“Diapers.”
“Aye.” He shrugs, like he can’t understand it, either.
“What kind of thief steals a truck full of diapers and leaves the safe with three hundred grand in cash in it untouched?”
“One with a death wish, apparently.”
I rewind the video again, shaking my head in disbelief as the truck plows through the steel door at top speed.
It’s like a scene from an action movie.
There’s no sound, but I can imagine the deafening racket it must’ve made as metal met metal. First, the massive door bows in the middle, warping out of shape. Then it rips clean off from the building at the top, slamming forward onto the ground with a billowing cloud of dust and sparks.
The bottom of the door stays bolted to the cement, forcing the truck to fly into the air as it careens over a pile of crumpled metal.
As it lands, the truck swerves wildly. It appears about to topple over onto its side, but the driver regains control, straightens the vehicle, and speeds off through the empty parking lot, vanishing from the camera’s sight.
“The cameras at the warehouse were disabled, but I got this from the clothing manufacturer across the street. We tapped into their security system to see if they caught anything, and Bob’s your uncle. Unfortunately, this is the only angle that caught our diaper pincher on film.”
“Any prints at the scene?”
“No. They must’ve worn gloves.”
I sit back into the large captain’s chair, wondering which of my many enemies is both dumb and suicidal enough to have attempted this bizarre theft.
Diapers. What the bloody hell?
We’re in the office in Liam’s penthouse. No—my penthouse. Even after a year of living here, it doesn’t feel like mine. Probably because my twin brother’s taste in interior décor would make Count Dracula feel right at home.
Everything is black. Glossy, cold, and black. It’s like living inside a very modern coffin.
Unfortunately, when you’re impersonating someone, you need to leave their uninspired choices in clothing, art, and furniture alone.
Bypassing the question of why the hell my brother owns a diaper factory, I say, “How much is a truckload of diapers worth?”
Declan lifts a muscular shoulder. “Maybe ninety grand.”
“That’s hardly worth the effort.”
“Agreed.”
“Especially considering there isn’t exactly a hot market for stolen nappies. How is this thief planning to get his money from the take? Garage sales? eBay?”
“Maybe he’s got a lot of kids.”
I have to admit, I enjoy Declan’s dry sense of humor.
The rest of his personality, however, I could do without.
“The diapers are low priority, but I’m concerned about the hacking of the security system. Someone’s got some smarts, even if it wasn’t the driver.”
“If you’re thinking it’s a crew, it’s not likely to be one from around here. The locals know that company belongs to Liam.” He pauses. “Sorry. You.”
I wave it off. I’m used to people calling me by my brother’s name by now. “See what you can find out. But keep it quiet.”
“You don’t want me to call O’Malley at the precinct and let him handle it?”
“No. I can’t have word getting out that the head of the Irish mafia had two thousand diapers snatched from under his nose. My reputation would be shot.”
Declan nods solemnly. “Next thing you know, old ladies will be holding up your convenience stores for Bingo money, and the Girl Scouts will challenge you to a turf war.”
He turns and leaves before I can tell him to piss off, the smart ass.
I’ve forgotten about the purloined diapers until Declan strolls back into my office at six that evening.
I’m still sitting in the captain’s chair. Stacks of reports, statements, and contracts requiring my signature crowd the large mahogany desk in front of me.
Had I known there was so much paperwork involved in running an international criminal empire, I might not have volunteered for the job. And don’t get me started on the employee problems. You’d think grown men wouldn’t need so much supervision. I feel like I’m running a daycare center.
I look up to find Declan approaching. He’s carrying a laptop. His expression is solemn, but there’s a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
I gesture to the chair across from my desk to indicate he should sit.
After he lowers his considerable bulk into the chair and gets settled, he strums his fingers thoughtfully on the closed lid of the Mac in his lap. “You believe in astrology?”
I say drily, “Sure. That and Big Foot, too.”
“Big Foot could be a real thing. I saw a show on the telly once—”
“Declan.”
“Sorry. Where was I?”
“About to get your block knocked off.”
“Oh, right. Astrology.” He pauses to look at me meaningfully. “Mercury is in retrograde.”
I gaze at him steadily from under lowered brows. “You’re aware, I assume, that I’m in possession of an extremely short temper and a large collection of guns? Several of which are within reach?”
Ignoring my threat, Declan continues. “The thing about Mercury is that it can be a trickster. Especially when in retrograde. Everything gets fucked up. Computers crash, flights get cancelled, contracts fall through.”
He takes another meaningful pause. “Things are backward.”
“You have three seconds to make your point before I put a bullet between your eyes.”
Declan smiles. “What would be the most backward thing you could think of about a man who’d steal a truckload of diapers?”
Honestly, if Liam didn’t like him so much, Declan would already be bleeding out on the Turkish rug.
Before I can riddle his body with bullet holes, he pronounces, “If the man were a woman.”
I take a moment to gauge if he’s joking. “A woman?”
Looking inexplicably pleased, he nods. “And not only one of them.”
When he doesn’t continue, I say, “If it takes you more than a single word to tell me how many women stole a goddamn truck full of goddamn diapers from me, I’ll separate your head from your body.”
“Two.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
We stare at each other. Finally, I say, “You enjoy annoying me, don’t you?”
He shrugs. “Aye. Don’t take it personally. I just like to poke bears.”
My tone bone dry, I say, “Lucky me.”
“It took Liam about a decade to get used to me, so.” He shrugs again.
“A word of advice, Declan: my brother has all the patience in the family. I’m the one with the hair-trigger temper.”
He makes a face and shakes his head. “That’s what you want people to think. From what I’ve seen, you’re extremely methodical and precise. When you kill someone, you’ve been planning it for a long time.”
I resist the urge to sigh. Instead, I lean back in my chair, fold my hands over my stomach, and gaze at him.
After a while, he says, “Okay, so I’m thinking that look means you’ve already figured out how you’re going to kill me, and the next time I irritate you, I’ll find myself swinging from the rafters.”