by Zara Keane
Her father shoved his chair back and stood, breathing heavily. “I’m delighted to see you, love, but if locking up Kevin is your reason for coming home, you should leave.”
His words cut her like a lash. “Dad, please…”
But Big Mike was gone. He didn’t slam the back door behind him as she would have done had their roles been reversed—that wasn’t his style. Instead, he’d retreat outside to his beloved greyhounds and put the entire ugly conversation out of his mind.
With shaking hands, Ruthie placed her mug on the table. Getting through to her father was impossible. Even if she stayed home for months, he’d never force Kevin into psychiatric care. And if he knew about Kevin’s debt to the Kowalskis, he’d get into a fight he couldn’t win.
Big Mike was a turf accountant and moneylender of dubious legality, but the loans he gave out were on the small side. There was no way he could afford to pay back the kind of debts Kevin had accumulated. Confiding in Dad would accomplish nothing except run the risk of him losing his temper and going after Adam and Reuben Kowalski to fight a war he couldn’t win. In the hierarchy of Dublin’s criminals, they were several tiers above Big Mike and could counter her father’s hired thugs with a veritable army of their own.
Ruthie massaged her aching temples and finished loading the dishwasher. A painkiller would take the edge off her headache. She’d just slipped her hand into her bag to get a Tylenol when her phone rang. At the sight of the Unknown Caller message flashing on the display, she tasted bile. She knew only too well who it would be. With frozen fingers, she hit Connect. “Hello?”
“Ms. Reynolds.” The sardonic English drawl made her skin crawl.
She shot a glance through the kitchen door into the backyard where her father was occupied with his dogs. “I have no news, Travers,” she said without preamble. “I’ve established an ‘in’ through one family member, but I’ve yet to learn anything of significance.”
“That’s unfortunate,” Travers said in a voice dipped in sarcasm. “We’d hoped you’d work faster.”
She could picture him sitting behind his enormous mahogany desk, a sneer on his face. During her months of training, she’d grown to loathe the man. “I’ve only been back in Dublin a few days. Worming my way into people’s confidence takes time.”
“Time,” Travers said, “is a luxury we don’t have. I’ll give you two days to give me concrete information.”
He seriously expected her to dig for info on what the Delaneys knew about the attack on The Lucky Leprechaun and produce valuable intel in two days?
“Two days won’t cut it.” She deliberately left out the “sir.” “The Delaneys are a tight-knit bunch and disinclined to confide in people outside their small circle. If I barge in and start asking questions, they’ll clam up.”
“I credit you with more finesse than that,” Travers said in a steel-dipped tone. “I trained you, after all.”
Yes, he had, but why? The entire case intrigued Ruthie. Why was the Jarvis Agency interested in the Delaneys? And in Lar Delaney’s girlfriend, Genevieve McEllroy? Why should an international intelligence agency care about them digging for information about the attack on Frank Delaney’s Boston club five years ago? Unless, of course, they had something to hide.
“Five days,” she countered. “Give me five days to come up with useful information.”
“Seventy-two hours,” Travers said without missing a beat, “and not a second more. I’ll be in touch.”
Before she could haggle further, he disconnected. Prick.
When the agency recruited Ruthie, they’d shown her papers that proved they were an international intelligence agency, affiliated with various nations and empowered to work together for the common good. The papers had looked legit as far as Ruthie could see, and the amount of money they were prepared to pay her was enticing.
During her months of training, both at the agency’s headquarters in Geneva and in the field, she’d seen nothing to indicate they weren’t exactly what they claimed to be—a legitimate, albeit secret, intelligence agency that specialized in matters of international importance. And yet…something was off, a piece of the puzzle that didn’t quite fit. It was nothing she could put her finger on. No snatches of overheard conversation had aroused her suspicions. It was merely a feeling—an ominous undercurrent she could sense but not see. At the point when Travers had approached her with the Delaney assignment and offered her a generous bonus if she were successful, she’d been on the verge of quitting. However, Kevin’s situation made leaving a well-paid job impossible, especially after she’d calculated that the proffered bonus would more than cover the second chunk of Kevin’s debt.
