Chapter Twenty-Three

Twenty-Three

Rosie woke up. I fed her. Then Spike, Elspeth, and I all had breakfast at the kitchen table—coffee, orange juice, a fruit salad I'd thrown together quickly, and these really good bagels I'd picked up at Mamaleh's a week ago and frozen. Spike wolfed down two bagels in quick succession. Elspeth picked at some of the fruit, explaining she wanted to save room for her office holiday brunch. We talked about the weather, the holidays, our families, sports, politics even—anything and everything but Elspeth's murderous, missing boss. The whole time, though, we all kept stealing looks at her phone, which sat next to the plate of bagels like a bomb about to detonate.

Toward the end of breakfast, it dinged once.

"Can you look at it?" Elspeth said to me.

I read the text and exhaled, realizing only then that I'd been holding my breath. "It's from your mom," I said. "She's reminding you to wish your aunt Debbie a happy birthday."

Elspeth smiled. "Still nothing from Dylan."

"Nope."

We all went to various rooms to get ready for work. I kept a few of Spike's shirts and jeans in my guest room closet especially for his occasional overnight stays, and he availed himself of those and showered and changed in the guest bathroom.

It took me a little while to decide what to wear, since my no-doubt busy workday also included a luncheon with the Welches. Ultimately, I settled on a Burberry wool dress in a deep red plaid, paired with a black Tom Ford jacket and low-heeled, black Bottega Veneta boots—hopefully covering all bases in terms of comfort and understated chic.

Elspeth looked spectacular in my white Armani suit—like a young power broker. Spike said he'd drive her to work and make sure she got to the office safely. "Let me know when you're leaving," he added. "I'll escort you home, too."

"You don't have to do that," she said.

"I know," Spike said. "But if I don't, I'll worry."

She smiled. "Thanks."

As she was grabbing her coat, Elspeth's phone dinged again. We all looked at it. It was from Dylan this time. How do u know about Moon?

I took the phone and replied. His guy came by the office .

Bubbles again. A solid thirty seconds of them, at least. And then, finally, the reply arrived.

Thx

"Thanks? That's all?" Elspeth said.

"Apparently," I said.

"What does it mean?"

Spike took his coat from the couch and put it on. "I think it means you've got some time to yourself," he said. "But I wouldn't count on it being for too long."

He and Elspeth and I said goodbye. I closed the door. Two seconds later, there was a knock. I opened it. "Call Desmond," Spike said.

"Okay, okay."

I watched the two of them walk to the elevator and closed and locked my door. Then I called Desmond. It was still before nine, but knowing my former father-in-law, he'd already been up for at least three or four hours.

Sure enough, he answered quickly. "Sunny?" he said. "Again?"

"Hi, Desmond."

"Did my son—"

"No," I said. "No, he did not. I'm actually calling about a gun."

"What?"

I opened my purse, pulled out the thug's gun, and looked at it. I found it clumsier than my .38, but that could have just been a familiarity thing. "It's a Ruger MAX-9," I said. "I took it from that idiot I was telling you about. Moon's guy. Baseball cap. I told him I would give it to you and he could ask you for it."

"Let me clarify this," he said. "Moon Monaghan truly is having you followed?"

"Was," I said.

"Why?"

"Well, it's not me he's after. It's Dylan Welch, whose phone I had. Ever hear of him? He owes Moon money. Moon's people have been tracking him through his phone, but he's gone missing. I've been hired to find him, which is why I had the phone he left behind—the same one they were tracking. Make sense?"

There was a long pause on the other end of the line. "Yes. I've heard of Dylan Welch," Desmond said finally. His voice was as dry and heavy as dirt on a grave.

"So…" I cleared my throat. "How can I get this gun to you?"

"I don't give a fuck."

"Pardon?"

Desmond didn't say anything for a long while. I could sense his anger, but I wasn't sure about its source. It made me feel as though I had to forcibly drag it out of him—which made me angry, too. At times like this, he reminded me of his son, and not in a good way. May as well accomplish something while I'm waiting for him to talk. I put Desmond on speaker, unloaded the gun, and placed the ammo beside it on the kitchen table. The whole time, he remained quiet. Once I was certain the gun was safe, I took Desmond off speaker and picked up the phone. "Okay, I give up," I said. "What's wrong?"

"Dylan Welch is a prick," he said.

"No argument there," I said.

"He's owed us before. We've had him followed before. He's a waste of our time, money, and manpower. I've informed everyone within my organization not to work with him again."

I took a breath. "Oh," I said.

"Moon didn't listen to me."

"To be fair," I said, "Moon is a bigger prick than Dylan. And unlike Dylan, he's old enough to know better."

"Moon always listened to me in the past," Desmond said. "He always did as I asked."

"He probably forgot about Welch," I said. "Moon is an idiot."

"It isn't that," he said quietly. "He thinks I'm…slowing down."

I knew what he meant. My dad had said similar. You get older, people don't take you as seriously. They know you're going to leave the party soon, so they stop bothering to serve you drinks, Phil Randall would say. And while it did upset me when he made depressing observations like that, I could see it sometimes in the way strangers treated him—waiters or sales clerks looking to me for verification, as though what he'd just requested didn't matter. As though this decorated and revered police chief had somehow regressed back to toddlerhood, simply by virtue of his cane. "It isn't you," I told Desmond. Same as I would have told my dad. "It's him."

Desmond cleared his throat. "I'll send one of the boys to your office to pick up the gun," he said. "When is a good time for you?"

"Between ten and eleven works, or late afternoon," I said. "I have a luncheon at noon on Beacon Hill."

"You do, eh? That sounds lovely." This made me smile. It always did, hearing this hardened criminal describe something as "lovely." Yet it was a word he said often. It brought out his Irish lilt.

"I don't know how lovely it will be," I said. "The luncheon is with Dylan's parents."

"Well, then. You'll have some news for them, won't you?"

And for the first time, I thought about what that luncheon was going to be like. The good news/bad news speech I'd soon be forced to deliver about Bill and Lydia Welch's only son. The good news is, he's alive… I cringed. "You and Phil have it pretty lucky, you know that?" I said. "I mean, as far as your offspring goes, you've pretty much hit the jackpot."

It was a bit of an exaggeration. Richie and I had messed up plenty of times in our lives, and my sister, Elizabeth, was no walk in the park. But compared to Dylan Welch…

"Don't I know it," Desmond said.

I smiled. "And don't worry about Moon, okay? He's a waste of space. A moron. I meant it when I said that's no reflection on you."

He let out a long, mirthless chuckle. "He made a big mistake," he said. "But it doesn't matter. Life's too short. I'm already over it."

I didn't say anything, but I knew he wasn't.