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There were bloodhounds that could track down suckers on the run; eagles that could spot prey from miles above the ground; sharks that could detect a drop of blood in a raging ocean — and then there was my cousin, Daniel Michaelson.
I shook my head. Sometimes I swore the kid was a raptor reincarnated or some shit. A cold-blooded, clinicalcapowith street smarts to rival my own and vicious intelligence that surpassed every damn genius down at MIT.
Against the glow of the computer, his hair looked almost white and his skin had the slightest hint of gold. His eyes were hidden behind a pair of glasses that few ever saw through. Hunching forward a little, his fingers flew against the keyboard as the cigarette in his mouth bobbed, then he leaned back, plucked it from his lips and blew out a plume of smoke.
I waved it away, struggling to bite my tongue, to stop myself from warning him he was set to die the same way our paternal grandparents had. We all have our vices, I suppose.
Daniel stank to high heaven.
Sometimes, I thought he smoked because even though he looked cool on the outside, his mind never stopped working, and he didn’t want it going places he couldn’t get pulled out from.
A sigh heaved out of me. I would’ve torn my own damn heart out of my chest bare-handed before I changed a single hair on Daniel’s head. But I would’ve sold anything at any price if I could’ve changed Danny’s past — even more so than my own.
We’d become so ruthless; I sometimes didn’t recognize the boys we’d once been.
Why couldn’t one of us have escaped the brutal gauntlet of the Michaelson legacy?
Then I shook myself. God, what kind of masochist was I to reminisce at a time like this? Lifting a hand, the streetlight outside strangely caught my scars and calluses, washing them clean in pure white light, almost as these two strong hands hadn’t been bloodied more times than I could count.
As always, it was just the two of us in the Crow’s Nest. That was the nickname for our offices taking up the top floor of theThresher Building, a concrete and brick monolith built back in the 30s on Thresher and Wolf Docks.
Originally meant for unloading ships, it now dealt with trailers from semis coming from Conley terminal right across the channel. My grandfather and great-uncles had converted the top floors into respectable-looking office spaces, while the bottom floors still had some of that old speakeasy filth and charm.
Standing at one of the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the terminal with the lights of the seaport rising up behind, I wondered why my father and his brothers had eschewed this from the place downtown. I wondered whether the time had come for me to sell the downtown place, or at least rent it.
All of that space in Back Bay sitting empty and purposeless in a city squeezed for size was criminal. I blew out a breath.
Living up to my name, at least.
Daniel suddenly growled, and I glanced back in time to see him look over his monitor. He scowled as he demanded, “What are you huffing about over there?”
“Property market,” I answered.
For a second, Daniel looked puzzled. Then his face cleared and nodded. “Back Bay? Burn it down.”
I laughed and turned, leaning back against the biting cold of the glass. “Insurance fraud? Guess it’s been a minute.”
“No,” he said. “As afuck youto our fathers.”
I swore Danny’s eyes darkened. Again, I had that fervent wish to change his past, or, to the very least, go kick hisgavoneof a father’s ass. But the old man was locked up nice and tidy in a federal joint. At least I could appreciate the irony that my Uncle Sal needed the government to protect him from me.
Pushing off against the window, I walked over and spoke in an easy voice, “Tempting… Too tempting.”
“Another time,” Daniel said and pushed up his glasses, rubbing his eyes. “I got somethin’.”
“What?” I strode over and leaned down, staring at the computer screen. There were about a dozen windows open: some articles, a few pictures, a tab that looked like an FBI database, the Boston police dispatch controller, CompSTAT crime reporting, and a black box in the corner running with a colorful code. “Translate for me, Einstein.”
In response, Daniel hit a button and a chatroom popped up. “I had no choice.”
“Mannaggia che guaio,” I groaned when I saw the other user’s handle.Damn, what a mess.“Tello? How much for his intel this time?”
Carmine “Tell-All” Tello was a rat in the Boston Police Department and a damn genius for playing both sides. He had protection from the political higher-ups and the criminal ones. On top of that, he had a nice little racket charging for inside information on cops and politicians. His prices were outrageous, sure, but Tello’s information was always on the damn nose. So, as much as it hurt to pay the rat for a Hail Mary like this, it was worth it.
“One-eighty-five,” Daniel said grimly and I had to resist the urge to throw my cousin’s computer out into the ocean. The rat had some nerve asking for nearly two hundred grand to confirm what we already knew. Or so I thought until my cousin said, “and that’s the good news.”
“Elaborate,” I demanded, and Daniel gestured to the seat next to him. “Christ, that bad?”
“According to our friend Tello, he’s heard rumors about Weiss’s operation for ages,” Daniel explained. “But the rat never thought anything of it. Figured it was the BPD makin’ shit up to satisfy the mayor’s office, feed the local media, you know. But then there was that bust-up down the coast, and someone actuallynamedTello.”
