Lie in the Moment Page 2

  “Good,” Roland said, tapping his hat on Zach’s desk. “Now get your ass down to the party.”

  Zach nodded. “Yes, sir. I’ll see you down there.”

  With a nod and a whistle, Roland headed to the elevator. In his pocket, his phone buzzed insistently. Pulling it out, he saw that Milton had texted him again, telling him to hurry his ass up, and he also had a message from the private investigator who’d been following Maura O’Halloran.

  MO just left the station. On the train to downtown.

  Friday night and she’s headed downtown? Does she have a date? He realized that the muscles on his neck were tight and forced himself to relax. The elevator dinged, and Roland stepped into the steel cage without any detectable hesitation. He used the voice commands on his phone to reply to the PI, a man named Hoover.

  Tell me where she goes.

  Roland heard the noise from the party several hundred feet from the entrance to the Hairy Lemon. Bracing himself, he trotted down the street, pulled open the large oak door, and stepped inside.

  Most of the Accendo crowd was gathered in the corner near the thick-paned glass windows—the usual happy hour spot, but there were pockets of his employees scattered through the room, playing pool or watching the Bruins on one of the many TVs around the place. The Hairy Lemon was an unpretentious Irish pub that had been around for decades without changing much. It had a comfortable dive quality that had recently begun attracting hipsters, much to the dismay of Kevin Hannegan, the owner.

  Stripping off his jacket, hat, and gloves, Roland made for a table in the back corner, where his friends were already sitting. On the way he patted a few of the developers on the back, thanking them for their work, took a sip of a hideous craft beer someone wanted him to try, and demonstrated his pickpocketing skills by stealing someone’s iPad from the table without them seeing it happen.

  He thought he had everyone convinced that he was having a grand ol’ time, but he should have known that Milton and Nick, at least, wouldn’t be fooled.

  He sat down next to Milton with a sigh, apparently loud enough to be heard even over the roar of the jukebox and the shouts from the hockey fans.

  “Roland, my friend, I hate to tell you this, but we’re at a party.” Milton slapped him on the back cheerfully. Milton was usually cheerful, especially when his fiancée, Regina Burke, was at his side. She smiled at Roland and rolled her eyes in Milton’s direction.

  “Don’t mind Milton,” she said to Roland in her usual smooth, calm tone, sipping champagne. An enormous princess-cut pink diamond in a classic Tiffany setting sparkled on her hand as she lowered the glass. “He’s still jazzed about how much fun we had at the hospital showing the kids the game.”

  “I’m glad they enjoyed it,” Roland said mildly.

  “Come on, Roland, stop worrying about Keenan for one evening.” Milton nodded to the middle of the crowd of Accendo employees, where several had begun to dance in between the bar tables. Empty shot glasses littered the tables nearby, making Roland glad that he’d had Zach set up an employee car service for tonight.

  “It’s a party.” Milton finished with a toast of his wineglass.

  Nick, sitting with Blake across the table from Roland, gave him an understanding look. Nick was a compact, lean-muscled man of middling height and blond hair cut short and close to his head. Blake, on the other hand, was tall for a woman, especially in the kick-ass combat boots she preferred to wear, and so pretty that people stopped her in the streets, thinking she was a model. She’d been a friend to all three of them for over a decade, but she and Nick had gotten together last year. Gotten together right before they were both kidnapped and nearly killed. Luckily, they were both okay.

  Damn Keenan.

  “He’s frowning again,” Milton commented, shaking his head. “Listen, I know you’re worried, but we haven’t heard anything in over six months. MOMENT is ready and working better than we ever anticipated. You should be celebrating.”

  Milton didn’t understand. Of course, Milton had never had to deal with Keenan the way Roland and Nick had. Keenan Shy was dangerous, very dangerous, and the fact that they hadn’t heard anything from him in months wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

  Why didn’t she tell me about the letters sooner? He studied Blake, irritated that she’d chosen to share her secret with that hostile redheaded detective rather than him. Had she been ashamed? She had no reason to be. Keenan was a predator, a dangerous one, and she’d been young and basically alone in the world when she’d gotten involved with him.

