to help me?"
Before he had a chance to reply, Kelly reached inside her bag and pulled out a piece of paper. "Here," she said, handing it to him. "Quinn's phone number."
Nick glanced at it but didn't touch it. "I can't help you."
She stiffened. "Can't or won't?"
He shrugged, aware that his questions had misled her into believing he would help. He hadn't meant to play games with her but he had been interested. "Take your pick. Either way the answer is no." What else did she expect him to say? Because of her, his best friend was dead, leaving behind a grieving widow and two fatherless little girls.
She held his gaze for a moment, then, with the candor she was known for, she asked, "Do you have any idea how difficult it was for me to come here today? How many times I talked myself out of it, only to change my mind again?"
Honesty on her part demanded the same from him. "I do know, Kelly. It doesn't change anything."
She stood there for several seconds, her expression unreadable. She was good at that--keeping her emotions under control. Most Italians he knew blew their corks at the slightest provocation. Not Robolo .
After a while, she gave a short nod, as if she had finally accepted his decision, then, her back rigid as a board, she walked away. She had just reached the ring when she turned around. "This conversation is strictly between us," she said. "Can I at least have your word that you won't mention it to anyone?"
Nick nodded and watched her until she had disappeared. As badly as he wanted to erase her visit from his mind, he couldn't, not so much because of Kelly, but because of the memories her request had brought back.
Next month would mark the first anniversary of his father's death. The senseless killing had taken place in the back parking lot of the Chenonceau , where employees kept their cars. Plagued by more than two dozens murders a year, the overworked
Atlantic City
police had been quick to blame the killing on one of the city's many homeless. Nick hadn't bought it. His father was an ex-Philadelphia cop, a tough one.
He would have never allowed some two-bit robber to surprise him from behind, not even after a double shift at the casino.
Nick had investigated the murder himself, on his own time, questioning casino employees and of course Syd Webber. At first, the casino tycoon had been civil, even helpful, but his affability had flown out the window the moment Nick had mentioned Patrick Mcbride's recent mood shirts. At the suggestion that he may have discovered something suspicious at the casino, Webber had turned hostile.
"I run a clean establishment here, Mcbride ," the man had snapped. "And I can tell you there's no connection whatsoever between your father's unfortunate death and my casino. So don't you come in here with accusations you can't substantiate. "
Far from being intimidated, Nick had continued his investigation even though he had no jurisdiction in
Atlantic City
. That's when Webber had called the police.
The news had reached Captain Cross's office within the hour and his boss had given Nick a stern warning--stay away from Syd Webber or get suspended.
Even Nick's sister, Kathleen, had urged him to give up the investigation. "I don't like what it's doing to you," she had told him that same evening. "Please let it go, Nicky. Even if Webber did have something to do with Dad's death, he's too clever to be caught. And he'll only get you in deeper trouble."
In the end he'd had no choice.
But now another Chenonceau employee had met with foul play. Coincidence?
Nick wondered as he walked toward the shower room. Or was a sinister pattern emerging?
Eight.
Outside the training center, Kelly leaned against the wall and let out a long, frustrated breath. "Damn you, Nick," she muttered to herself.
"You're as insensitive and bullheaded as your colleagues."
What a fool she had been to believe that he would let bygones be bygones and agree to help her. Men like Nick Mcbride didn't forgive. They
Before he had a chance to reply, Kelly reached inside her bag and pulled out a piece of paper. "Here," she said, handing it to him. "Quinn's phone number."
Nick glanced at it but didn't touch it. "I can't help you."
She stiffened. "Can't or won't?"
He shrugged, aware that his questions had misled her into believing he would help. He hadn't meant to play games with her but he had been interested. "Take your pick. Either way the answer is no." What else did she expect him to say? Because of her, his best friend was dead, leaving behind a grieving widow and two fatherless little girls.
She held his gaze for a moment, then, with the candor she was known for, she asked, "Do you have any idea how difficult it was for me to come here today? How many times I talked myself out of it, only to change my mind again?"
Honesty on her part demanded the same from him. "I do know, Kelly. It doesn't change anything."
She stood there for several seconds, her expression unreadable. She was good at that--keeping her emotions under control. Most Italians he knew blew their corks at the slightest provocation. Not Robolo .
After a while, she gave a short nod, as if she had finally accepted his decision, then, her back rigid as a board, she walked away. She had just reached the ring when she turned around. "This conversation is strictly between us," she said. "Can I at least have your word that you won't mention it to anyone?"
Nick nodded and watched her until she had disappeared. As badly as he wanted to erase her visit from his mind, he couldn't, not so much because of Kelly, but because of the memories her request had brought back.
Next month would mark the first anniversary of his father's death. The senseless killing had taken place in the back parking lot of the Chenonceau , where employees kept their cars. Plagued by more than two dozens murders a year, the overworked
Atlantic City
police had been quick to blame the killing on one of the city's many homeless. Nick hadn't bought it. His father was an ex-Philadelphia cop, a tough one.
He would have never allowed some two-bit robber to surprise him from behind, not even after a double shift at the casino.
Nick had investigated the murder himself, on his own time, questioning casino employees and of course Syd Webber. At first, the casino tycoon had been civil, even helpful, but his affability had flown out the window the moment Nick had mentioned Patrick Mcbride's recent mood shirts. At the suggestion that he may have discovered something suspicious at the casino, Webber had turned hostile.
"I run a clean establishment here, Mcbride ," the man had snapped. "And I can tell you there's no connection whatsoever between your father's unfortunate death and my casino. So don't you come in here with accusations you can't substantiate. "
Far from being intimidated, Nick had continued his investigation even though he had no jurisdiction in
Atlantic City
. That's when Webber had called the police.
The news had reached Captain Cross's office within the hour and his boss had given Nick a stern warning--stay away from Syd Webber or get suspended.
Even Nick's sister, Kathleen, had urged him to give up the investigation. "I don't like what it's doing to you," she had told him that same evening. "Please let it go, Nicky. Even if Webber did have something to do with Dad's death, he's too clever to be caught. And he'll only get you in deeper trouble."
In the end he'd had no choice.
But now another Chenonceau employee had met with foul play. Coincidence?
Nick wondered as he walked toward the shower room. Or was a sinister pattern emerging?
Eight.
Outside the training center, Kelly leaned against the wall and let out a long, frustrated breath. "Damn you, Nick," she muttered to herself.
"You're as insensitive and bullheaded as your colleagues."
What a fool she had been to believe that he would let bygones be bygones and agree to help her. Men like Nick Mcbride didn't forgive. They
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