[Chapter 50: Warning]

Connor swallowed a few Advil dry, and cruised the next block over. Leah wasn't at her apartment. She wasn't at the Southie station and she wasn't at the downtown station where she'd worked last night. He had been circling the parking lot as well as the surrounding blocks, to be sure she wasn't simply being cautious and keeping her car out of sight of mafiosos-or him. On his third pass through the parking lot, he saw her partner leaving the building. Connor pulled up alongside the medic's truck.

"Ortie, hey. Have you seen Leah today?"

Ortie looked him over. "Yeah."

Connor parked next to him and came around, taking off his sunglasses. "Do you know where she is now?"

"No." Ortie tossed a duffel bag in the truck that looked very similar to Connor's.

"I'm sorry about last night," Connor said. "About Duffy. I know you did everything you could."

"Yeah. Well, it doesn't always make a difference."

"Still, thanks for trying. Sounds fucked up, but I'm glad it was the two of you."

Ortie shrugged.

"I'm surprised they didn't let you both leave early."

"They did. I came back for my stuff." He shoved hands the size of steaks into his pockets. "An extra shift opened in Southie."

"What's going on? The smoke's almost as bad as the traffic."

"There was a drive-by at a restaurant on Dorchester—pretty bad. I don't know how many injuries. Explosion at the port docks, fires…"

"Christ." The docks-where Rhonwen had gotten spooked that morning, according to Seamus.

"It's nuts. A couple of the guys think it's targeted, but the targets are all over the map."

Connor couldn't help but picture the next one. "Ortie, I need to talk to Leah. Do you have any idea where she might be?"

"She has a phone."

"Aye, she does." And a bug the size of the one in the lipstick could easily be hidden in it.

Ortie tilted his head. "Is that blood?"

There was never a right answer when someone asked him that.

"By your eye. You're bleeding."

"It's nothing."

"Looks fresh," Ortie said, blocking out the sun as he studied Connor's face. "You want an ice pack? Swelling's going to get worse."

Connor checked his eye in the side mirror, wiping away the blood. "I'll pass."

"You know, she said you might come by looking for her. No offense, but I didn't think you would."

"I came because she's not safe right now, and she needs to know it."

Ortie put a foot on the step rail, the ghost of a smirk on his lips as he started to climb in. "I take it that means she's not returning your calls."

"I fucking serious, man. If something happens to her today, who do you think they're going to call? Do you want to be driving the ambulance that shows up at that scene?"

Ortie stopped mid-climb. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"We both know how…special she is. Other people know it too, dangerous people."

"Leah doesn't get involved with dangerous people."

There was an awkward moment while both men turned those words over in their minds.

"This wasn't her choice," Connor said. "She was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and now she's got some real bad people coming after her."

"What people?"

Connor took a breath. The last thing Leah needed was more friends of hers knowing too much, but if he didn't find her, she might not get a chance to be pissed about it. "Maybe some of the ones keeping things busy in Southie."

Ortie's eyes narrowed. "Do you know what you're saying?"

"I'm saying she's a target. Her, and her family."

"Is this your doing? Did you get her involved in this shit?"

Every syllable hit home, straight into his heart. "I'm going to take care of it," he said, "but she needs to know. She doesn't have to see me, she doesn't even have to talk to me. If you could just give her a message-"

"I have to go to work."

"Then tell me where she is, so I can warn her myself!"

Ortie took a step closer. His shoulders could've knocked down an entire offensive line.

"Southie's not that big a place. If anything happens to her, it won't be hard for me to find you."

"If anything happens to her, it's because there's nothing left of me to find. I'm going to end it."

"Do that. Because if she's hurt, it's on you."

Ortie didn't know he was preaching to the choir. Connor waited.

Ortie climbed heavily into the truck, slammed the door and stared hard at Connor through the open window for a good half a minute. "Try the Blue Heron bar," he said. "By the waterfront. She's meeting someone there at four."

"Who?"

"I don't know. She was pretty upset when she came in—don't suppose you know anything about that—and I was trying to give her some space, so I didn't hear everything. But it sounded like she called an office, like a front desk—I don't think she's meeting someone she knows."


Connor called Murphy from the road and filled him in.

"Fuck," Murphy sighed. "Do you think she's going to talk?"

"I wish I knew. I've been rolling it around-I don't have the slightest idea what direction she'll go."

"You gotta tell her about the bug. Beyond that, she's going to do what she's going to do. No sense stewin' about it. Be nice if you didn't get arrested just yet, though."

"Aye. Jail's no fun all by my lonesome. How's Annie, she still pissed?"

