The radiator in the corner of my office hisses, a rhythmic, metallic gasp that does nothing to cut the January chill. Conor Halligan sits across from me, his charcoal wool overcoat still buttoned to the chin. He looks older than he did at the wedding—sharper, the scar across his nose a jagged white line against his pale, freckled skin. For three years, he was a ghost in a Southie ghost story. Now, he is a man with a homicide problem.
"The harbor pulled a body up this morning," I say, my voice as level as a court transcript. I keep my hands flat on the desk, the gold claddagh ring on my finger catching the dim light. Niamh gave it to me the morning she married him. By Tuesday, she was gone. Conor leans forward, the steel of his watch glinting. He doesn't look like a widower; he looks like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike a deal.
"It isn't her, Aisling," he says, his voice a low, gravelled rasp that vibrates in the small room. "The girl in the water isn't your sister. But the Feds are going to say it is to bring me in. I need a retainer on the books before Quinn signs the warrant." He reaches into his coat, the movement fluid and dangerous. Conor's hand slides a thick brown envelope across the polished mahogany, withholding its contents.
