Chapter 7 - The Winter Inquest
By mid-January, the heavy snows had turned to grey slush along the banks of the Charles River, but inside the Beacon Hill mansion, time seemed to move according to a new set of laws.
The house remained quiet. No new staff had been hired.
Every morning at seven, Maeve walked down to the kitchen—her cast now replaced by a smaller, black wrist brace that allowed her to use her fingers. She no longer wore the navy-blue uniform of the domestic staff. Instead, she wore soft wool sweaters and dark trousers that Callum had ordered directly from a boutique on Newbury Street.
She still made his Earl Grey tea. She still placed it on the right side of his mahogany desk.
But now, she didn't leave the room when he drank it. She sat in the leather armchair opposite him, reading the morning papers while he reviewed his shipping manifests.
Yet, beyond the iron gates of the estate, the city of Boston was beginning to stir with dangerous rumors.
The sudden, complete disappearance of Liam O’Malley and seven of his top lieutenants on Christmas Day had not gone unnoticed by the Federal Bureau of Investigation.
On a freezing Tuesday morning, a black government sedan pulled up to the front gates of the mansion.
Maeve was in the conservatory, carefully pruning the dead leaves from the white orchid plants, when she heard the heavy brass knocker sound at the front entrance.
She walked out into the foyer just as Callum came down the stairs, pulling on a dark grey suit jacket.
“Stay in the parlor, Maeve,” Callum said calmly, gesturing toward the double doors.
“Callum,” she said, her voice laced with concern. “Who is it?”
“It’s Assistant Special Agent in Charge Miller,” Callum replied, his tone smooth as ice. “The FBI’s organized crime division in Boston has very few hobbies, and I am their favorite.”
He opened the heavy oak front door.
Standing on the granite porch were two men in dark trench coats. The lead agent was a man in his late fifties with short grey hair, sharp blue eyes, and a manila folder tucked beneath his arm.
“Callum,” Agent Miller said, stepping into the foyer without waiting for an invitation. He looked around the pristine, empty hall, his eyes lingering on the quiet elegance of the marble floor. “Happy New Year.”
“Agent Miller,” Callum said, standing squarely in the center of the hall, blocking the path toward the rest of the house. “You’re outside your jurisdiction. The state police handle local inquiries.”
Miller opened the manila folder. “Liam O’Malley’s wife filed a missing persons report three days ago. She says Liam went to meet you on West Third Street on Christmas afternoon to settle a dispute over Pier 42.”
“I haven't seen Liam O’Malley since November,” Callum lied smoothly, his eyes cold and unblinking. “If he’s missing, perhaps you should check the docks in New York. He owed a considerable sum to the families down there.”
Miller smiled—a sharp, wolfish grin. He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
“We found blood in the basement tavern on West Third, Callum. A lot of it. Someone spent six hours with a pressure washer and bleach trying to clean it up, but state forensics found traces of Cormac O’Malley’s DNA near the kitchen door.”
Callum didn't flinch. “That tavern has been a crime scene for forty years, Miller. Finding blood there is like finding saltwater at the beach.”
Miller’s eyes drifted past Callum’s shoulder, locking onto Maeve, who was standing in the doorway of the parlor, watching them silently.
Miller’s smile widened. He pulled a color photograph from the folder—a traffic camera shot of Maeve’s blue Civic sitting in the ditch on Route 9 on Christmas Eve.
“Maeve Donnelly,” Miller read from a sheet of paper. “Your former maid. She was admitted to St. Brendan’s ER at eleven-thirty on Christmas Eve with a fractured wrist and facial contusions. The police report says two unidentified men assaulted her.”
Miller looked back at Callum, his eyes narrowing. “Funny thing, Callum. You showed up at the ER twenty minutes after she called you. You pulled rank on a Boston PD officer, took her home, and the next morning, Liam O’Malley and his entire crew vanish off the face of the earth.”
The air in the foyer turned instantly frigid.
Callum took one step forward, stepping directly between Agent Miller and Maeve. His posture didn't change, but a dark, suffocating shadow seemed to fall over the room.
“If you have a warrant for my arrest, Agent Miller, produce it,” Callum said, his voice dropping into a register that made the glass chandelier above them hum softly. “If you do not, remove yourself from my porch before I call the Commissioner and report you for harassing a private citizen.”
Miller stared at Callum. He looked at the absolute certainty in the mob boss’s eyes, then looked back at the file in his hand.
“We’re building the indictment, Callum,” Miller whispered, closing the folder with a sharp slap. “It might not be today. It might not be next month. But as soon as one of O’Malley’s boys talks, I’m coming back here with fifty federal marshals.”
Miller turned, pulled his collar up against the wind, and walked down the granite steps toward his sedan.
Callum closed the heavy door and slid the iron bolt into place.
He turned to face Maeve.
She walked across the foyer, her face pale, her heart beating fast. “Callum... can they link it to you?”
May you like
Callum reached out, taking her face gently between his hands. His thumbs wiped away the worry lingering near her eyes.
“No, Maeve,” he whispered. “The dead don't speak in Boston. And as long as I am standing, no one will ever touch you again.”
