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The future looked bright as hell for one Claire Murphy. Too bad she seemed intent on mucking it up by getting involved with business that she should’ve known to stay far, far away from.
I turned off the phone, tossing it into my desk drawer just in time for a knock to sound at my office door.
“Who is it?”
“Your damn brother.”
“Come in.”
The door opened and Kellan, dressed in a sharp suit of dark-green tweed, stepped into the office. He was all smiles as usual, but his expression dimmed when he laid eyes on me.
“What’s the story, Con?”
“Huh? What the hell you talking about?”
“Million-kilometer stare,” he said. “You’ve got something on your mind.”
No sense in lying to my own kin.
“It’s the girl.”
“The one you were meeting for lunch on Saturday? What the hell about her?”
Part of me wanted to tell him everything that had happened, but I quickly decided against it.
I opened my mouth to speak but before I could get a word out, Kellan raised his finger.
“Mind if we talk on the road? Eddie wants us to check in on our, ah, guest over at the warehouse.”
“She’s at the warehouse?”
“Sure is. Boys moved her there last night.”
“Why? She was good and secure here.”
A tense expression formed on Kellan’s face. “That’s something better suited to our conversation on the way.”
“Then let’s get to it. I already don’t like what I’m hearing.”
We headed out of the offices and into the cool, dreary morning. The city was cast in fog, the towers of downtown shrouded in mist, their lights bleary through the blur.
“I’m driving,” I said.
“What? Not a chance in hell. Con, I just got this ride and I have to leave it in the lot half the time because you’re so damn insistent on being the one driving.”
We passed his car, a brand-new Dodge Challenger, the color pitch black.
“That’s because you drive like a damn maniac. Come on, little brother.”
He let out a sigh of resigned annoyance as we crossed the lot, arriving at my car—a forest-green 1990 Jaguar XJS V12 convertible.
“Now,” I said, nodding in the direction of my ride. “This is the sort of car men in our positions ought to be driving. Tasteful, classic, and perhaps most importantly, nondescript.”
“Three words that all mean the same thing,” he countered. “Boring.”
I chuckled as I slipped the key into the lock and opened the door, sliding into the plush, leather seat and placing my hands on the wheel.
“And here’s something else, little brother.” I placed the key into the ignition and turned over the engine, the V12 growling to life. “That’s something you don’t get with those button-starter cars they make now.”
