Page 45 of Her Irish Savage

Fiona asks a question with her eyebrows. I shake my head. “Someone who trusts both of us,” she says.

“I don’t talk to strangers on the phone. Can we meet in person?”

“Yes,” Fiona says.

“Monday morning,” the woman says.

“Tomorrow,” Fiona says. She clearly doesn’t want to wait.

“Tomorrow is Sunday. I go to church. Spend time with family. We can meet on Monday.”

“Fine,” Fiona says, resigned, but not happy about losing the round.

“Caffe Isabella,” the woman says. “On the waterfront. Ten o’clock.”

I shake my head. On principal, I won’t take the first place offered.

Fiona says, “Monday at ten. But let’s meet at The Black Sheep.”

I wince. The pub is in the heart of Crew territory. There’s no telling how many eyes and ears will report back to thedúnbefore we’ve settled in a booth.

But the old woman seems to have her own rules. She makes a spitting sound, then says, “Not three blocks from the gray house.”

She knows about thedún.

Fiona holds up empty hands, asking for suggestions. I haven’t been in Boston for more than two decades. I don’t know the best place for black-market shenanigans.

But I know a place that’s easy to get to. That’s far enough from thedúnthat none of Dowd’s men is likely to happen by. That’s got tables outside, where it’ll be a hell of a lot harder for this woman or any of her associates to plant a camera or a bug.

The Bell clangs. I know better than to act on impulse. But sometimes impulse is the only thing I have to go on. I grab one of the menus from the bowl, along with a pen, and I print in big letters on a patch of white paper.

“Yankee Roast,” Fiona says. She reads off the address as I add it.

“Yankee Roast,” our mystery woman says. “At ten. On Monday.” And she ends the call without another word.

Fiona shakes her head as she hands back my phone. “You think this will work?” she asks.

“As long as I’m not the one ordering,” I say.

But somehow I suspect that salt in the coffee will be the least of our problems.

17

FIONA

Patrick sends me into the bakery, telling me to get him a cup of coffee. As I wait in line to place my order, I watch him edge the end table further away from the others. I set my sunglasses on top of my head to better watch him working.

Two women stand behind the counter. From the structure of their cheekbones and the curve of their lips, I’m guessing they’re a mother/daughter team. But Mother isn’t exactly welcoming when I get to the front of the line.

Glaring out the window, she asks, “You’re with him?”

I shrug, like I’d rather be anywhere else in the world. “He’s just moving the table so he can sit in the sun,” I say. “Old bones.”

She’s building up a head of steam, and I wonder why Patrick chose this place for my summit with Rónnad. But the younger woman steps forward with a smile as soothing as foam on a latte. “It’s time for your break, Ma,” she says. And whenher mother hesitates, “Go on. Take your tea. Put your feet up in the office and close your eyes for a bit.”

The older woman grumbles, but she drops a bag of chamomile into a glazed mug. She stares out at Moran as she siphons off hot water, her lips moving like she’s muttering a spell.

“Don’t let those chairs block the sidewalk,” she warns me.

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