[Chapter 21: Long Night]

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Murphy shrugged out of his coat and tossed it over the back of their couch. Connor headed into the kitchen, reading the back of a small cardboard box as he went, and smiling to himself.

"Smecker still hasn't called back?" Murphy asked him.

Connor shook his head. "They're probably still trying to find the Cutlass. Damn, I wish I could have brought in those prints tonight. They could be running them right now. We could have an ID by morning."

"Tell me again why we don't have the prints?"

"First tell me what happened to the taillight."

Murphy shrugged. "The Cutlass ran into me."

"How? You were chasing him."

"I know, right? It's a crazy world."

"Speaking of crazy," Connor said, opening the fridge. "Ten minutes in a parked car, then you march in carrying Annie, half-dressed and out cold? I know it's been a while, but damn."

Murphy flipped him the double birdie.

"Aye, I'll bet that's exactly what happened—too bad Annie won't remember a bit of it."

Groaning, Murphy rubbed his eyes with the heels of both hands. He pulled out his pack of smokes, wanting to kick his own ass when he found it empty.

Connor handed him a beer, and opened another for himself. "Did you tell her about California?"

"Nope."

"She know about St. Patty's?"

"Yep. Not from Leah, though. That girl really can keep her mouth shut." He checked the cabinet where they usually kept cartons, surprised to find it empty as well. "Did you get anywhere with her?" he asked, going to search in the bedroom.

"I did." Connor said, following him. He stood in the doorway with an odd smile while Murphy checked all his jeans pockets, the nightstand and his underwear drawer. Where the hell had all his smokes gone?

"She's…complicated," Connor said. "But I think I'm beginning to understand her. And before you ask—no, I haven't touched your cigs."

"Are you sure?"

"Beyond sure. You should start buying in bulk."

"What are you on about? You smoke as much as I do."

Connor snorted. "Not since Monday."

The last week was a blur of bullets and adrenaline and not enough sleep. Too weary to try to remember what happened when, Murphy made a face and headed back to the kitchen.

"Come on, a full beer in your hand and an empty pack in your pants?" Connor said, following. "It's a sickness with only one cause."

Murphy's jaw tightened, sensing where this was headed, where it had been heading all along.

"You think I would have sent you out racing tonight if I thought you were on the piss? I know you better than you know yourself, Murph. You were spittin' that Jameson tonight, not swallowin'. Tell me I'm wrong."

"For the love of Christ, Con."

"Tell me I'm wrong!"

Murphy picked up his beer. "You're wrong, you cocky fuck."

"Bullshit. You're hung up like a string of Christmas lights."

"Fuck. You."

Connor laughed and produced a slightly smashed half-pack of cigarettes. "Admit it, and I'll give you the rest this pack free of charge."

Murphy made to leave the kitchen, but Connor was in his way. Murphy smiled. "Look-I'm drinking the beer." They stood toe to toe. "You want to talk hung up? Here's a toast to your glorious night of success—a sparklin' clean apartment door, and no fucking idea what that girl's supposed to forget, or who the fuck wants her to."

Connor thunked his beer can against Murphy's. "Here's to my fucking car, and the last time you'll ever drive it."

"Our fucking car, and I'd like to see you try and stop me. Here's to the still unsolved mysteries of the trashed briefcase, the ventilated laptop, and the missing .22. Strong work, Con. Way to get her right where you want her."

Connor's eyes narrowed. "It wasn't the right time to ask. And don't be forgettin' the still missing Cutlass."

Couldn't if I tried, Murphy thought, downing the final half of his beer in one long swallow. He burped and when Connor turned his face aside, Murphy slipped the pack of smokes from his brother's hand. Connor reached to snatch it back and Murphy body-checked him into the doorframe, dumping the half-dozen cigarettes onto the counter.

"Motherfucker." Connor elbowed him aside and scooped up most of them, but Murphy only needed one.

Prize in hand, he turned away and set a world record lighting up. Connor returned the other smokes to the pack and leaned against the counter. "You could have just asked, you know."

Yeah fucking right. Murphy tapped his ash into his empty beer can. "So, what's up with Leah?"

Connor watched him several seconds longer before he spoke. "She's got father issues," he said finally. "Apparently, the man lives right here in Boston, and she hasn't seen him face-to-face in seven years."

