“I don’t want to hurt anyone.” That wasn’t quite true. He wanted to crush Jackie, the firm, and every member of the Fitzmaurice clan—except Jill. And he wanted to be able to live with himself afterward. He didn’t think both were possible. “Tell Jacqueline to talk with me. Not yell at me. Talk. Converse.”

“For once, just do what I ask without making me beg.”

Something was off. Jill’s panic had been replaced with this strident demand and its laughable premise. Begging had never been any part of who they were. He could sense strings being pulled. Had her grandfather put her up to this? Or was it Jackie standing over her? Or was he being paranoid? Or perceptive? “Have her call me.”

“She won’t,” she said.

“Then don’t take it out on me.”

“You used to be nice. Be nice.”

-28-

-28-

In a snippet of a dream just before waking, Ted saw a wave of dark red hair splayed across the pillow next to him. He opened his eyes in full expectation of McKenzie Zielinski lying beside him, asleep and satisfied. The reality—that he was alone and hungover—engulfed him and followed him as he staggered to the bathroom and then to the kitchen. He made a pot of strong coffee and drank it with three tablets of ibuprofen.

His thoughts were dark and full of doubt. Though he looked forward to seeing Kenzie in an hour, Jill’s phone call hung around his neck like a noose.

What was he playing at? Was he idly poking a stick into a hornet’s nest? What did he owe to Jill? To Richie? To Cheryl? To anyone? What would he say to Jill if his suspicions about Jackie were revealed to be true? Jackie would take a great fall. She would be lucky to stay out of jail.

And there was the Judge. A manipulative puppet master, admittedly, but one who had treated Ted fairly in the past and who might, despite the threats and attempted bribes, be giving wise advice. Or were all these doubts the product of too much stress and too much beer the night before?

Whom could he trust to help him answer all these questions?

The coffee and ibuprofen did their work. He called for an Uber and set out.

Roosevelt Avenue on a clear Sunday morning in May was a testament to the American immigrant dream. Families were streaming out of the Spanish-language church in the middle of the block. Many of the fathers were in suits, though Ted didn’t see a single tie. The mothers wore dresses, low heels, and hats. The little boys all had collared white shirts, and the girls sported flouncy dresses with petticoats. The scene, adjusted for the darker skin tones, could have been a subject for an early Rockwell magazine cover.