"Shit, man. Do plastic paddies drink green beer?"

"Sorry. Stupid question. Just let her simmer until I get back. We'll question her together. You can be the good cop this time."

Murphy made a strange sound, like a punch-drunk combination of a laugh and a sigh. "I don't think that'll be happening."

"You okay?"

"Yep."

"You know, just because we didn't find a wire on her, doesn't mean we were wrong about the bug. Don't let her get in your head."

"Oh, don't you worry about that."

Something in Murphy's voice made Connor pause. "Should I worry you're going to get arrested?"

"I have duct tape. And your precious rope. Not going to be a lot of emergency calls placed, I'm afraid."

"Remember, we're the good guys."

"That's what I keep telling myself. Con, I gotta go."

"All right. I'll call you when I'm on my way."

Turning east, Connor headed for the waterfront. Smoke dirtied the horizon, the wind pushing multiple plumes into a distorted haze that rivaled the one in his mind. They joked about going to jail, because it was the only way to deal with the possibility. Entertain the thought too long, and his hands would begin itching to spin the car around. Long-distance train schedules, bus routes, fake passports, safe houses…. He stopped the escape spiral when his brain started to calculate gas prices.

Some things were worth this risk.

He braked hard for a light, not having realized how fast he was going. He took a deep breath and spread out his fingers, stretching them from their vice grip on the wheel. Ortie's words replayed in his head: If she gets hurt, it's on you.

But how could he protect her, when he didn't know—for sure—who'd been listening, or what new obstacle he would find at this bar? If Leah was planning to turn him in—a possibility that he tried hard not to take personally—who would she have called? Anyone safe would have lit up his phone by now. Anyone else…

It made no sense for it to be a cop. As she'd made so clear last night, her police force aversion was here to stay.

Reaching the waterfront, he found the bar, then parked his car around the corner and tried calling Smecker, hanging up at the voicemail greeting. He was early, but he wasn't parked at a good angle to see the entrance, so killing time in the car was pointless.

The lounge had smooth, floor-lit steps that led down into a low-ceilinged room with a secretive, too-cool feel. He vaguely recalled coming to places like this a long time ago, usually with girls who didn't stick around long once they realized he couldn't afford it. He looked in vain for Leah among the glowing lights. She couldn't have cared less what he could afford, not that that mattered now.

One of those Rat Pack singers was crooning over the sound system. The early-evening patrons all looked like they were still on the clock: the women in heels, the men in suits and ties. Not a single pair of jeans besides his own. He made a slow circle around the mirrored bar, feeling a new appreciation for the chipped pint glasses and worn, familiar barstools at McGinty's.

A text message came through, from Smecker, and he managed to make the phone show it to him: Southie's burning. Drive by at the Yolk. Can't talk. You OK?

He sat down at an empty table, a sick feeling turning his stomach. Ortie had mentioned the drive-by, but he hadn't said where. The Yolk was about as hometown as Southie got. A hit there wasn't random—at best it was backlash aimed at an obvious soft spot. At worst it was a direct attack on the police, since there were guaranteed to be a few officers patronizing the place at any given time of day.

There was no TV at the bar, so he moved his chair so he could watch the stairs. Leah had left without giving him a chance to explain. She was either too angry to listen, or too hurt to forgive him. Or both. In any case, there was a good chance that seeing him would send her running right back the way she came. Just tell her the situation, offer what you can to keep her from harm's way. Don't make it harder than it has to be.

A waitress with pearl hair combs blocked his view with a long, skinny menu, smiling at him and saying something about his t-shirt and a rebel without a cause. He ordered a whiskey to get rid of her, and then sent Smecker a short, I'm fine. Be careful.

He surveyed the suits, wondering if any of them were waiting for the same woman he was. It was impossible to tell, because the moment she descended the stairs nearly every one of them looked up. She was as underdressed as he was, in a gray sweater and jeans. Her hair was down for once, and it hung loose, falling past her shoulders and catching the golden light.

Back straight, eyes watchful, she scanned the entire place before setting foot on the floor. Her eyes tracked past him at first, then doubled back.

He didn't move, didn't smile, didn't breathe. The waitress decided to return at that moment, making him lose sight of Leah until he caught a flash of blond beyond the constellations of sparkling glass at the bar.

Every injury on his body seemed to pulse as he picked up his whiskey—the cuts on his hands and knees and face, the bullet graze on his neck, his stomach where Murphy had punched him, the lingering impact on the bottom of his foot from kicking open the bathroom door.

She was sitting with her legs crossed, watching the bartender pull a bottle from the top shelf. She didn't turn to look at him, not even as he came up beside her.

