The mighty Quinns: Liam - By Kate Hoffmann Page 0,28

called. “It’s all right.”

Liam pulled the door open. As always, Brian was immaculately dressed. A well-tailored wardrobe had become part of his rising profile in Boston. Brian was the most popular investigative reporter at WBTN-TV. His face was plastered on billboards all around town and he could be seen every few nights on the eleven o’clock news, reporting on some scandal about to rock the city. Right now, with his tie draped around his neck and his collar unbuttoned, he’d obviously finished with work for the night.

“Jeez, you look like hell,” Brian commented.

“Thanks. Coming from a guy like you, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Brian stepped into the glow of the red safelight that illuminated the darkroom. He looked around, like the reporter he was, always searching for something to pique his interest. “What do you need?” Liam asked.

Brian shrugged, the shoulders of his tailored suit rising then falling. “I’m working on a story. I needed Sean to track someone down for me.”

“He’s busy with a divorce case. I’m picking up the slack for him.”

“What are you working on?” Brian asked.

Liam glanced down at the photo of Ellie still swirling in the water. Brian followed his gaze. “Who is she?”

“No one.”

“She’s awfully pretty for no one. Let me guess. She’s too pretty to be the unhappy wife, so she must be the other woman.”

“Yeah, she is,” Liam lied. He pulled the photo out of the water and hung it on the line. “What are you doing out so late? It’s nearly one.”

“I’ve been working on a story. I find that people are much more likely to talk if I catch them after a long night of drinking. So I just follow my sources from bar to bar.”

Brian sat on a stool and slowly began to flip through a pile of Liam’s photos. He picked up one of a homeless man. “This is nice. Sometimes I work so hard to get a good piece of tape, a great sound bite, an interesting reaction. But it never seems as powerful as a single moment captured in a photo. This is real. It has impact.”

“What has you waxing philosophical?” Liam asked. “Let me guess. A woman?”

“I wish,” Brian said.

“The only other thing it could be is your career. I’ve been seeing your face on every bus in Boston. The career must be going well.”

“Nah. It’s not exactly going the way I planned. They want to put me behind the anchor desk. I’ve got a great Q-rating, men trust me, women like to look at me. I can do big things for the station. At least, that’s what they’re telling me.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“I wouldn’t be reporting news,” Brian said, his voice passionate. “I’d be reading it. I’ve been thinking about quitting, maybe trying print journalism. My face won’t make a difference at a newspaper. Or I could freelance. There are a lot of magazines that publish investigative pieces.”

Brian had always been completely fixated when it came to work. “Come on, Brian. You have a regular job that pays well. Everyone in town knows you. You get great women, classy women, and you want to give it all up? Give me a break.”

“When you put it that way, it does sound a little screwy,” Brian murmured.

Liam strode out of the darkroom and Brian followed him. Though his brother obviously wanted to discuss his problems in greater detail, Liam really wasn’t in the mood. He had enough troubles of his own. Unlike Brian, Liam never knew when his next paycheck would arrive. No one in town was interested in his photos. And the one woman he found attractive was probably a felon.

“I gotta go,” Liam murmured.

“You going over to the pub?”

“No, I’ve got somewhere else I have to be,” Liam replied.

“When is Sean getting back?” Brian called.

“I don’t know. I’m not his secretary. Sean has his cell phone with him. The number is on the refrigerator. Just lock up before you leave.”

Liam closed the door behind him and jogged down the steps, heading for his car. He wasn’t sure where he was going. He’d just drive, hoping to clear his head. He started the car and pulled away from the curve, heading into Boston. But when his thoughts kept returning to Ellie Thorpe, he opened the window and let the chill and damp of the early April night roar through the car. He drove out of South Boston and crossed the bridge into Chinatown, then at the last moment turned onto Atlantic Avenue, choosing a