The kitchen, however, was clearly the centerpiece of the home. Taking up the entire back half, it had professional grade equipment, gleaming commercial appliances. It was the setup of someone who took food preparation seriously.
“Your mom likes to cook, huh?” Morgan commented quietly.
Ian chuckled, and Patrick said, “Yeah, you could say that.”
Ian moved through the kitchen toward the back of the house. “This way.”
He paused outside a closed door and shared a look with Patrick, who nodded.
He opened the door.
Morgan looked inside and promptly forgot to breathe.
Screens covered one wall—multiple feeds running simultaneously, the kind of real-time data infrastructure she associated with law enforcement operations centers, not private residences. The rest of the room was packed with equipment. Some she recognized, some she didn't. All of it was arranged with the organization of someone who used it regularly and knew what they were doing.
High-tech toys, indeed.
“Go on in,” Ian said, with quiet amusement.
She walked in slowly, finding it hard to decide what to look at first. “This is better equipped than my office.”
“Better equipped than most offices,” Ian said, with only a tiny bit of charming arrogance.
She turned to look at him. He was leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, comfortable, and she knew he did not show this room to people casually. She was being awarded a trust extended without condition, which was in some ways harder to receive than one she’d earned.
Clearly, Ian Callaghan was no more a simple bartender than his son was.
“All right,” Ian said, dropping into an ergonomic chair that looked like it belonged on the space shuttle. “Show me what you’ve got.”
Patrick produced the prints and hair Morgan had handed him in the pub parking lot. Ian took them without ceremony, setting them on the processing station with the practiced movement of someone who had done this before, in situations more complicated than this one.
“Images?”
Patrick nodded to Morgan, who pulled her phone from her pocket and tapped the screen before handing it to Ian. Ian examined the pictures. “Nice.” He laid the phone face down on a scanner, repeating the process for each image captured, then handed the phone back to her. The whole thing took less than a minute.
“How long?” Patrick asked.
“Depends on how good this guy is—or was, I guess. Anywhere from a few minutes to a day or two. I’ll start local and expand the search until we get a hit. The prints, much faster, especiallyif he’s in any official database. We’ll corroborate what comes up with whatever Mick can pull from the hair.”
Morgan looked at the equipment one more time. At the screens. At the casual efficiency of what would be, to most people, a really big ask.
She was beginning to understand why Frank had said the Callaghans were good men to have on your side, even if she didn’t understand the specifics behind it. For one of the first times in her life, Morgan felt like the least equipped person in the room.
“Thank you,” she said.
“No thanks necessary,” Ian said with a warm, infectious grin, and once again, Morgan felt like she was missing something important. “Glad to help.”
Patrick’s hand on her lower back guided her gently out of the office. She slowed to take in the framed photos she hadn’t taken time to examine on the way in.
Family, arranged in no particular order. Many pictures of Patrick at various ages. His father and a stunning woman laughing at something off-camera. And a girl with dark hair warmed by red and bronze hues and the same vivid blue eyes as Ian and Patrick. The result was both stunning and striking.
“Hey, big brother. I didn’t know you were stopping by today.”
Morgan turned at the velvety feminine voice. The woman from the photos was at the end of the hallway with a mug in her hand, looking both pleased and intrigued.
“Morgan, this is my sister Kate. Kate, Morgan Sullivan.”
Her smile was both open and friendly. “Hi Morgan.”