He set his whiskey on the bar. "Can we talk?"

She tucked her hair behind her ear. "Sorry, this isn't the best time. I'm meeting someone."

"It won't take long. I've a table in the back."

"Connor…I thought the message I left was pretty clear."

"Aye. The needle was a nice touch."

"Thanks. I thought so." She checked her watch, and then the door, making no move to leave her seat.

"I just need a minute. I know you probably hate me, but-"

"I don't hate you."

"No?"

The bartender was mixing her drink, glancing between her and Connor.

"Not at all." She flashed her dimple. "I had a good time, and as a bonus, I didn't have to bunk at the station. Sorry for the dramatic exit, that was a bit impulsive. Thanks, Carl." Carl the bartender garnished her drink with a lime, which she squeezed into her drink.

Something like heartburn scorched deep in Connor's chest.

She sat up straighter as a dark-suited older man came down the stairs.

"Is that who you're meeting?" Connor asked.

"Could be. You…might not want to be here."

The man looked more like a stockbroker than law enforcement. He took a seat two stools down, caught Leah staring and smiled until he caught Connor staring as well. Then he turned somewhat nervously to greet Carl, and asked for his "usual."

Connor gave up and sat down on the stool beside her. "Leah, this isn't about us. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't important."

"Neither would I."

Connor got the uneasy feeling that his words hadn't come out quite right. "Who are you meeting?"

"No one you know."

He reached for his whiskey, trying to lighten the sudden weight on his chest. "Do they know me?"

"No—no, it's nothing like that." She fished the lime out of her drink and tried to squeeze it again, and somehow it ended up on the floor on the other side of the bar. "He's probably stuck in traffic. Dorchester's still shut down from the drive-by."

"I heard there's another fire now," Carl said, sliding into the conversation as if he'd been there all along. He scooped up the fallen lime and offered her a fresh one. "I think," he said, leaning closer, "this drive-by, these fires—they're all about that mafia ugliness last night. I mean, does it seem like a coincidence to you?"

Leah glanced at Connor. He felt his neck start to burn.

"Where's the fire?" the other man asked Carl.

"North End." Carl's voice was somber, but his eyes practically danced at the chance to gossip. "A residential area, but not a house. They're saying it was a car bomb."

"Jesus."

"Tell me about it," Carl said. "Damn terrorists."

"Did they say whose car?" Leah asked.

"It was a delivery van for a florist. Giovanni's, I think."

Leah's grip on her drink slipped. Connor caught it before it spilled.

Another customer arrived, a man in a dark leather jacket with eyes even darker, that lingered on Leah a bit longer than Connor thought necessary. Carl excused himself to go help him.

Leah stood up, taking her drink from Connor's hand, the napkin still stuck to the bottom. "Table," she said.

Connor let her lead the way through the suits to an empty table in the back.

She sat down quickly, eyeing the people scattered around them. "Giovanni's Flowers, Connor."

He took a breath. "Aye, I heard that. We can talk about that in a minute. First—and you're not going to want to hear this-"

"Please don't patronize me. I know why you came here."

"You do?"

"Of course," she said. "I know your secret. And you know mine. Everyone loses if we decide to turn on each other. I can assure you, there's no need to threaten me to keep me quiet."

"Threaten you?" He ducked his head and saw that she was serious. "I came here to warn you. We found a bug."

"What are you talking about?"

He waited until a passing couple was out of earshot. "A bug, in my goddamn dining room. The lipstick that wasn't yours, it had a radio transmitter inside. Someone's been listening."

"Listening…" He watched the gears turning, watched her face change as it sank in.

"Who? Who would bug your apartment?"

Connor threw back the rest of his whiskey.

"That's the big question, isn't it?" she said. "Knowing your…situation, it could be anyone. You probably have no idea. Wow. So, that's what I get for…"

"For what?" he couldn't help asking.

She shook her head and took another drink.

"We do have an idea," he said. "Murphy's working on it. We'll know soon enough."

"What kind of transmitter? Could it pick up sound from the bedroom?"

"I don't know. The walls are pretty thin."

"I know. I could hear you from the kitchen this morning, every word." She closed her eyes. "It was so quiet last night—my God, they would have heard everything. About me, about you…"

"About your father. You need to let him know."

Frowning, she pulled out her phone. Her father didn't answer. She called another number that sounded like the hospital front desk. "In surgery until this afternoon," she said. "I don't even know what to tell him, how to explain this." She gestured vaguely between them. Connor wasn't exactly sure what it meant, only that it stung.

