“Just keep talking to me, ma’am,” the operator urged.
“What should I talk about?” Olivia asked, her voice edgy. The only subject that came to mind was how quickly her life had changed in such a short time. Two months ago, she’d been on top of the game, Boston’s most successful antiques dealer. She travelled all over the country, searching out the finest American antiques for her shop. Her client list read like a Who’s Who of East Coast society. And she’d recently been named to the board of one of Boston’s most prestigious historical societies. There was even talk that she might be asked to appear on the public television show Antiques Caravan.
All this for a girl who’d grown up not on Beacon Hill, but in a working-class neighborhood of Boston. But she’d risen above her rather common beginnings, leaving her past far behind and creating a whole new identity for herself—a wonderful, exciting identity, filled with travel and parties and influential friends. And financial security. She had saved only one thing from her childhood—an interest in anything one hundred years old or older.
“My parents were antique fanatics,” she murmured to the operator, surrendering to the memory. “They used to haul me from auction to auction as a child, eeking out a living with a tiny little secondhand shop on the North End. We never knew where the next meal was coming from, never knew if we’d scrape together enough to pay the rent. It was frightening for a child, that uncertainty.”
“Don’t be frightened,” the operator said. “The police are on their way.”
“When I got older,” Olivia continued, “they turned to me for authentication and I became an expert in 18th- and 19th-century New England furniture makers. My parents never had a very good eye for fine antiques and when I was just out of high school, they decided to try the restaurant business, managing a truck stop off the interstate in Jacksonville, Florida.”
“The police are just a few minutes away, Ms. Farrell.”
She continued talking, the sound of her own voice soothing her fears. As long as she could talk, then she was still alive and the fear couldn’t consume her. “I stayed behind to attend college. I worked three different jobs for pocket change. I lived from hand to mouth for nearly my entire freshman year at Boston College, scraping to pay tuition and rent. I hated that. And then I found my very first ‘treasure,’ a Sheraton chair I bought for $15.00 at a tag sale and resold for $4,000.00 at a consignment auction.”
From that moment on, Olivia had paid for her college education by buying and selling antiques. She discovered she had an uncanny eye for spotting valuable pieces in the most unlikely places—garage sales, thrift shops, estate auctions. She could tell a reproduction from an original at fifty paces and was a skilled bidder.
“Even though I majored in art at Boston College, I fell naturally into a career in antiques. I rented my first showroom space the year I graduated. Six years later, I formed a partnership with one of my clients. Kevin Ford was a man with money. I thought I had it made. He bought a beautiful retail space on Charles Street at the base of Beacon Hill.” Olivia sighed. “How could I have been so naive?”
“The police will be there in approximately thirty seconds, ma’am,” the operator said.
Olivia could already hear the sirens in the distance over the traffic outside the gallery. But even the police couldn’t get her out of the mess she’d made of her life. She blamed herself for this whole thing. When Kevin bought the building, she’d had her doubts. Though he was wealthy, he certainly didn’t have the millions to buy retail space on Charles Street. But all Olivia could see was the next stage in her meteoric rise to the top of Boston society—and all the business that would come her way.
Had she trusted her instincts, she might have realized that Kevin Ford’s bottomless wallet came from underworld connections. That fact had been proved when Olivia overheard a late-night conversation between Ford and one of Ford’s most important clients, Red Keenan—a man she later learned was a Boston crime boss who’d ordered a handful of murders last year alone.
The sound of more glass smashing made her jump and she prepared herself for the worst. But then a familiar voice brought a rush of relief. “Ms. Farrell? Are you all right?”
Olivia poked her head up over the back of the chaise. She waved weakly at Assistant District Attorney Elliott Shulman, the man in charge of the murder case against Red Keenan. “I—I’m still alive,” she said.
He hurried through the shop and helped her to her feet. “This is just unacceptable,” he muttered. “Where was the police protection I ordered?”
“They’re still parked outside my flat,” Olivia murmured, a warm flush flooding her face.
Shulman gasped. “You went out without telling them?”
She nodded, her spine stiffening at his censorious tone. “I—I just needed to get some work done. The shop has been closed for almost two months. I have bills to pay, antiques to sell. If I don’t work with my clients, they’ll go someplace else.”
Shulman grabbed her by the elbow and led her toward the front door, his fingers firm on her arm. “Well, you’ve seen what Red Keenan is capable of, Ms. Farrell. Maybe now you’ll listen to us and take his threats seriously?”
Olivia yanked her arm from his grasp. “I still don’t understand why he’d want me dead. Kevin can testify to the whole sordid business. I just overheard them talking. And I didn’t hear that much.”
“As I told you before, Ms. Farrell, your partner isn’t talking. You’re the only witness who can put the two of them together. After what happened tonight, we’re going to have to hide you. Somewhere safe, out of town.”
Olivia gasped. “I—I just can’t leave. Look at this mess. Who’s going to repair the window? I can’t let the weather come in. These antiques are valuable. And what about my clients? This could ruin me financially!”
“We’ll call someone to replace the window right away. Until then, I’ll leave a patrolman outside. You’re coming with me down to the station until we find a safe house for you.”
Olivia grabbed her coat and purse from a circa 1830 primitive wardrobe next to her desk, then reluctantly followed Shulman to the front door. Maybe it was time to go into hiding. It was only for a couple of weeks, until the trial started. At least she’d feel safe again. When she stepped out onto the sidewalk, she gave her keys to the patrolman and murmured detailed instructions on the security code. When she finished, she closed her eyes and drew a long breath.
“Promise me I’ll have my old life back soon,” she said, trying to still the tremor in her voice.
“We’ll do our best, Ms. Farrell.”
CONOR QUINN knew the meaning of a bad day. Drugs, hookers, booze, smut—this was his life. Working vice for the Boston Police Department, he couldn’t recall a day that hadn’t been tainted by society’s ills. He reached inside his jacket pocket for the ever-present pack of cigarettes, his own private vice, then remembered he’d quit three days ago.
With a soft oath, he slid his empty glass across the bar and motioned to the bartender. Seamus Quinn approached, wiping his scarred hands on a bar towel. His dark hair had turned white and he now walked with a stoop owing to years of back-breaking labor on his swordfish boat. Conor’s father had given up fishing a few years back. The Mighty Quinn now bobbed silently at its moorings in Hull harbor, brother Brendan using it as a temporary home on the rare occasions he stayed in Boston. Seamus had moved on, using his meager savings and a gambling boon to purchase his favorite pub in a rough and tumble section of South Boston.
“Buy you