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

Simpson nearly dropped his tablet. In four years his boss never once invited him to tag along on social occasions unless he was needed for business purposes. Contracts signed over drinks was common practice for Jordan. During those meetings, Simpson hadn't even been offered a drink. And he'd never been allowed to attend any function at Helix. But his boss had just asked him to celebrate. "Me?"

"I've been really hard on you, I've pushed you, but you're a smart kid. I don't tell you that enough." Jordan looked away.

And there it was. In the briefest of recognitions in a barely passable compliment, Jordan’s comment had elevated him to a euphoric level. The meager acknowledgment after all he had done should have upset him. He hated himself for eagerly accepting the offering. The tireless effort, the hundred-hour work weeks, the exhaustion of working through sickness, fatigue, led to this.

Simpson sacrificed a lot for Jordan. His cousin's death last month had been but a blip on the radar. He'd missed the wake and was an hour late to the funeral, all done in service to the man standing before him. Up to this point, Jordan hadn't given him so much as a slap on the back. As weak as this was, Simpson savored the recognition and reveled in the idea of sharing drinks with him. This could be it, the opportunity for the dividends to pay off.

"Look, I'm supposed to meet some people down at Helix for a couple of drinks in a bit."

As his glasses began to fog again, he fought to restrain the excitement on his face. Of course, he knew Jordan was going to Helix for drinks. Simpson had been the one who'd arranged it and put it on the schedule. How could he refuse? Simpson rubbed his glasses on the silk inner liner of his suitcoat. Helix was a members-only club where guests were limited. “Exclusive” meaning impossible to get into unless you were personally connected or invited.

This wasn't a bar where lines formed around the street and people hoped to make their way in to catch a glimpse of a celebrity. No, Helix was a restricted-access secret clubhouse for Boston's ultra-rich. Simpson had accompanied Jordan to the club but had never been invited inside despite escorting him to the door on several occasions. The club’s exterior door, black steel with no windows, would have been better suited for a bank vault.

"I'm supposed to meet Doyle but he's running late. Probably be a no-show. If you'd like to accompany me, then—"

"Absolutely!" Simpson hated the eagerness in his voice. He hadn't even let him finish his sentence. But Simpson was eager—eager to please his boss, eager to get his life moving in the right direction, eager to cross over the gap between financial hardship into the land of wealth and power.

Standing there, he realized Jordan hadn't seemed to notice. A split second later, when Jordan turned, Simpson saw why. It was the same reason why he hadn't bothered to turn completely and face him like he was now. Jordan's turn revealed the flashing blue of the Bluetooth in his ear. His boss hadn't been talking to him at all. He had been talking to somebody on the phone. Simpson deflated.

Jordon tapped his ear, ending the call. "What were you saying?"

"Nothing, sir." Simpson received an alert and checked his phone. "I've received the email confirmation from Mr. Doyle. Everything is good to go." No compliment to follow this time.

Jordan looked at his watch. "Where the hell's Chip?"

Simpson shot a quick text to Chip Wellington, former Army Ranger turned driver. A minute later, the headlights of Jordan's stretch limousine came into view.

The limo pulled alongside the curb where Jordan stood. Chip hopped out and moved swiftly around to open the door, allowing his boss to get in. Nothing was said between the two men, no curtsy or bow from his chauffeur. Jordan didn't waste time talking to people beneath his status. And Chip didn't like talking, period. In a strange way, it was a match made in heaven.

Simpson looked on as his boss disappeared inside. As Chip went to close the door, Jordan put out his hand, stopping him, and peeked out. The hope returned. He tried to ignore it, but seeing his boss looking back out at him, Simpson half expected him to extend the celebration offer. The lingering tendrils of his misplaced wish were dashed the second Jordan opened his mouth.

"Hey, I've got that brunch tomorrow with the mayor. My suit is at the tailor. I'm going to need you to call them in the morning and make sure it's ready. I'll need it by 9:00, 9:30 at the latest?"

He felt low. Lower than he had in a while. His boss's last comment left no question as to where Simpson stood in the eyes of his employer. Disheartened, he fought to mask his disappointment and jotted a note in his tablet's digital planner. "Consider it done, Mr. Jordan. Have a good night."

Jordan offered nothing in return. He slipped back in the high-end leather of his seat, disappearing from view. Chip picked up on the nonverbal command and closed the door, then glanced over at Simpson. He held eye contact a fraction of a second longer than was normal. The gruff ex-Ranger didn't say anything, but Simpson recognized the look in his eyes. Pity. Simpson turned and began walking toward the public parking garage where his older-model Honda Pilot awaited.

The limo pulled past him. Heavily tinted windows coupled with the encroaching darkness made seeing inside a physical impossibility. Simpson waved, knowing that neither of the vehicle's occupants bothered to return it. Typically, he would have lied to himself and imagined they did. Tonight, he had no energy for such delusion. The emotional highs and lows had removed any chance for it.

The elongated Lincoln sped off. A block away, the right turn blinker flashed as the limo headed toward Helix. The flashing red silently