The waitress reappeared, brandishing her fancy menus again. "Can I get you two anything?"

Leah's cell phone buzzed and she answered it quickly. "Yes, this is she...Oh, are you sure? I don't mind waiting..." She checked her watched.

The waitress turned to Connor with a smile and tried to interest him in the drink specials.

By the time he shooed her off, Leah was off the phone and gathering her purse. "Plans changed. I'm going to go. Thank you for coming to find me," she said politely. "I appreciate the warning." She started for the stairs.

"Hold on." He kept pace with her to the exit, and then up the stairs. "Don't just run off again. Where are you going to go?"

"I'm tired. I'm going to crawl into my bed and sleep for the next twenty-four hours. See if I can forget what happened in the last twenty-four."

Which would include what had happened in Connor's apartment. Too bad he had turned on the light and made that pretty much impossible for both of them.

"You can't go back to your apartment, Leah. You've heard what's going on out there."

"I have Chaffey on speed dial. I have my little souvenir from the plaza. I'll be fine."

"Did you get ammo like I told you?"

She pushed outside, into the early twilight, her abrasive silence a clear no.

"I have plenty," he said. "Come on, you can stay with me until this is all over."

"That's very kind, but I can't think of a single scenario in which that would be in my best interest. My car's that way."

"So's mine. I'll walk you."

With a frown, she started up the sidewalk, seeming to decide that stopping him would be more trouble than it was worth.

The cold breeze rippled through his thin t-shirt, reminding him of the current location of his pea coat, and the bug, and the reason he was here. A car sped past them, too fast for the neighborhood. Afternoon traffic was beginning to pick up, and he imagined automatic weapons firing from each passing vehicle. They turned the corner, her boots ticking on the concrete like a countdown.

"Leah, you need a plan."

"I have a plan. I just have to reschedule it." She hugged herself. "I'm giving up the list."

"Good," he said. "To who?"

She stopped at her car and began to dig for her keys.

"Why don't you want to tell me?"

She shrugged irritably, but couldn't seem to tell him a reason. Keys found, she dropped them twice trying to get them in the lock. Finally Connor helped her. She jerked her hand back from his touch.

"Hey, easy." The keys dangled in the lock, and it struck him. "Jesus Christ. You're afraid of me."

"Don't be ridiculous." She opened the car door, but then couldn't get the keys back out of the lock.

Without thinking, he reached for them. She backed up.

So did he, raising his hands.

"You know what, I'm going to make this easy on both of us. Take care of yourself, Leah. If you need me, you know where to find me." The LTD was only a few cars down, but it might've been a mile.

"Wait."

He turned around. She was looking down, reaching into her purse again.

"I forgot to give you this." Leaving the car door hanging open behind her, she met him halfway. He caught a glimpse of silver as she pulled a small square of paper from her purse and gave to him.

He took it, careful not to touch her, pushing away the memory of her in his bed, when there had been nothing at all between them. He couldn't read the scrawled writing, but the name printed at the bottom was Dr. Nathaniel Solomon.

"It's a prescription for Augmentin, for Murphy," she said. "I saw his arm. Cauterizing a gun shot wound won't stop an infection."

So that was how she'd found out. He wondered if she also saw Murphy punch him.

"It's worked before," he said.

"Then you got lucky. If it spreads to his blood, and he goes septic, it could it get very bad very quickly."

"Okay. Thanks."

"Get it filled as soon as possible. You can take it to any pharmacy, but I hear the CVS on South Broadway won't ask questions."

"I said okay. Is that it?"

She looked down and closed the latch on her purse. A purple a bruise colored her thumb, from those damn trauma shears the night before.

"What did you expect?" she asked quietly. "More drama? I can slap you if you want."

"What I want is for you to act like a human being. Not this…robot."

"This is your aftermath, Connor. You started this when you kissed me. Maybe you should have punched something instead."

Memory of a darkened conversation tugged at the edge his mind. He'd been in his mask. She'd asked him, the Saint, how he dealt with the stress of his job.

Nothing you can say will change anything. Don't make this harder than it has to be.

A gust of wind started to push the door shut on her. He caught it, and the prescription slipped from his hand.

They both reacted. He was right behind her, but she was quicker, snatching it from a little tornado of leaves in a recessed doorway. She stood, turning, her eyes glistening as they met his.

He tried to tell her that she was wrong, but the right words wouldn't come, perhaps sucked into this black hole that was forming in his chest.

Behind them, her car keys jingled, still in the door. The hinges creaked, buffeted by the wind. A sudden gust pushed the door hard enough that it closed, rocking the car.

Which then exploded.


...