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"There are other ramifications, too. My assignment involves people in sensitive positions."
"Politicians," his father said, with a smirk.
"Believe me, I don't th
ink much more of them than you do, but—"
"But, you've learned to kiss ass."
Conor stared at his father. Then he kicked back his chair and marched out of the kitchen.
"Conor?"
Conor strode to the front door and yanked it open.
"Conor! You come back here!"
He spun around, white-faced with anger. His father was hard on his heels, his face flushed.
"Don't you dare walk out on me, boy."
"I'm not a boy. And I don't take orders from you."
"Conor, you shut that door and sit down."
"What for? So you can insult me some more? Listen here, old man—"
"Who are you calling an old man?"
"I took your bullying for years, but I don't have to take it anymore."
"I'm your father!"
"I'm sorry I bothered you. I'm even sorrier I was fool enough to think you'd help me."
John O'Neil watched his son turn away. To hell with the boy, he thought. Who needs him?
He reached out, started to slap the door closed—and caught a glimpse of himself in the entry mirror.
His face was flushed, the bones angular. His hair was white and thin. He'd been in his prime the first time he'd driven his son from this house, wanting only the best for this child born so late in his life. You'll drive him away with your rules and your pride, Kathleen had said when Conor was small, but he was a cop, he'd seen what happened when people laughed at the law. And then, to make matters worse, the boy had said he wanted to become a cop, too, waste his fine mind and quick wit in a useless fight against the slime of the city.
John O'Neil looked deep into the mirror and saw the ghosts of all the years wasted and gone. He flung the door wide and stepped into the hall.
"Conor," he bellowed.
Halfway down the steps, Conor paused, his hand on the bannister, and looked up.
"Nobody knows the Seventh like I do. I've still got friends there who'll be glad to answer some questions for me." John cleared his throat. "To tell you the truth, Conor, you'll be doing me a favor, handing me something to do. I'm as bored with watching that street outside as I am with watching the tube."
It was as close to an apology as John O'Neil had ever come, and Conor knew it. He stared up at the older man, and then he made his way back up the stairs.
"Now then," his father said briskly, as if nothing had happened. He shut the door and led his son into the living room. "Tell me what you need."
* * *
Miranda was waiting for him in the marble and glass lobby at Papillon as they'd agreed she would.
She was sitting on the raised wall surrounding a small reflecting pool along with half a dozen women. They were, he suspected, the editors with whom she'd met for lunch. Each woman was the height of style and elegance. Miranda, simply dressed, stood out among them like a glittering jewel.
