Callous

Kate was in hell. No matter where she turned, there was death and injury.

Nora B, dead.

Dio, dead.

Her brother shot and now in jail.

Her older brother had been attacked.

Her fictional heroine, Claire DeWitt, was no help now. Kate felt Claire had abandoned her in Brooklyn.

This new life in Ireland was seriously fucked.

Her doorbell went and she wondered what fresh disaster was waiting.

Her brother, Mitch; disaster enough.

She led him in, offered a drink, settled for coffee.

“So?”

She asked,

“Who did you sell down the river now?”

He tried to broach the subject of Nora, said,

“I’d no inkling she’d kill herself.”

Kate gave a bitter chuckle, said,

“You sold your own brother, why would a girl who simply liked you be any different.”

He tried,

“Kate, there’s just us two now. We should stick together.”

Kate said,

“I didn’t like you when you were a cop, even less when you were a priest, and now as a snitch, well, you figure out how that plays.”

He made the awful mistake of moving to hug her and she reacted forcefully, said,

“Are you mad? A hug?”

Kate looked at him with utter contempt. He let his arms slump down, said,

“You know where I live if you change your mind. I’m always here for you.”

She made a face, went,

“When, like, one time, were you there for me?”

He couldn’t, turned to go. Kate said,

“Colin is hoping to get released.”

He was stunned, said,

“When, how?”

She gave a bitter laugh, said,

“The arrest warrant was screwed up.”

He asked,

“And his buddies?”

“Not so good for them.”

Mason, the U.S. Marshal whose face had been slashed by one of Colin’s buddies, developed a fearsome infection and was in such bad condition that they shipped him home.

With Dio dead,

Mason out of his life,

Things might have seemed to be better for Keegan.

Nope.

The new top dog, El Grillo, was beginning to look at him with those hooded eyes that spelled nothing good. Keegan, without a word to anyone, took the boat to England, stayed in one of those transit hotels in London, arranged a flight to Switzerland, and went there to visit his money.

He’d dumped all his phones but was tempted to keep Dio’s, the one that held so much data, but figured cell towers might lead pursuers to him, so he binned it in Brixton.

Keegan had completed his business in his Zurich bank, came out, and started to cross the street when he was hit by a car. He didn’t die instantly but had enough time to register the make of the car, muttered with his dying breath,

“Daimler. A fine model.”

I was at home, sipping on a brew, trying to figure out the next step in my life, rummaging in my jacket, I found the crumpled card

I thought about it, then picked up my phone, dialed the number, heard Leeds’s voice. I took a deep breath, asked,

“You still up for the investigation gig?”

My father had always said,

“Be able to call yourself something.” And I had tried

Cop.

Priest.

Brother.

Just maybe a crazy idea would be the way to go.