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Good old Franklin. His father was in the IRA back in the day, and there aren’t many people alive as good at planting car bombs as they were. Fortunately, Franklin picked up some things from his old man.
“Sir?” he asks, looking back at me. “Should we go?”
“Not yet. I have a call to make.” I take out my phone and dial. It rings and rings until a man answers, sounding annoyed.
“Finn Crowley. Why are you calling me on my personal phone in the middle of the day? I was in a meeting.”
I smile to myself, noting how he still left that meeting and took my call.
“Chief Cross. Thank you for answering. I have some very bad news for you.”
The chief of the Boston Police Department does not sound happy. “What did you do now?”
“Clive McLaren’s vehicle just exploded. It’s a shame, really. I told him not to drive that silly English car, but he simply wouldn’t listen. That’s why I stick with the Germans. They never go boom.”
Chief Cross is quiet for a moment. “And do you have any involvement with this accident?”
“I do not,” I say simply. “And your next envelope will be three times its normal size to prove it.”
He lets out a long, exhausted sigh. “Fuck you, Crowley.”
“Pleasure as always, Chief. Say hello to the wife and kids.”
I hang up. Chief Cross will be livid for a little while, but he’ll get over it. The envelopes of cash, they’re mostly for show—though he never refuses them. At this point, we have so much blackmail on that man, he practically has to dance whenever we tell him to.
There are limits, of course. If I had gunned McLaren down on a busy street, that might’ve caused some problems. Bystanders and all that. But this, where it could plausibly be ruled an accident?
This I can get away with.
“Sir?” Franklin asks, sounding worried as sirens blare nearby.
“Take me around the block and call Shane. I have another visit to make before we’re finished here.”
Franklin grunts, puts the car in drive, turns around, and heads in the opposite direction.
I look back, smiling at the thick, black gusts of smoke spiraling into the air.
Chapter44
Finn
Istretch my legs out, waiting.
Her room is nice. Bigger than I expected. Tastefully decorated. Not many personal touches—no pictures, no notes, nothing like that—but I still get a sense for her.
She likes order. She likes control. Her makeup is neatly put away and organized by type and color. Her bed is crisply made, though that could be the maids. Everything about her space screams of a woman that appreciates comfort and wealth, but needs them to be tamed to her will.
The door opens and Robin steps inside.
She doesn’t notice me. That’s the thing with familiarity. I’m practically invisible because she’s so used to her room being one way, she can’t imagine me in this place. Her brain refuses to process me, skips right over my presence, fills me in with the usual gap in the chair beside her bed.
I watch her snap on a light, humming to herself, skin flushed and sweaty from her tennis lesson. She disappears into her bathroom, the door shutting, the shower turning on. I make myself comfortable.
Eventually, she comes out in shorts and an old t-shirt, humming once again, looking happy as can be. She turns toward her nightstand, and finally, that’s when she spots me.
She goes still, her mouth opening, jaw working, trying to find words as she holds her hands up in the air, her fingers working as if she’s trying to type something on her phone.
“Hello, Robin.”