In her hand, the phone vibrated for the second time. Ruthie glared at the Unknown Caller message flashing on the screen. Had Travers decided to dick her around again? Maybe cut the seventy-two hours they’d negotiated back to forty-eight? What a wanker. She hit Connect.
“Ms. Reynolds.” Reuben Kowalski’s heavily accented drawl was unmistakable. Unlike his brother, Reuben had never shed his Warsaw accent, despite years of living in Ireland.
“What do you want?” she asked in a resigned tone. “Have you let my brother run up more debts he can’t afford to repay?”
Reuben’s laugh made the hairs on the nape of her neck stand to attention. “Not exactly. It’s more a dispute over an existing debt.”
Ruthie sighed. “We’ve been through all of this. I told Adam—”
“I have Kevin,” Reuben said, throwing a grenade into the conversation.
“What do you mean?” Her heart hammered against her ribs. “I saw him just a few minutes ago.”
“A few of my men picked him up outside the chip shop and escorted him to a meeting with me.”
Ruthie gritted her teeth. “Where is he?”
“My warehouse,” Reuben said, as if she should know exactly where that was. “And Ms. Reynolds? Bring twelve thousand euros with you if you’d like your brother to keep all of his fingers. You have thirty minutes.”
With these chilling words, Reuben Kowalski cut the call.
Ruthie stared at the phone in her hand. The floor seemed to move beneath her feet. She blinked and dragged oxygen into her lungs. Where was Reuben’s warehouse? And how the hell was she supposed to conjure up twelve thousand euros in less than half an hour?
Outside the window, drizzle soaked the yard. Her father fed the dogs, leaning down to pet each one in turn. Ruthie’s stomach twisted. Asking him for help was out of the question. Which left her only one option: Shane Delaney. His sister was married to Reuben Kowalski. Surely he’d know the location of Reuben and Adam’s warehouses? With a last glance through the rain-splattered window into the yard, Ruthie grabbed her father’s car keys from the kitchen counter and ran.
9
Shane paused in front of the steps of St. Patrick’s Church and stared up at its imposing façade. As a child, the church had terrified him. Its high ceilings and funny smell convinced him horrors lurked in every recess. Before she’d taken off for sunnier climes, his mother had been an avid churchgoer. Not, Shane suspected, out of religious conviction, but more because she liked to be seen. As the wife of one of Kilpatrick’s most notorious residents, an air of infamy had preceded Chantelle Delaney’s every public appearance, and she’d relished in the attention. Unfortunately, Chantelle hadn’t been quite as enthused about the reality of being married to Frank “Mad Dog” Delaney. She’d packed her bags and hit the road during one of the lean years when Frank was doing a five-year stretch in Mountjoy Prison, leaving her children in their aunt Siobhan’s care. Shane had neither seen nor spoken to his mother in over twenty years.
The puppy snuggled against his chest, and Shane stroked him gently. In the few hours since he’d become a pet owner, he’d coaxed the creature to trust him a little, but they still had a long way to go. After Ruthie had dropped them home, Shane had found himself in an empty apartment, save for a new puppy with a penchant for chewing on cables. Max was alre
ady at the airport, but he’d left a bottle of Shane’s favorite German chocolate syrup as a thank-you gift.
After he’d fixed himself a cappuccino liberally laced with chocolate syrup, Shane had gone through the motions of finishing the report he was due to give to Lar by tomorrow. It was for a new client—a wealthy private bank that didn’t want its good name associated with hacking into a rival’s files in search of evidence of insider trading—but Shane found it hard to focus. Two wasted hours later, he’d decided to unburden himself to Malachy. Even if he didn’t tell his uncle everything about the Lar dilemma, a chat over coffee would do him good.
Shane shoved open the heavy door and entered the church. The place was deserted. He made his way to the back of the church and knocked on the sacristy door.
“Come in.”
He opened the door and stepped into the room.
Malachy sat behind his enormous oak desk, surrounded by books. When he looked up and saw Shane, his craggy face split into a smile. “Hello, Shane. What brings you here?”
