Page 75 of Her Irish Savage

Q looks like he wants to melt into the floor. “A list of assets.”

Patrick flicks a quick glance at me, and I pick up the ball without any hesitation. “Assets?” I ask.

“Physical holdings,” Q says, cringing like a beaten dog. “Belonging to your father.”

“What sort ofphysical holdings?”

Q licks his lips. He looks past Patrick and me, to the door, and then he glances at Patrick’s hidden holster. Correctly concluding that escape is not an option, he says, “Artwork.” Before I can turn his statement into another question, he taps an address at the top of the screen. “In this warehouse.”

“This one? There are others?”

He shrinks three sizes, trying to disappear into his chair. But Patrick isn’t giving him any extra space, and I start to crowd the screen too. Finally, Q says, “Another storage unit has maps dating back to the Revolutionary War. And there’s one with rare books, Irish authors. Some jewelry too.” He clears his throat. “A lot of jewelry.”

I should have expected to find something like this. My father was captain of the Old Colony Crew for decades. General ofthe Grand Irish Union, too. He’s accumulated a lifetime of wealth, far more than the cash value of thedún.

“Send me the list,” I tell Q. “Along with where it’s all held.”

Q hesitates until Patrick leans into his chair. “Send it,” Patrick says.

Q finally complies. After I confirm receipt on my phone, he starts to log out again. But Patrick says, “Wait.” He points to a file namedPhiladelphia.Of course it caught his attention. He’s lived in Philly for decades. “What’s that?”

Q’s face pales to the color of the keyboard beneath his hands. Instead of answering Patrick, he looks at me. “That’s not for your father.”

The evasive answer just makes Patrick loom larger. “What is it?” he asks, in a voice designed to make Q dissolve into a dusty puddle.

“Nothing important. Just a side project. For Aran.”

NowIwant to know what Q is hiding, because I’ll take any ammunition I can use against my asshole uncle. “What sort of project?”

The look of pure desperation on Q’s face tells me I can’t afford to back off now. He finally says, “It’s nothing. Just a little asset diversification.”

“Asset—”

“An international investment.”

“Open it,” Patrick says.

A whine escapes Q’s lips. His eyes plead with me. But I only repeat what Patrick said: “Open it.”

Q’s finger falls on a single key, like a head dropping from a guillotine. The computer screen flashes.

It takes me a moment to parse what I see. It’s a spreadsheet—words and numbers scrolling across the screen in columns.

Euros going to Germany.

Shipments arriving in Philadelphia.

The nameHerzogis repeated on the document. AndCrash. Transactions began six years ago, and they picked up significantlyover the past twenty-four months—until they stopped dead, back in April.

“Send that one too,” Patrick says.

All the fight has gone out of Q. He sends the file without arguing.

The information means nothing to me. But it’s obviously important to Patrick. Maybe it’s a way to make my uncle pay for what he did to me in his office at thedún.I nod once my phone says the file has arrived.

“Okay,” Patrick says, pushing his knee into Q’s chair. “You can go.”

Q scarcely takes time to log out of whatever dark system he’s been in. The instant the library’s logo displays on the computer screen, he sprints for the door. He doesn’t look back, even when a librarian calls out, “Excuse me, sir! No running in the library!”

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