Sign of the Maker (Boston Crime Thriller Book 4) Brian Shea (black authors fiction txt) 📖

press the flesh with this woman less than half his age, but that wasn't on the agenda today. Doyle halted her attempted seduction with a dismissive wave of his hand, stopping the girl's excited efforts to undress. He could see she was hurt by the gesture and Doyle knew it would cost him. She'd gotten mad at him before, usually around special occasions where Pearson caught a glimpse of her actual standing in the powerful man's life. When those instances arose, she took it out on him, giving him the cold shoulder or forgetting to schedule something important. It was annoying, but he dealt with it, because the sex was amazing.

"It's not you. Trust me." Doyle knew any verbal attempt at reconciliation would only be met with more hostility. He'd have to buy her something nice. "I've got some personal business I need to take care of this morning."

Pearson’s porcelain cheeks reddened as she hastily re-buttoned her shirt to an appropriate level and straightened her hiked-up skirt. She turned on her heels and prepared to leave.

"I'll make it up to you later, I promise." Doyle offered a conciliatory wink. Her unresponsive face told him she did not accept it.

"Is there anything else I can get you?" Her tone was no longer playful.

"No, that's it, just lock the door when you leave."

"What should I tell the board?"

“Just tell them I'm on an important call and I'll be there as soon as I can. They can start the meeting without me."

She turned and walked to the door. Just before it closed behind her, Doyle said, "You look good today."

She gave a halfhearted smile and left the room, locking it behind her as instructed. Doyle looked at the stack of paperwork she'd brought for him to review and sign. But the box caught his eye. He set it aside and went back to the drawer, unlocking it and pulling out the cell phone, the one he told himself he’d never have to use. He powered it on and waited a few seconds for the device to activate before calling the number.

"Long time," a woman said on the other end. It had been fifteen years, give or take, since he'd heard the smoky crackle of her nicotine-fueled voice.

"We need to meet, all of us."

She coughed hard, a phlegmy, thick cough. He remembered when she hadn’t been so rough around the edges. He remembered when he loved her. "Meet? What's the point?"

"We've got to figure out who's doing this."

She ignored the comment. "You know what we did. We didn't hold our end of the bargain, and now we're paying for it."

"I just shifted a meeting this morning; meet me for a cup of coffee. I'll get ahold of McLaughlin, and we can meet at that café by the water. Remember where?"

"I can't, not now, not today. I'm on my way to work. My bartender was a no-show for the morning prep, so it looks like I've got to help tend bar."

Doyle kept tabs on Maeve Flynn. He knew she had owned and operated The Monkey Wrench for the better part of the last twenty years and had done so with a relatively high degree of success. "You don't have another bartender who can cover? You know how important this is."

"Nope. Fired the other one last week." She coughed into the receiver. "Not all of us are millionaires, Kev. This is my business, and if I don't show that means I've got to close down the bar for today. I can't afford the loss. Why don't you stop by the bar later?"

"Maybe I will. Let me see if I can get ahold of McLaughlin."

"I've got to head out now. It was good hearing your voice again."

"Was it?" Maeve had been the one woman he truly wanted but could never have. Twenty-plus years ago there had been a spark. But things were complicated then. In the wake of their fallout, any chance of a relationship had dissolved into thin air. In the years since they had last spoken, he had tricked his mind into forgetting those feelings, telling himself it was a young fool's love. Hearing her voice again unraveled that lie. Doyle was still madly in love with her.

"We'll talk again soon. Promise," she said, hanging up the phone.

His next call would be to McLaughlin. He eyed the phone and then the package. He decided to see what was inside. Maybe it was related to the spiraling situation. He set the phone aside and grabbed a letter opener. He slid the blade along the edge, slicing the light brown packaging tape. His fingers pried open the box at the seam.

Doyle was immediately blinded by a white light, brighter than a thousand lighthouses. He never heard the bang as the package in his hand exploded.

15

The hulky correctional guard escorted Kelly and Barnes through the corridor and out into the main lobby of Souza-Baranowski Correctional Center. "You gonna need me to pull a copy of that interview from the cameras, Detectives?"

Kelly could read between the lines. Anderson must've realized the interview had gone much shorter than expected. It was doubtful the corrections officer wanted to do the extra legwork required to produce the audio recording.

"Nah, not yet. Just mark it for me. You can do that, right? In case I need to pull it later?"

"Yeah, it stays in our system. Just keep a note of the date, time, and the interview room you were in and anybody here on the administrative side of the house can access the database and compile it for you at a later time. Just be mindful that our digital recording system purges itself the first of every month to make room."

"If this bomber's still on the loose in a month, we've got more to worry about than a useless recording," Kelly muttered to himself. "We should be good for now. Thanks."

As they walked out the main doors, Kelly's cell phone vibrated continuously. A barrage of messages, both text and voice, flooded in.