“I called by your house, and Mrs. Cryan said you were here. I hope you don’t mind me bringing the dog. He howled when I tried to leave him behind, and he’s already wreaked havoc in my apartment.”
“Lar just left,” Malachy said. “He said you’d acquired a dog.”
Shane’s mood plummeted at the mention of his cousin. “I’m sure he added a few choice adjectives to his description. Flash might not be pretty, but he’s a sweet dog.” At these words, the puppy snuggled closer, farted, and began to snore. Both men laughed. “Yeah…like I said, he’s not quite house-trained yet.”
“Take a seat, lad,” his uncle said, gesturing to the armchair across from his desk. “Can I offer you a latte?”
“I’d love one. Do you still have that caramel syrup?”
His uncle smiled. “I do. I bought a new bottle just for you.” A couple of minutes later, Malachy set a tall latte macchiato in front of Shane. “Strong and sweet, just as you like it.”
“Thanks.”
Shane doubted his father remembered he preferred coffee over tea, never mind his preference for strong and sweet. Unlike Uncle Patrick, Lar’s father, Frank hadn’t moved in a mistress or remarried, preferring the freedom that being a separated and then divorced man offered him. With his wife gone, Frank’s tendency to pick on Shane increased. He wasn’t physically abusive, but he took pleasure in belittling his youngest son and comparing him unfavorably with his sporty older brothers. Being bookish wasn’t a trait considered worthy of anything but derision in Frank’s household.
And so Shane sought refuge with his Uncle Malachy, spending as much time with him as he dared. Unlike Frank, Malachy encouraged his reading. And even though Malachy had neither interest nor talent when it came to computers, he’d bought Shane his first PC and let him use a spare room in his house to tinker with electronics. The bond between uncle and nephew continued into adulthood.
“Now, lad,” Malachy said, taking a seat opposite. “What’s up?”
“Straight to the point as usual.”
Malachy laughed. “I’ve known you all your life. I can tell when something’s bothering you. Is it that wee creature you have in your arms that brings you here?”
“No. I rescued him a few hours ago, and he seems to have moved in with me.”
Malachy nodded with approval. “It’ll do you good to have a pet.”
“I doubt my landlord will feel the same way. I’ll need to find a new place that’s pet-friendly.”
His uncle eyed him knowingly. “If you didn’t come here to talk about the dog, what’s the matter?”
Shane took a sip of his coffee and weighed his next words with care. “I recently found out some information about a family member, and it’s been troubling me.”
Was it his imagination, or did Malachy turn pale at his words? Was Malachy aware of what Lar had done to secure an early release from prison? His uncle cleared his throat. “How did you come by this information?”
“I tapped his phone and placed surveillance bugs in his house.”
Malachy slow-blinked. “That seems…extreme.”
“It’s part of my exit strategy from the family ‘business.’ I made a deal with my father to run surveillance on this person in return for him not making a fuss about my leaving to pursue my own career.”
His uncle scrutinized his face. “Francis asked you to spy on one of us?”
“Yeah.”
Malachy swore beneath his breath. “That was below the belt, even for Francis. He knows you and Lar are close.”
Shane jerked to attention. “How did you guess it was Lar?”
“Lar has gone to a lot of trouble to make sure Francis can’t siphon off funds from the Triskelion Team.” Malachy’s smile was wan. “Let’s just say Francis didn’t take Lar’s defection from the family ‘business’ well.”
Shane weighed his next words with care. “Did you know about Lar’s deal to secure an early release from prison? If he confided in anyone, it would have been you.”
Malachy held up a hand to stop him. “I guessed something like that had happened, but I don’t want to know the details.”
“He’s a fucking traitor,” Shane growled. “Don’t you care?”
“Why is he a traitor?” Malachy suddenly looked older than his sixty-two years. “His father and Francis shafted him over that bank robbery. Lar had every right to be upset.”
“He lied to us all, including me. He’s supposed to be my friend.”
