He pulled out his phone and opened his web browser, flicked his thumb over the screen. “This shit could all be O’Sullivan. I wouldn’t put it past his people to leak a story like that to get you to show your face. Look at this one.” He turned the phone toward me. “That’s outside. See all those reporters? They’re downstairs already. This shit isn’t random. It has to be O’Sullivan, working to draw you out. He knows Harper’s with you. With us.”
I blew out a frustrated breath. “That must be it. The news coverage would explain the phone calls from practically my entire top tier client list. And only O’Sullivan would know I was at Harper’s kitchen. Fuck, the man probably had people on us since before we left here this morning.”
He shook his head. “I hate to say it, but that makes sense. Think about it. If the place has hidden cameras, one could’ve picked up Harper in the garage, and they’d know I was at her kitchen, too. And who do I work for? To top it off, they saw both of us with Harper last night during the party. O’Sullivan probably assumed we knew her well enough—perhaps longer than just meeting her at the event—that she’d tell us what she’d seen. Fuck, maybe they kept a tail here at the condo since last night. And when we left together to head to the Upper West Side, that pretty much confirmed everything they needed to know. That the three of us were—are—together, know about the dead body, and needed to get just as fucking dead.”
“So he leaked my name to the press to draw me out?” I asked.
“To make a public statement, maybe. Either that or to keep you here.”
“But I don’t get the part—” I stopped our hypothetical debate as my desk phone rang. The number was from an unknown caller. “Think it’s the press?”
“Could be.”
Picking up the handset, I took the call. “Dane speaking.”
“Mr. Crawford,” the deep voice on the other line drawled.
“That’s me. How can I help you?”
“O’Sullivan here. Shamus O’Sullivan. You and I need to have a conversation.”
I pointed at the phone, nodding over to Leo and mouthing the word ‘O’Sullivan’. “I’m listening,” I said to the son of a bitch.
“I don’t have such discussions over the phone. Let’s set up a meeting. Keep your eye on your cell phone. I’ll text you the time and place.”
The click on the other end of the line told me O’Sullivan hung up. Shaking my head, I squeezed the phone.
“Motherfucker wants to meet.”
“Fuck no,” Leo shouted. “No fucking way. Did he even say where?”
“He said he’d text me.”
“Hell no. That’s a trap.”
“You won’t get any disagreement from me.”
“We have to do something,” he barked gruffly, getting back on his feet and pacing.
“Relax. I got this.”
He stopped, turned his head to look at me with that angry expression I knew so well. “How do you figure?”
“We were on the right track before my phone blew up with calls from panicked clients. Your idea is solid.”
“What? Finding dirt on the guy? How are we going to do that before we have to meet him?”
“I have one ace up my sleeve, but there’s a small risk.”
He stopped pacing again and turned to face me, hands on hips. “What is it?”
“It’s a who. I think you were deployed when I crossed paths with him.”
“Who?”
“Liam O’Sullivan. One of Shamus’s umpteen nephews. The guy’s supposed to be clean, completely out of the life.”
“No one leaves the mob life,” Leo remarked. “Unless they’re laid up in a fucking coffin. And yeah, Liam? That name doesn’t ring a bell. What’s his deal?”