Chapter Twelve
Meanwhile, the morning after Cora’s indoctrination in Harry’s yet unfinished beauty salon reception room, Joseph O’Conner glanced through the open car door at his friend and chauffeur, Andy Giraud, slouched behind the steering wheel and slipped onto the backseat of the Lincoln. He and Andy had known each other longer than he and John, or he and Mary, or even he and Angelo. “We’ve been summoned again,” Joe said, settling in the soft charcoal leather and differed to Mary. For Joe, Mary Maguire was never like other women, and her death carved a hole in his heart so deep it drained blood. Joe recalled Mary as she was, her red hair so natural for the Irish, thick and dark and shiny, and her shapely body, snow white and hard like the marble of Venus. He recalled freckled bridge o
