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She looked at him a second longer, as if she were filing away the information for later, then turned to Nolan. “What’s the word?”
“None.” He was relieved she was willing to table the conversation about the Syndicate, but he wished he had better news about Will and the bank job. “BPD has men stationed around the bank, but it’s been quiet so far.”
Her brow furrowed. “Are they staying out of sight? Because Seamus’s guys won’t go through with it if they think they’ve been compromised.”
Nolan wanted to believe it was true, but he wasn’t sure of anything anymore. He’d expected Seamus to cancel the job after he found out his informants at BPD had been outed, but last Nolan had heard from Will the night before, the job was still on.
“BPD understands the situation,” Christophe said. “They won’t make a move on the bank until O’Brien’s men are inside and the robbery is underway.”
“Any word from Will?” Bridget asked Nolan.
“He’s been incommunicado since last night.”
She nodded. “I guess that’s no surprise. Seamus might even have confiscated their phones. He was off the rails yesterday. He’s going to be more paranoid than ever, especially if he’s ballsy enough to go through with the job.”
“I thought the same thing,” Nolan said. “All we can do is wait. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water? Vodka?”
She smiled. “I’ve had enough coffee to keep me up for a week. Vodka sounds good, but since it’s only eleven in the morning, I should probably take the water.”
“Have a seat and make yourself comfortable,” he said. “I’ll get it for you.”
He went into the kitchen for the water and returned with it a minute later. He handed it to her and watched as she studied Marchand with naked curiosity.
“Nolan said Will would have a place with you if Seamus runs,” she said. “Is that true?”
“We attempt to retain all of the men prepared to adhere to our model,” Christophe said.
“Which is?”
“A movement away from violence and towards new sources of revenue and a total cessation of anything involving the trafficking of humans, among other things.”
Bridget looked horrified. “Seamus is involved in trafficking?”
“We don’t know that for sure,” Christophe said. “But organized crime as a whole has engaged in trafficking, as you know from your work.”
Nolan knew Marchand was referring to the immigrants Bridget represented who paid a small fortune to escape their violent countries only to be forced into slavery and prostitution. Nolan could tell from her troubled expression that she hadn’t considered the possibility that Seamus was involved in such sordid business.
“How do you eliminate violence in organized crime?” she asked.
Nolan almost smiled. This was Bridget: her mind always turning, digging for more information, filtering and sorting, categorizing it for use later.
“Violence will never be entirely removed from the business,” Christophe said. “It seems to be a byproduct of both the people who gravitate to it and the revenue streams required to keep it running. But the majority of violence results from the more unsavory practices that have historically been cornerstones of organized crime. We hope that by replacing some of them, by instituting new expectations, we can limit the violence as well.”
She was opening her mouth to ask another question when Nolan’s phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket, read the breaking news from a local station, and cursed.
Bridget stood. “What is it?”
Nolan clicked on the article and skimmed the short news story, an alert at the bottom of the page readingTHIS IS A BREAKING STORY AND WILL BE UPDATED AS IT DEVELOPS.
He looked up. “A robbery has been reported at the Harbor Trust on Seaport.”
“Seaport?” Bridget shook her head. “What about Broadway?”
Nolan looked at Christophe. “Good question.”
25
Bridget waited for the light to change from red to green and pulled through the intersection, resisting the urge to pull over and be sick. She’d spent the last twenty-four hours in a state of panic, her heart racing, stomach in upheaval.
