“We’ll call someone to replace the window right away. Until then, I’ll leave a patrolman outside. You’re coming with me down to the station until we find a safe house for you.”

Olivia grabbed her coat and purse from a circa 1830 primitive wardrobe next to her desk, then reluctantly followed Shulman to the front door. Maybe it was time to go into hiding. It was only for a couple of weeks, until the trial started. At least she’d feel safe again. When she stepped out onto the sidewalk, she gave her keys to the patrolman and murmured detailed instructions on the security code. When she finished, she closed her eyes and drew a long breath.

“Promise me I’ll have my old life back soon,” she said, trying to still the tremor in her voice.

“We’ll do our best, Ms. Farrell.”

CONOR QUINN knew the meaning of a bad day. Drugs, hookers, booze, smut-this was his life. Working vice for the Boston Police Department, he couldn’t recall a day that hadn’t been tainted by society’s ills. He reached inside his jacket pocket for the ever-present pack of cigarettes, his own private vice, then remembered he’d quit three days ago.

With a soft oath, he slid his empty glass across the bar and motioned to the bartender. Seamus Quinn approached, wiping his scarred hands on a bar towel. His dark hair had turned white and he now walked with a stoop owing to years of back-breaking labor on his swordfish boat. Conor’s father had given up fishing a few years back. The Mighty Quinn now bobbed silently at its moorings in Hull harbor, brother Brendan using it as a temporary home on the rare occasions he stayed in Boston. Seamus had moved on, using his meager savings and a gambling boon to purchase his favorite pub in a rough and tumble section of South Boston.