21
I heard the clack of the trapdoor lock in the coat closet and relaxed. Conor was coming in through the underground tunnel that ran from a tattoo studio on McDowell to our house.
“Daddy’s home,” I said to Diana.
“What’s going on?” Wasserman asked, clearly concerned by my initial alarm.
Conor walked in and brushed some lint off his tight-fitting T-shirt. “That’s what I’d like to know. What the b****y hell’s going on outside? It’s a fecking riot out there.”
“Detective Rachel Wasserman, meet my fiancé, Conor Doyle. Rachel and I worked patrol together when I was on the force.”
Wasserman shook his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Doyle. I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I slipped in the back.” He peeked out the front window. “Now would someone care to explain the madness going on out there?”
