The silver cell phone that lay on the passenger seat of
the beige Cadillac buzzed and vibrated, like a dying fly
on a dusty windowsill.
Connor slouched lower in the driver's seat and
contemplated it. Normal people were wired to grab the
thing, check the number, and respond. In him, those wires
were cut, that programming deleted. He stared at it,
amazed at his own indifference. Or maybe amazed was too
strong a word. Stupefied would be closer. Let it die. Five
rings. Six. Seven. Eight. The cell phone persisted,
buzzing angrily.
It got up to fourteen, and gave up in disgust.
He went back to staring at Tiffs current love nest through
the rain that trickled over the windshield. It was a big,
ugly town house that squatted across the street. The world
outside the car was a blurry wash of grays and greens.
Lights still on in the second-floor bedroom. Tiff was
taking her time. He checked his watch. She was usually a
slam-barn, twenty-minutes-at-the-most sort of girl, but
she'd gone up those stairs almost forty minutes ago. A
record, for her.
Maybe it was true love.
Connor snorted to himself, hefting the heavy camera into
place and training the telephoto lens on the doorway. He
wished she'd hurry. Once he'd snapped the photos her
husband had paid McCloud Investigative Services to get,
his duty would be done, and he could crawl back under his
rock. A dark bar and a shot of single malt, someplace
where the pale gray daylight could not sting his eyes.
Where he could concentrate on not thinking about Erin.
He let the camera drop with a sigh, and pulled out his
tobacco and rolling papers. After he'd woken up from the
coma, during the agonizing tedium of rehab, he'd gotten
the bright idea of switching to hand-rolled, reasoning
that if he let himself roll them only with his fucked-up
hand, he'd slow down and consequently smoke less. Problem
was, he got good at it real fast. By now he could roll a
tight cigarette in seconds flat with either hand, without
looking. So much for that pathetic attempt at self-
mastery.
He rolled the cigarette on autopilot, eyes trained on the
town house, and wondered idly who had called. Only three
people had the number: his friend Seth, and his two
brothers, Sean and Davy. Seth for sure had better things
to do on a Saturday afternoon than call him. The guy was
neck-deep in honeymoon bliss with Raine. Probably writhing
in bed right now, engaged in sex acts that were still
against the law somewhere in the southern states. Lucky
bastard.
Connor's mouth twisted in self-disgust. Seth had suffered,
too, from all the shit that had come down in the past few
months. He was a good guy, and a true friend, if a
difficult one. He deserved the happiness he'd found with
Raine. It was unworthy of Connor to be envious, but Jesus.
Watching those two, glowing like neon, joined at the hip,
sucking on each other's faces, wellβ¦it didn't help.
Connor wrenched his mind away from that dead-end track and
stared at the cell phone. Couldn't be Seth. He checked his
watch. His younger brother Scan was at the dojo at this
hour, teaching an afternoon kickboxing class. That left
his older brother, Davy.
Boredom tricked him into picking up the cell phone to
check the number, and as if the goddamn thing had been
lying in wait for him, it buzzed right in his hand, making
him jump and curse. Telepathic bastard. Davy's instincts
and timing were legendary.
He gave in and pushed the talk button with a grunt of
disgust.
"What?"
"Nick called." Davy's deep voice was brusque and
businesslike.
"So?"
"What do you mean, so? The guy's your friend. You need
your friends, Con. You worked with him for years, and he--
"
"I'm not working with him," Connor said flatly. "I'm not
working with any of them now."
Davy made an inarticulate, frustrated sound. "I know I
promised not to give out this number, but it was a
mistake. Call him, or I'll--"
"Don't do it," Connor warned.
"Don't make me," Davy said.
"So I'll throw the phone into the nearest Dumpster,"
Connor said, his voice casual. "I don't give a flying
fuck."
He could almost hear his older brother's teeth
grinding. "You know, your attitude sucks," Davy said.
"Stop trying to shove me around, and it won't bother you
so much," Connor suggested.
Davy treated him to a long pause, calculated to make
Connor feel guilty and flustered. It didn't work. He just
waited right back.
"He wants to talk to you," Davy finally said. His voice
was carefully neutral. "Says it's important."
The light in the town house bedroom went off. Connor
lifted the camera to the ready. "Don't even want to know,"
he said.
Davy grunted in disgust. "Got Tiff's latest adventure on
film yet?"
"Any minute now. She's just finishing up."
"Got plans after?"
Connor hesitated. "Uh..."
βIβve got steaks in the fridge," Davy wheedled. "And a
case of Anchor Steam."
"I'm not really hungry."
"I know. You haven't been hungry for the past year and a
half.
That's why you've lost twenty-five goddamn pounds. Get the
pictures, and then get your ass over here. You need to
eat."
Connor sighed. His brother knew how useless his blustering
orders were, but he refused to get a clue. His stubborn
skull was harder than concrete. "Hey, Davy. It's not that
I don't like your cooking--"
"Nick's got some news that might interest you about
Novak." Connor shot bolt upright in his seat, the heavy
camera bouncing painfully off his scarred leg. "Novak?
What about Novak?"
"That's it. That's all he said."
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