You are not my only client
This time, he pauses before he replies. Triple bubbles boil on my screen as I picture the fucker’s black eyes narrowing. I see his thin lips purse inside his gray beard.
He’s not needling me because he wants his cryptocurrency. He doesn’t give a shit about RedBear. He’s pressing because he wants Kate.
So it’s all the more ominous when he finally sends his reply
I will be
11
KATE
Iwork late Monday night, learning everything I can about Fiona Moran and her Old Colony Crew in Boston. Of course, I know the general outlines of her story. She was the only child of Kieran Ingram. When her da died from spite and a massive heart attack, she assumed she’d take over as Queen, but some of her clan’s old guard thought otherwise. With an unlikely protector by her side, an enforcer out of Philly, Fiona proved herself to be feckin’ brilliant. She’s been in charge of Boston for six months now.
That’s what I know as a mob princess myself, but I spend a few hours gathering additional information from public articles. Fiona’s never met a camera she didn’t like, and she’s not afraid to dress like the Celtic tiger she is. She’s made the gossip page more than once. The legal notices too.
After I finish raking through every article and image I can find online, I dig into Cole’s records. He hasn’t given me accessto everything on his network—same as I haven’t handed over keys to everything on mine. But I can log in to basic accounts for Lone Wolf, reviewing every official document Cole has ever compiled for his clients.
When he’s working for the Irish mob, though, there’s a lot that doesn’t go into writing. It takes me a few hours to understand the corporate structure Fiona relies on for her Old Colony assets. She’s done clever things, hiding ownership of various organizations. Some of it is designed to evade tax authorities. More is to spread the wealth, in case any of her operations is compromised. But most of what she’s done is an elaborate game, as intricate as a Celtic knot, apparently for the sheer joy of it.
I can appreciate that in a criminal.
I fall asleep with my laptop in bed, hours after midnight. When I wake on Tuesday morning, I take a cool shower, thinking I’ll need it to stay alert. But my blood fizzes as I pull on my old hacker’s uniform—yoga pants and a super-soft hoodie.
This must be how Cole feels every morning, wired and ready to go on just four hours of sleep. Walking down the stairs, I check my laptop for incoming mail. I’m swiping through messages by the time I pad into the kitchen.
“Good morning, Kate,” Nilsson says with his usual formality. He’s siphoning off coffee from the monster machine on the counter into an insulated carafe. I’m pleased he’s already here; I’ve long since given up trying to brew a cup myself. It would be easier to master the control panel at a nuclear reactor.
Nilsson takes a mug from the cupboard and pours me my first cup of the day. “How would you like your eggs this morning?” he asks.
“No eggs,” I say. “I’ll eat across the street. Did you happen to see if the lights were on in the carriage house when you came over?” I need to see how my sister is bearing up under the newsof Mam’s latest betrayal. Breagha will sleep till noon given half a chance, but Granny will have been awake since dawn.
“You aren’t allowed across the street,” Nilsson says. I think he means to soften the announcement by adding my name: “Kate.” But it sounds like a glitch in his programming.
“That’s ridiculous,” I bluff. “Cameron can simply?—”
Nilsson already has his phone in his hand. He reads from the screen as if he’s reciting instructions for building an IKEA bookshelf. “Under no circumstances should Kate be allowed past the gate.”
“When did Cole send that?”
“2:17 yesterday afternoon. And then at 5:49 this morning, he sent the same instruction.”
There’s no way I can get the drop on a man who doesn’t sleep. But I try a lie anyway. “He meant the gate ofyourhouse. I’m allowed to see Granny and Breagha.”
Nilsson barely shakes his head. “I am to remind you that you can FaceTime them at any time.”
“Granny doesn’t know how to?—”
“I provided a refresher to Mrs. Watson yesterday afternoon.”
There’s no use arguing. Nilsson has been Cole’s man for years. “Thank you for the coffee,” I say.
“Eggs?” he asks.
“I seem to have lost my appetite.”
I take the carafe and my mug and head to my office where I make a show of looking very busy. I go back to some of the videos I watched yesterday, about Fiona Moran’s support of the Caterina Marcus Corman Museum. I turn up the volume as I watch them again, throwing the images onto one of the screens built into the wall.
