He had Da's eyes-like Quinn himself-but Pat's were softer, kinder, and shaded in lashes that in a fair world would have gone to a girl. Pat's shock of light brown hair was thick and heavy, but it balanced out the elegant bone structure of his face. He had Da's ability to draw you into a tall tale like a lamb to slaughter. He had his mother's soft heart and curious mind but none of her idiosyncrasies.

Those had all gone to Quinn along with her family name, as he'd heard often enough.

Quinn looked over at his baby brother Michael, now vehemently pressing his case about something or other, and smiled. Michael had gotten Patricia Stacey's quick tongue and quicker temper, as well as her pale blue eyes. Yet all those traits dwelled in a carbon copy of Da's big, open face and husky body and were served up with a depraved sense of humor.

Lucky for all of Chicago, Michael had found his niche as a Cook County assistant state's attorney, where his fine brain and wicked lip helped keep the streets clean.

As Quinn half-listened to his brothers, he thought about where he fit in. He was the oldest, the quiet one, as he'd heard all his life. He was the one with his father's stubbornness, fierce sense of loyalty, and love of music-all wrapped up in his mother's need for order.

How many times had Quinn heard it? "If one of those boys were to be a priest, my money would have been on Stacey!" He never quite knew if that was intended as a compliment.

The Quinn boys were now men, ranging in age from thirty-three to twenty-nine, and as Da always told his pals: "My lads can bust 'em, prosecute 'em, and forgive 'em all in a day's work."

Michael and Pat's argument had deteriorated into a dispute over the name of a short-lived family dog from the late seventies. These two could argue about the color of the sky, Quinn knew.

"The damn dog's name was Caesar," Michael said, looking shocked. "I can't believe you don't remember that."

"Caesar?" Pat laughed. "Do you really think our father would have allowed an animal with that fruity name into our house? The dog's name was Jake."

"What are you, nuts?" Michael said, laughing. "If we ever owned a dog named Jake, then my dick is the size of the Space Shuttle… "

Quinn shook his head and wondered again what it would be like if John had lived, if he could sit here in the booth in the empty space across from him, where he belonged. As he did every day, Quinn wondered what it would be like if he hadn't let his baby brother die, and said a small prayer for everyone concerned.

Quinn was jolted out of his melancholy by Matt Lawler's delivery of his beer. "Perfect, Matt. Thanks."

He felt the dark, rich stout slide down mellow and smoky at the back of his throat and sighed. A pint was always best at Keenan's, in the company of his brothers and in the memory of John.

"So, how's lifestyles of the rich and fatuous, Stacey?" Pat smiled at him.

"Oh, it's rough," Quinn answered.

"Tell Pat about the household hints chick. He's gonna love it." Michael's eyes flashed above his full cheeks. "He's working on a stalking case with Homey Helen. Can you believe it? Is that perfect or what?"

"Really?" Patrick took a reverent sip of his own pint and eyed his older brother. "The new one or the dead one?"

"The dead one would be easier to handle." Quinn raised an eyebrow as his brothers laughed.

"The dead always are," Pat said broodingly. "It's the living that piss me off to no end."

"Bad day in the confessional, Father Pat?" Quinn asked.

"The usual." He waved his hand and sighed. "So somebody's stalking Homey Helen? What the hell for, to get their hands on her secret recipe for window cleaner?"

"Haven't quite figured that out yet," Quinn said. "Could take a while."

"I've seen her on TV," Michael offered. "She's a complete babe. Now tell Pat who she used to date."

Quinn leaned across the booth and whispered, "Timmy Burke."

Pat nearly spit out his beer. "Jaysus! No way!"

Quinn nodded. "A little over a year ago. Just after he oozed his way into City Hall."

"My God, is the poor woman daft or just a rotten judge of character?" Pat asked.

Quinn shrugged. "I think Timmy pulled his usual on her. She didn't hang around long. She's too good for him."

"My shit-stained drawers are too good for Timmy Burke," Michael quipped.

"Yeah, well I had to go talk to the man this morning."

Both Pat and Michael went silent.

"He's a possible suspect, like all her old boyfriends," Quinn continued. "Would you believe that bastard made me wait outside his office for twenty minutes?"

Pat cleared his throat. "How long had it been since you talked to him, Stace?"

"I don't know. Mom's funeral, I guess, so a couple years."

Pat nodded silently, feeling Michael kick him under the table. "What?" he whispered, scowling at Michael. "Stop it, you eejit."

Quinn shook his head at his brothers. "We were quite civil to each other, as far as Timmy and I go. No bloody noses or anything. He just threatened to fire me." He smiled. "Of course, I'd like nothing more than to arrest the dickhead, but Audie seems to think he's got nothing to do with the threats."

"Who's Audie?" Michael asked, confused.

"Oh. Homey Helen. Her real name is Autumn Adams-people call her Audie."

Pat set down his beer and smiled at Quinn, relieved to direct the conversation anywhere other than Timmy Burke. He wanted to enjoy himself tonight.

"So did you tell this Audie person how important she was to Mom? How she made our lives an anal-retentive hell?"

Quinn laughed at Pat. "That was her mother, really, but I may have mentioned it. I kind of had to. She saw Mom's box."

Michael jerked back as if Quinn had slapped him. "The box at your place?"

"Shit… " he hissed to himself, rubbing a hand over his face. Quinn was toast now and he knew it.

"Need I remind you you're under oath, Stacey?" Michael draped a big arm around his brother's shoulders and grinned. "You had the squeaky-clean babe in your house and I bet you weren't reorganizing the linen closet."

"So he likes her, so what?" Pat said, frowning at Michael. "It's not a big deal. Leave him be."

"The hell it's not a big deal!" Michael's eyes went wide. "I think it's the first time he's brought a woman to his house since Laura took off. Am I right?"

Pat's eyebrows shot up. "Really? Is that true, Stace?"

He wasn't responding to his brother's taunts in his usual brusque fashion, and Pat wondered if Stacey still hurt over Laura-it had been more than a year since she'd had a fling with Timmy Burke and then left with the radio disc jockey. And good riddance to her, Pat thought. She wasn't right for Stacey, not that anyone in the family ever dared say so to his face.

Pat studied his older brother carefully, almost hearing the gears inside his brain as they clicked into place.

"Uh-oh," Pat whispered, turning to Michael, suddenly making the connection.

"Hel-lo," Michael said in singsong.

"Shut up, both of you," Quinn said, looking down into his pint glass. "I like her."

Michael's lips flapped together in a sudden burst of laughter and Pat joined in. "Well, of course you'd like her, Stacey!" Michael said. "She's your fantasy woman!"

"Martha Stewart… " Pat began.

"And Carmen Electra," Michael finished for him.

"So we were wrong-she does exist," Pat whispered respectfully, before he and Michael began laughing again. "No, really, I think that's great, Stace," Pat said. "So how much do you like her?"

Good question, Quinn thought to himself. What did it mean when a woman you'd just met monopolized your thoughts? What did it mean when you stayed away from her because you didn't trust yourself in her presence? What did it mean when you wanted her to have your grandmother's handkerchiefs and saw her face every time you closed your eyes?