Crush(89)

“So what did you need?” He directed his question toward Logan, extending his hand and then pulling Logan toward him for a slight hug.

Frank was a big, billowy man. He’d been an informant for the BPD for years and had been the link between Agent Blanchet and Logan while Logan was being coerced to assist the DEA. As I watched the interaction between the two men, I couldn’t help but observe the fondness Frank felt toward Logan. Odd; up until now I thought he didn’t care for him.

But then again, he had allowed the break room at his pub to serve as the meeting place for this renegade task force, which, depending on what was really going on, could put him in harm’s way.

“Got a minute to sit down?” Logan asked him.

“Yeah, sure,” he said, and took a seat in one of the flimsy folding chairs that surrounded the small rectangular table.

The room was a hodgepodge of items that looked to be worn-out pieces from days better seen in the pub. Broken beer signs hung on the wall. The table was warped and the wood laminate was peeling off. Of the six chairs surrounding it, only two were sturdy enough to hold any real weight. I was worried the ones Miles and Frank were sitting in might just collapse.

“I want to pick your brain,” Logan started.

Frank eyed him warily but gave him a slight nod.

“My grandfather told me a story once about Mickey O’Shea.” He paused for a moment, and I knew the thought of Killian McPherson still made his heart heavy. I could see it on his face. With the slightest shake of his head he pushed the sorrow away. “He told me that when Mickey was a young man he went to prison, and that when he got out of prison he started up his own gang,”

“Yeah. They were small-time, though, a skeleton crew of twenty men at most. At the time, Paddy Flannigan was his number two. I don’t know how much income they generated. I know they were extorting protection payments from the strip clubs, which is how Paddy got the idea to run his businesses through them, lots of cash I guess. But back then, they ran the cash through Mickey’s mother’s flower shop.”

Logan nodded as if he already knew that.

Declan sat up straight.

And Miles eased his chair closer to the table.

“What do you know about Mickey?”

Frank looked uneasy.

“What?”

He shook his head. “I can’t say.”

“Is it about his gang?”

“His wife,” Frank said flatly.

Everyone perked up. “What about her?” Logan asked.

Frank closed his eyes for a moment before speaking. “Have you seen a picture of his wife?”

I had, but everyone else around the room shook their head.

"Rose O’Shea was a knockout. Picture Maureen O’Hara mixed with Lana Turner and eyes the color of the clearest blue sky.” He seemed to shake his head at the very thought of her but then cleared his throat, probably when he remembered I was in the room. “She was one of those women who turned every man’s head no matter if he was in love, straight or gay, and she knew it. She loved the attention and often sought the company of other men. Word on the street was that she was a tease, which was ironic because she claimed to be such a good Catholic girl. Went to church twice a week.”

Something like anticipation crested under my skin. The way he was talking drew all of us in, even the man I loved sitting beside me.

Logan crossed his arms over his chest and stretched those long legs. “Do you know how she died? I mean people say it was gang related, but that’s all. Never any details.”

Frank exhaled and looked away. “I do, but I swore on my life to keep it to myself.”

Uneasiness moved through me. Whatever it was didn’t sound good at all, and I wasn’t sure any of us should know.

Logan eased forward. “Anything you can tell us about Mickey would be helpful.”

Frank looked contemplative.

“Listen, Frank, this is going to sound crazy but I have reason to believe Patrick’s former gang, the Dorchester Heights Gang, is reassembling. And that maybe Mickey is running it, going by the name ‘the Priest’ to keep his identity secret.”

Doubt passed over Frank’s face like a shadow.

“It sounds crazy, but it’s not completely out of the question,” Logan said.

Frank was shaking his head.

“Think about it—over the past few years the drug trafficking on the streets of Boston has been pegged to one supplier, but no one knows who he is. Cocaine use has more than doubled across all income levels, which means someone with a substantial network is supplying it. What if it’s been Mickey this whole time using former Dorchester Heights members? The ones Patrick didn’t welcome into Blue Hill?”

My stomach twisted into a thousand knots. Clementine’s grandfather running one of the biggest drug rings in the history of Boston meant that if word got out, she would be in constant danger. Kidnapping threats. Death threats. Mob danger. And to make things worse, I had no idea what Mickey felt for Clementine, if anything. At least I knew that Mickey wasn’t involved in his granddaughter’s care as far as I had observed. In fact, aside from my sister’s funeral, I’d only seen him one other time, over at Erin’s for her son Conner’s birthday. I’m not even sure we ever spoke another word after we were introduced there. Still, the thought that he might be leading a secret life didn’t make me feel good about Clementine’s environment.