Sign of the Maker (Boston Crime Thriller Book 4) by Brian Shea (ebook reader android .txt) 📕

would've been buried in accolades. No such thing happened. After today, Simpson realized he was nothing more than a glorified errand boy to the man who briskly walked ahead of him.

As Jordan's personal assistant, Simpson was the oil that kept the machine running. Jordan took pleasure in calling Simpson his secretary, a term he despised. He seemed to do it more often since that one time he'd corrected his boss. After that, Jordan made a point, on more than one occasion and like he'd done earlier that evening, of using the dreadful title in front of the board. Simpson felt it was demeaning and beneath him. But Jordan was in charge, and he held the keys to Simpson's future.

Jordan's marketing power, money, and influential connections all went into making tonight's deal possible. But the real work, the nitty-gritty back-and-forth between city councilmen and contractors, was all Simpson. Fighting tooth and nail to gain their approval, greasing the wheel, putting the money in the right place, doing all the things that made the closure a reality—that was all Simpson.

Regardless of the size of the deal, the win would do little in the way of changing his current financial situation. His efforts were unlikely to warrant a raise. If he was lucky, there might be a Christmas bonus this year. Minus the occasional bonus bump, Simpson's salary hadn't seen a raise in the four years since college. As Jordan’s administrative assistant, he was privy to many of the things that Jordan did both on and off the books. And had the carrot of future success not been dangled by his employer, he probably could have Jordan tossed in prison before they broke ground on the new project. The records Simpson maintained, both official and unofficial, could potentially bury his boss.

Simpson seriously entertained the thought of making the call to authorities. It happened only once, and that was after one too many glasses of wine. And by glasses, he meant bottles. He'd never spoken to anybody about it, and after a brutal hangover the following morning had dismissed it altogether. As he walked behind his boss now, the thought crept back in.

Regardless of his frustration, Simpson saw the job as a steppingstone to greatness. Jordan's connections were invaluable. At some point, he hoped to look back on these early years as a blip on the radar. He fought for perspective on a daily basis, battling against the angst.

Simpson was intelligent and well-schooled. But Jordan was smarter, at least when it came to manipulating people. In that regard, the man was pure genius. He'd manipulated Simpson. Even with the awareness of it, he was powerless against it. Four years in, and that glimmer of light at the end of a long tunnel kept him from resigning and finding a new position. He'd had offers, many of which would have improved his current circumstances. But those moves would have only served the short term. That wasn’t how Simpson saw things. The long game was everything.

Money changed things. And Simpson wanted it bad. His thirst for the power it wielded was insatiable. He daydreamed about the day when Jordan would be jealous of him. Each calculation brought him closer to making the dream a reality. He could finally move out from his mother's basement, where he'd been staying since he graduated college. With nearly two hundred and fifty thousand in student loan debt, he stepped out of college with a monthly repayment to rival a suburban mortgage. She didn't mind, but he did; it wasn’t the place you wanted to bring your girlfriend or somebody you met at a bar, but his college debt had outweighed his income.

He was in the negative from the minute he stepped out of the world of academia into cold, hard reality. His degree in philosophy hadn't carried him very far, but a friendship with his roommate had led to him landing this job. Sixty-seven thousand a year was a hell of a lot more than he was going to make teaching philosophy or writing poetry. Grad school was completely off the table, not until he had some money in his pocket. And Jordan was his meal ticket.

"Are you going to keep up?" Jordan snapped him from his momentary daydream.

"Yes, sir." Simpson darted forward, coming alongside his well-dressed employer.

Jordan typically wore finely tailored three-piece suits during the business day. But the day was over and he'd dressed down, exchanging the suit and vest for a blazer and dropping the tie. Jordan was heading to Helix, an exclusive cocktail lounge near Government Center. Simpson had advised his boss against it. This morning's bombing had most people lying low. But Jordan scoffed at the notion. His sights were set on celebrating the deal.

Walking next to his boss, Simpson felt like the ugly stepsister. Jordan was half a foot taller, with jet-black hair and a sculpted jaw. Simpson huffed to keep stride. The effort warmed his cheeks, causing his glasses to fog. He stopped to clear them, then jogged to catch up to Jordan, who didn't break stride.

"Everything's all set. I talked to Kevin."

"Mr. Doyle," Jordan corrected.

Simpson hated being corrected. He also knew Jordan disliked when Simpson did it. He'd corrected him in the past. In Simpson's defense, he'd earned the right to call Jordan's old friend and business partner by his first name. He and Kevin had conferred constantly during contract negotiations. Hell, Kevin had told him to call him by his first name. That was the difference in the two men. Kevin Doyle treated him like a human being. Jordan saw him as nothing more than a pawn in his army.

"Mr. Doyle approved the final line item in the contract a few minutes ago. I should have his email confirmation from his assistant any moment." Simpson stopped to wipe his glasses. This time Jordan slowed with him. "And then that'll do it. The Somerville deal will be all wrapped up."

Jordan stopped under the glow of a nearby streetlamp and turned partway toward