"Until this week. Remember outside Jake's, the morning they found Frankie? Chaffey asked about Leah, and Annie said she was meeting her dad for lunch."

Connor snapped his fingers. "And Beckman said that was interesting. How would he know?"

"The real question is—after seven years, what changed to make Leah want to see her da? Greenly was trying to tell me something about this earlier-did she tell you what he does for a living?"

Connor began playing with his lighter, flicking it open and closed. "He's a doctor. Wanted her to be a doctor too – sounds like that's where the trouble started."

"Well, isn't she the picture of modesty? He's a bit more than your average doc, Con. He's head of cardiac surgery at MGH."

Connor lit a cigarette, blowing the smoke up to the ceiling. "I should have called it—when she gets angry, her accent goes straight up Beacon Hill."

"I noticed. So, how's the blue blood feel about slummin' it with the likes of you?"

Connor took a long, long pull and Murphy realized he was struggling to hold back a smile.

"Jesus Christ, are you kidding me? And you still didn't get the truth out of her?"

"These things take time."

"Apparently not for you!" Murphy crushed the empty beer can in his hands and lobbed it the length of the kitchen to the trash bin, missing by half an inch. It bounced off with a clatter, throwing soupy gray splatters of beer and ash on the linoleum.

"Strong work," Connor said. "You're on fire tonight."

"It's like I can't lose. There's magic in these hands." Murphy heaved a sigh.

Connor held up a finger, then opened the box he'd brought home and tossed Murphy a white sponge. "Sorry for railin' you about the Cutlass," he said. "I know you tried. You got the plates, at least."

"A whopping three digits. You managed to get us a whole set of prints."

"Aye, then I managed to lose them."

Murphy wiped up the beer. "Yeah, I can't put a spin on that one for you. Is there bleach on this or something? Look at the white spots it's leaving on the floor."

Connor chuckled. "No bleach. Those are clean spots, my brother."

Murphy looked at the sponge, then back at the floor. He wiped at an untouched tile, and the spot illuminated like he'd shined a flashlight on it. "Holy shit, I've barely touched it! What the hell's this thing made out of?"

"Near as I can tell – either the laughter of children, or the holy blood of Christ. It's what we used to clean Leah's door, and I'm here to tell you, I think those things could scrub the sin from a man's soul." He glanced upward and crossed himself.

Murphy finished cleaning the tile he'd started, a single, bright shining square off-center on the floor. He laid the sponge by the sink. "I have to ask, Con. What were you thinking washing the evidence off her door?"

"What was I going to do, cuff her sponge-wielding hands?"

"If necessary. You were supposed to be working her."

"I was. You know as well as I do, Murph. You have to give some to get some."

"Is that when the prints got lost-while you were gettin' some?"

Something dark flickered in Connor's eyes, disappearing as quickly as it came. A muted buzzing came from his pocket and he pulled out the phone.

"Ah, damn." Remembering, Murphy felt his pants for Annie's phone, though he surely would have noticed by now if it was still there. How many times would Beckman have called her back? His blood simmered at the thought. If it wasn't in Leah's apartment, it was probably in the LTD. Murphy rubbed his weary eyes again. It would wait until tomorrow.

"I think the battery's dying," Connor was saying, plugging their phone into the charger. "It keeps buzzing like this every couple of minutes."

"Let me see that." Murphy took the phone and as he suspected, there was a tiny envelope icon at the bottom of the screen. It was from Smecker. "You're such a fucking tool," he said, showing Connor the display.

THIS IS CALLED A TEXT MESSAGE. ITS WHAT U SEND WHEN U CANT FUCKING TALK. CUTLASS ON DOT AVE LONG GONE. MEET DUF IN AM W/ PAINT CAN

"If you worked for him, you'd be fired."

Connor's jaw set as he read the message. "I didn't think burner phones could-"

"I know. I'll show you how it works. You think you know where to find this paint can?"

Connor took a slow breath. "I'll find it," he said. "Leah mentioned pulling an extra shift-she shouldn't be around in the morning."

Murphy studied his brother, unable to demand Connor's whole story without spotlighting again the missing pieces of his own. "We'll have to be up at the crack," he said finally. "I still want to hit a store before the funeral-and don't start with me. I'm not showing up graveside in a fucking T-shirt."

Connor raised an eyebrow. "No plans to wake sleeping beauty?"

"She's in good hands. My plan is to be across town when she comes to."