  The waitress, a blatantly flirtatious brunette named Cindy, strolled over and cocked a hip in his direction, a perfectly manicured hand at her waist emphasizing the curve.

  “Hey, Roland, can I get you something?”

  Milton snorted out loud, and then grunted. Roland would bet that Regina had elbowed him in the ribs. Cindy ignored the noise.

  “Scotch, straight up.”

  “Sure, anything you want.”

  Blake waited until she left to say, “I feel embarrassed for her. She might as well get a T-shirt made that says, ‘Available for the right price.’ ”

  Roland didn’t comment. If she hadn’t worked at his favorite bar, he would have already taken her to bed—a woman that obviously interested in his money was easy enough to please. She returned a few minutes later with his scotch and an equally friendly smile. He tipped her generously and she left, her smile slipping only slightly.

  His phone buzzed; it was Hoover, the PI, texting with Maura’s destination.

  Headed to a bar called the Hairy Lemon. Standing outside.

  Roland took a long sip of the scotch. She’s coming to me. How convenient.

  “That’s no way to treat a good scotch. He’s even more worried than I thought.”

  Sending Milton a look that said, “Shut the fuck up before I hit you,” Roland leaned across the table so Blake could hear him.

  “Do something for me,” Roland said.

  Nick scowled and took her hand in an unnecessary gesture of support. Roland would never hurt her or put her in a situation that would endanger her life.

  “Of course,” she agreed, but she looked wary. Her turquoise-blue eyes were wide, her lips unsmiling.

  “Tell Detective O’Halloran to give me access to the letters.”

  She winced. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you about those. Damn it, Roland, you know she doesn’t like you.”

  She despises me. She distrusts me. And she wants me. It made for difficult dealings, to say the least, but his interactions with Maura O’Halloran were rarely boring.

  “Besides,” she continued before he could respond, “what makes you think she’ll listen to me?”

  “She’s getting desperate. She’s been hunting him for almost eleven years and her new captain is not nearly as patient as the last one.”

  Blake looked amused. “And how do you know that?” She waved a hand. “Never mind. I’m sure you have a friend in her district. Or maybe you picked the captain yourself. I’m sure he knows you; everyone knows you.”

  Everyone had known his father as well, for less than positive reasons. His dad had stolen, conned, or charmed his way around Boston, not limiting himself to the Watertown neighborhood he called home. Detective O’Halloran’s district was in South Boston, where Roland’s father had been arrested not once but several times, including the incident four years ago when he’d been caught running a con on the city council.

  “What’s that look for?” Blake asked, her eyes softening. “If you think it’ll help, I’ll talk to her.”

  Roland didn’t bother to correct her assumption that he was thinking about Maura O’Halloran. Blake might be able to help convince the stubborn redhead, she might not, but if O’Halloran thought she was going to keep Keenan’s letters out of his sight, she was delusional. Roland would get access to them, one way or another, even if it meant using her. He didn’t make a habit of using people, but in her case, he’d cheerfully make an exception.<
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  “You’re plotting something.” Blake shook her head. “Don’t bother to deny it.”

  He showed her a real smile, the one reserved for his mother and the people at this table. “Got me.”

  “Uh-huh.” She smiled in return, but there was a frown line between her eyes. “Be careful, ’kay? Finding Keenan is . . . ” She hesitated. “It’s what we all want, but . . . ”

  Roland knew why she hesitated. Keenan was a bomb set with an unstable timer. Finding him was only part of the problem.

  “I’m always careful.”

  The lie came easily and smoothly. If she hadn’t known him so well, she would have believed it.

  Nick tightened his grip on her hand. “I don’t like Blake involved with anything to do with Keenan. She doesn’t need to do you any favors. I’m sure you can convince the cop to share the letters. Just use your powers of persuasion.”

  They don’t work on her, Roland thought, but he didn’t say that out loud. “It’s just a small favor,” he replied to Nick, sitting back in his chair and taking another generous sip of scotch. “And not dangerous.”