“If he did what I think he did, he couldn’t have told you, Shane. He’d have signed a legal agreement not to breathe a word about what he was up to and, on a personal level, sharing info with you would have put you in danger if Francis ever found out.” Malachy took a sip from his coffee mug and drew his bushy gray eyebrows together. “I’m guessing you haven’t told your father.”
Shane shook his head. “He’d kill Lar. Don’t get me wrong. I’m mad as hell over this. But I’m not prepared to see my cousin killed. I need to know more about what, exactly, he discovered and passed on to the spooks.”
“Leave it alone, Shane. Stay out of it. You don’t want to go hacking into top-secret files.”
This made Shane laugh out loud. “What do you think I’ve been doing for years, Malachy?”
His uncle shook his head. “You’re playing with fire, son. Leave well alone. You’re a smart lad. Why don’t you find a legit job where you can put your hacking skills to good use?”
“I didn’t just come because of what I found out about Lar. My father gave me another job, one that’s connected.”
“Oh?” Malachy raised an eyebrow. “Why do I get the impression it’s not an assignment you want to carry out?”
“It’s not so much reluctance on my part as confusion. Dad is under the impression that Lar killed Jimmy Connolly. Now, I keep my ears open. There’s not much that goes on in Kilpatrick that I don’t know. The identity of Jimmy’s killer is one, and finding a link between Lar and Jimmy is another. I mean, I know Lar didn’t like the man, but who did? It’s not like Lar to take on a hit job in his own neighborhood.”
“I’m assuming you haven’t mentioned any of this to your cousin.”
Was it his imagination, or had his uncle gone unnaturally pale all of a sudden? Even if Lar hadn’t killed Connolly, there was a good chance Malachy knew who did from hearing confessions.
“No, I haven’t said anything to Lar yet. I wanted your advice first. You hear even more than I do about what goes on around here. Have you heard anything about Lar clipping Connolly?”
Malachy’s mouth drew into a hard line. “No. But what I can tell you is this: Lar didn’t kill Jimmy Connolly. Of that I’m certain.”
“Something you heard in the confessional?” Shane asked, noting his uncle’s certainty in his words. “Do you know who did it?”
“Let’s just say I know Lar didn’t do it. And with that information, you’ll have to be satisfied.”
“Dad wants
me to look into the killing. I’m to try to ferret out what happened.”
Malachy snorted. “Francis doesn’t like the idea of a Kilpatrick kingpin being gunned down on his own property. He’s worried it’ll become a trend.”
“Dad excels at looking out for numero uno. I guess Connolly’s killing alarmed him. I have no idea why he’d link Lar to it, apart from the fact that it was a professional job.”
“So the newspapers said.” Malachy drained his coffee cup and nodded toward Shane’s almost empty glass. “Do you want another?”
“Nah, I’m good, thanks.” Malachy was skilled in bringing conversations to a close without outright telling people to leave and let him get back to his work. Shane got the message. He stood and shook hands with his uncle, an old habit they’d gotten into when Shane was a boy. The Delaneys didn’t go in for displays of physical affection, particularly not the men, and the handshake was half joke, half serious. This time, Malachy held onto his hand for longer than usual.
“I’m serious, Shane. Quit digging up other people’s dirt and concentrate on the present. With your skills, you’d easily find a job in the computer industry.”
“Maybe I would, but I have enough Delaney blood in my veins not to want to work for a company.”
“Then set up on your own, something more respectable than what Lar proposes to do with the Triskelion Team.”
“Something boring, staid, and respectable, you mean?”
His uncle pinned him in place with the intensity of his gaze. “If you need start-up capital, just say the word. I don’t have much savings, but I have a bit put by.”
“Thanks, Malachy,” Shane said, genuinely touched, “but I’ll be okay. I’m not cut out for the sort of job you’d like me to have. When I’m not discovering shite about people I care about, I like what I’m doing for the Triskelion Team.”
“And the job for Francis? Do you like that?”
Shane grimaced. “You know I don’t, but it’ll be over soon.”
“What are you going to tell Francis about Lar?”
“I haven’t decided yet. Depends on what else I turn up.”