles, if you start telling me about the statistical likelihood of contracting salmonella from raw eggs, I’ll whack you even harder.”