haul me from auction to auction as a child, eeking out a living with a tiny little secondhand shop on the North End. We never knew where the next meal was coming from, never knew if we’d scrape together enough to pay the rent. It was frightening for a child, that uncertainty.”
“Don’t be frightened,” the operator said. “The police are on their way.”
“When I got older,” Olivia continued, “they turned to me for authentication and I became an expert in 18th- and 19th-century New England furniture makers. My parents never had a very good eye for fine antiques and when I was just out of high school, they decided to try the restaurant business, managing a truck stop off the interstate in Jacksonville, Florida.”
“The police are just a few minutes away, Ms. Farrell.”
She continued talking, the sound of her own voice soothing her fears. As long as she could talk, then she was still alive and the fear couldn’t consume her. “I stayed behind to attend college. I worked three different jobs for pocket change. I lived from hand to mouth for nearly my entire freshman year at Boston College, scraping to pay tuition and rent. I hated that. And then I found my very first ‘treasure,’ a Sheraton chair I bought for $15.00 at a tag sale and resold for $4,000.00 at a consignment auction.”
From that moment on, Olivia had paid for her college education by buying and selling antiques. She discovered she had an uncanny eye for spotting valuable pieces in the most unlikely places-garage sales, thrift shops, estate auctions. She could tell a reproduction from an original at fifty paces and was a skilled bidder.
“Even though I majored in art at Boston College, I fell naturally into a career in antiques. I rented my first showroom space the year I graduated. Six years later, I formed a partnership with one of my clients. Kevin Ford was a man with money. I thought I had it made. He bought a beautiful retail space on Charles Street at the base of Beacon Hill.” Olivia sighed. “How could I have been so naive?”
“The police will be there in approximately thirty seconds, ma’am,” the operator said.
Olivia could already hear the sirens in the distance over the traffic outside the gallery. But even the police couldn’t get her out of the mess she’d made of her life. She blamed herself for this whole thing. When Kevin bought the building, she’d had her doubts. Though he was wealthy, he certainly didn’t have the millions to buy retail space on Charles Street. But all Olivia could see was the next stage in her meteoric rise to the top of Boston society-and all the business that would come her way.
Had she trusted her instincts, she might have realized that Kevin Ford’s bottomless wallet came from underworld connections. That fact had been proved when Olivia overheard a late-night conversation between Ford and one of Ford’s most important clients, Red Keenan-a man she later learned was a Boston crime boss who’d ordered a handful of murders last year alone.
The sound of more glass smashing made her jump and she prepared herself for the worst. But then a familiar voice brought a rush of relief. “Ms. Farrell? Are you all right?”
Olivia poked her head up over the back of the chaise. She waved weakly at Assistant District Attorney Elliott Shulman, the man in charge of the murder case against Red Keenan. “I-I’m still alive,” she said.
He hurried through the shop and helped her to her feet. “This is just unacceptable,” he muttered. “Where was the police protection I ordered?”
“They’re still parked outside my flat,” Olivia murmured, a warm flush flooding her face.
Shulman gasped. “You went out without telling them?”
She nodded, her spine stiffening at his censorious tone. “I-I just needed to get some work done. The shop has been closed for almost two months. I have bills to pay, antiques to sell. If I don’t work with my clients, they’ll go someplace else.”
Shulman grabbed her by the elbow and led her toward the front door, his fingers firm on her arm. “Well, you’ve seen what Red Keenan is capable of, Ms. Farrell. Maybe now you’ll listen to us and take his threats seriously?”
Olivia yanked her arm from his grasp. “I still don’t understand why he’d want me dead. Kevin can testify to the whole sordid business. I just overheard them talking. And I didn’t hear that much.”
“As I told you before, Ms. Farrell, your partner isn’t talking. You’re the only witness who can put the two of them together. After what happened tonight, we’re going to have to hide you. Somewhere safe, out of town.”
Olivia gasped. “I-I just can’t leave. Look at this mess. Who’s going to repair the window? I can’t let the weather come in. These antiques are valuable. And what about my clients? This could ruin me financially!”
“We’ll call someone to replace the window right away. Until then, I’ll leave a patrolman outside. You’re coming with me down to the station until we find a safe house for you.”
Olivia grabbed her coat and purse from a circa 1830 primitive wardrobe next to her desk, then reluctantly followed Shulman to the front door. Maybe it was time to go into hiding. It was only for a couple of weeks, until the trial started. At least she’d feel safe again. When she stepped out onto the sidewalk, she gave her keys to the patrolman and murmured detailed instructions on the security code. When she finished, she closed her eyes and drew a long breath.
“Promise me I’ll have my old life back soon,” she said, trying to still the tremor in her voice.
“We’ll do our best, Ms. Farrell.”
CONOR QUINN knew the meaning of a bad day. Drugs, hookers, booze, smut-this was his life. Working vice for the Boston Police Department, he couldn’t recall a day that hadn’t been tainted by society’s ills. He reached inside his jacket pocket for the ever-present pack of cigarettes, his own private vice, then remembered he’d quit three days ago.
With a soft oath, he slid his empty glass across the bar and motioned to the bartender. Seamus Quinn approached, wiping his scarred hands on a bar towel. His dark hair had turned white and he now walked with a stoop owing to years of back-breaking labor on his swordfish boat. Conor’s father had given up fishing a few years back.
“Buy you a pint, Con?” Seamus asked in his rugged brogue.
Though Ireland was still thick in his father’s voice, little of the Quinn brothers’ birthplace remained in their memories. Yet, every now and then, Conor could still hear traces of the old country in his own voice, traces that he sometimes caught in Dylan and Brendan, too. But they were Americans through and through, all of the brothers had become naturalized citizens-save Liam, who’d been born in America-the day their parents took the oath.
Conor shook his head. “I’m on duty in a half hour, Da. Danny’s picking me up here.”
Seamus gave him a shrewd look, then set a club soda in front of Conor, before serving the next patron. Conor watched as his da expertly pulled the Guinness, tipping the glass at the perfect angle and choosing the exact moment to turn off the tap. He set the tall glass on the bar and the pale creamy foam rose to the top, leaving the nut brown brew beneath.
His father didn’t bother asking. Though the rest of the patrons profited from Seamus’s sage advice, over the years the Quinn boys had learned to handle their own problems without parental involvement. In truth, Conor had been the one to dispense advice and discipline to his younger brothers. He still did. Nearly his entire life, from the time he was seven, had been consumed with keeping his family intact at all costs and keeping his brothers on the straight and narrow. Making life safe had been his job, then and now. Now, he was just watching out for a city of a half million instead of five rowdy boys from Southie.
He glanced around the bar, searching for a diversion, anything to get his mind off the events of the day. Seamus Quinn’s pub was known for three things-an authentic Irish atmosphere, the best Irish stew in Boston and rousing Irish music played live every night. It was also known for the six bachelor brothers who hung out at the bar.
Dylan was playing pool with some of his firefighter buddies, all dressed alike in the navy T-shirts of the Boston Fire Department. A bevy of girls had gathered to watch, sending flirtatious looks Dylan’s way. Brian worked the other end of the bar this night and was occupied charming the newest barmaid. Liam had found himself a lively round of darts with a pretty redhead. And Sean stuck to the rear of the pub, dancing to the music of a fiddle and tin whistle with a striking brunette.
It was no different for Brendan when he was in town, finished with another magazine assignment or a research trip for his latest book. A soft and willing woman was the first thing he looked for. And though their father’s warnings about women had been drilled into their heads from an early age, that didn’t stop the six Quinn brothers