  Nick’s eyes narrowed at his friend. “It better not be . . . ”

  Blake kissed Nick’s cheek and laughed as he drew her deeper into his arms. “So protective. Good thing I like that about you.”

  He raised an eyebrow at her tone, letting himself be distracted. “What else do you like about me?”

  Roland tuned out before their banter could get any more personal and trained his eye on the door. O’Halloran should be walking through it at any moment, a small tornado in a pretty package.

  He waited tensely, not realizing that his friends were staring at him curiously, their eyes following the direction of his gaze.

  THE FIRST THING Maura noticed as she scanned the crowd was the table full of people staring in her direction, almost as if they were expecting her. It threw her off stride a little. She’d expected to slip inside without being noticed and then sidle up to Roland after she’d had a few drinks.

  She paused, unconsciously putting a hand on the duty weapon under her jacket, and searched the room with a quick glance in every direction. High tables surrounded by stools. Classic posters for Guinness and Jameson. Neon signs. A long, gleaming wooden bar with a brass rail. Casual Friday–dressed professionals and tourists mingled comfortably together while numerous TVs aired the same hockey match.

  The pub smelled like beer and wood polish, a not-unpleasant combination that made her think of her father. Nothing unusual. Nothing out of the ordinary. Relaxing her grip on the butt of her gun, she turned back to the table. The dark-haired woman with Milton Shaw—Regina Burke—was looking politely in another direction. Everyone else was staring at her, including Roland Chandler. He was practically daring her to come over and talk to him, blue eyes regarding her in that long, narrow face.

  He looked good, wearing a suit that had undoubtedly been custom-made for him by one of those fancy men’s tailors.

  Maura deliberately looked away, running her gaze over his friend Milton. The magician. He was idly shuffling a deck of cards and cataloging her with his eyes. Blake and Nick were staring at her as well, seeming surprised, but then Blake gave her a welcoming smile.

  Half standing, the blond woman waved Maura over to their table.

  Weaving her way through the happy, laughing throng, she dodged several friendly invitations and an overenthusiastic toast that nearly soaked her favorite down jacket, a shiny lavender coat that Maddie had given her, and stopped when she was standing just a few feet from Roland Chandler.

  “I’d like to talk to you,” she said measuredly.

  With deliberate insolence, probably because of her tone, he took a sip of his drink and gestured to an empty chair nearby. “Be my guest.”

  She dragged the chair over the tile, enjoying the loud squeal that the legs made, and didn’t stop until she was within an arm’s length of him. Then she removed her hat and gloves, stuffing both in the pockets of her coat, and hung it on the ladder-back support of the chair. Taking a seat, she folded her arms over her chest, and cocked her head in challenge. The rest of the group stared—Blake’s blue eyes were wide with astonishment, but after a moment, she collected herself enough to introduce Maura to Regina.

  “Regina, this is Detective Maura O’Halloran. From Boston PD. She’s the one working on finding Keenan.”

  “I see,” Regina said in her crisp, educated tones. “Dr. Regina Burke.” She held out a slim hand with unpolished nails.

  Maura knew who she was—she’d interviewed Milton and a good many other people who worked with Roland or had been involved with the incident that had led up to Blake’s kidnapping last year, but she hadn’t felt the need to include Dr. Burke, who’d never been involved with the bastard.

  Maura stood and reached across the table to shake the doctor’s hand, unsurprised that the doctor’s grip was firm and businesslike. Everything she’d read about Regina Burke indicated competence. Which was why it was surprising that she’d become involved with Milton Shaw. The man was endlessly fiddling with something or making it disappear, even when he was being interviewed by a police officer. Still, she supposed it took all kinds.

  “Nice to meet you,” Maura said briskly. She hadn’t come to chat; she’d come to tackle the problem of Roland Chandler. She just wasn’t quite sure how to go about it. He was gorgeous, but she couldn’t just buy him a beer and chat him up, not with everyone staring at them.

  Regina nodded her agreement.

  Blake looked from Maura to Roland and back again, a small frown knitted between her brows. Without seeming to be aware of it, the woman clasped Nick Cord’s hand in a white-knuckled grip.

  “Have you gotten any news?”

  Maura almost, almost, said, “I wish,” but that would have been a mistake. The man had abused Blake for years, nearly killed her. To be so blasé was not only rude, it was wrong. Out of the corner of her eye, Maura could see Roland lift his drink—it looked like scotch—to his lips. He wasn’t looking at her anymore, but she sensed that he was aware of her regard. He always seemed to be aware of people’s attention, of where their eyes were moving. When she was around him, she felt like she did when she’d been a patrolwoman answering domestic calls. Wary and alert, certain that there were undercurrents of meaning that she missed.

  “Or anything on Angela?” Blake continued.

  Angela Wepsic was the phony name being used by an associate of Keenan Shy, a blond woman who’d helped Keenan kidnap Blake by posing as an abuse victim.

  “Nothing on either of them,” Maura answered. Based on the interviews Maura had conducted with Blake after the kidnapping, she’d learned that Angela was American without a Boston accent, in her midtwenties, and seemed utterly devoted to Keenan Shy. Maura would never understand how someone could love an abuser. Her own father had completely adored her mother while she’d been alive, and vice versa. Maura wasn’t willing to settle for anything less from a relationship, though she hadn’t exactly had time for relationships over the past eleven years. Taking care of Maddie had nipped dating in the bud, as had her obsessive hunt for Keenan Shy.

  Blake looked at Nick, her face worried, and he kissed her forehead in response.

  “Why don’t we get some air and a coffee?” Nick suggested, pointedly staring at Milton and Regina.

  “Sounds good to me,” Regina replied, placing an arm on Milton’s wrist to get his attention. He’d been about to shuffle a deck of cards, his curious gaze resting on Maura.

  Milton looked at the hand on his wrist like he wasn’t sure what it was doing there, but after a moment he shrugged. He set the cards on the table.

  The four of them gathered their belongings and left with casual waves to the bartender and nods to Roland and Maura.

  “Well, you certainly know how to clear a room,” Roland remarked, sounding vaguely impressed.

  Maura ignored the quip. “Have you heard anything?” she asked bluntly, resting her elbow on the arm
rest of her chair and leaning toward him. He bent forward and set his glass on the table, covering her wrist with his hand to brace himself.

  His hands were warm, his fingertips callused. She nearly jerked her hand away in surprise, but managed to control herself.

  “No,” he answered after a brief pause, removing his hand. “But I might have a lead.” He leaned back in his chair.

  Turning toward him, Maura curled her fingers around the arm of the chair. “What kind of lead?”

  He tilted his shoulders in what barely passed for a shrug and contemplated his scotch like it held the secrets of the universe.

  “What do you want?” she muttered, disgusted. “This isn’t a game, you know.” Maybe her father had been right all along. Maybe he was working with Keenan.

  “Could have fooled me,” he replied, eyes gently chiding.

  Maura refused to feel bad. She was a detective—she was supposed to ask all the questions. Nothing obligated her to share information with a civilian.

  Putting her elbows on her knees, she leaned toward him. “All right. So we’ll trade information. What do you want?”

  He glanced around the room. “Wouldn’t you like to talk about it someplace more private?”

  Maura eyed him narrowly. She doubted very much that anyone drinking in this pub gave a damn about their conversation, or that they would be able to hear anything above the game and the music.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “I was thinking that we could go to my office. It’s quiet, and I can show you what I’ve found.”

  He sounded so reasonable. So smooth. The Accendo offices were only a few blocks away, but Maura would have preferred more neutral territory. He was one of the most successful software executives in the world. If she went to his kingdom, it put all the power in his hands. There, in his offices, she would feel . . . vulnerable.

  He was watching her calmly, but his eyes were knowing. Not for the first time, she wished she’d inherited her father’s imperturbability. He’d never been intimidated by anyone and certainly not by Roland Chandler or anyone like him. He’d called Roland a slick bastard, just like his father, and had warned her that he couldn’t be trusted.