Black Irish (19 page)

As Abbie drove back to headquarters, she went over the Jimmy Ryan case. She was confident in her evaluation of the Collins scene. It was about cold, exposure. But what did that mean for the Ryan killing?

With Jimmy Ryan, the killer had a huge church to do his work. But he’d dragged Ryan down those stone stairs to the small room beneath the floor. Then he stuffed him into the undercroft, still alive probably, and let him strangle himself to death in that tiny, confined space, the rope tied to feet and his neck slowly tightening as he kicked.

What was that about?

Did it mean anything that Ryan was hidden away and Collins—though concealed for the time it took to kill him—was left exposed to the world? Again, her mind demurred. It wasn’t about contrasts. He wasn’t drawing distinctions between the two deaths. He had used each for one phase of the story.

Isolation and cold. A personal story, she thought, but whose? The killer’s, or the victim’s?

She pulled out her cell phone, dialed information and had them put her through to the Historical Society. When she got Dr. Reinholdt on the phone, he seemed to purr with pleasure.

“I’ve been waiting for your call,” he said.

She could almost picture him, perched on his chair like a perverted Weeble. “That’s good to know, Doctor, but I need some information.”

“Who’s dead now?”

“Another member of the Gaelic Club. You’ll be hearing it on the news, a Marty Collins.”

“They’re dropping fast, Detective.”

“And that’s why I need your help, Doctor. We talked about the history of the Clan na Gael, but I doubt someone is hunting them for reasons that go back a hundred years.”

She heard Reinholdt suck his teeth in thought.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. If you really do have a Clan-killer loose in the County, there are several possibilities, and one of them is what is colloquially known as the Troubles. The state of war that exists between some true believers and the British government.”

“I realize that. But there are indications the killer has a personal motivation.”

“What indic—”

“I can’t go into that, Doctor, and I’m sure you’ll understand why. What I need to know is what other possibilities exist. Now that the Troubles are over, what has the IRA gotten into? Drug trafficking? Arms? Are there different factions I need to know about, both here and in Ireland? Recent violence involving members?”

Silence on the other end of the line.

“I have a colleague, now retired, at the State Department in Washington who was briefed on these things up until a few years ago. She’s a hometown girl, and a fanatic for Seneca Indian relics, which I send her every so often when some idiot brings one in. I’d be happy to cash in a favor if you’d like.”

“That would be a huge help. I’ll call you back this afternoon?”

“I’d rather you come see me.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. It’s an active investigation and it’s eating up all my time. I’ll make sure to call you, though.”

“I’ll be on pins and needles.”

Abbie slipped the phone into her bag and then, unable to control
the impulse, wiped her hand on her wool pants. Then she grabbed the wheel and made a sharp left onto Potters Road.

When she pulled up to Collins’s house, she took it in this time: squat, heavy-timbered, boasting a broad front porch with a rectangular opening onto the street that looked like a gunner’s window in a large pillbox. The lawn was beautifully cut beneath its coating of snow, the bushes healthy and cared for, and the hunter-green paint with mink-white trim was a few years old at the most.

Spotting money in the County was easy. Anything that was brightly turned out—a car with new wheels and a detailed paint job, or a house, or clothes—spoke of income. And Collins’s house said it loud and clear.

There were two cars in the driveway—a late-model Grand Cherokee and a brand-new Cadillac. The Taurus was gone. She climbed the wooden steps and rang the doorbell. A deep bass note sounded inside; so far away, it sounded as if it had gone off in a second basement.

She turned as the door opened. Framed in the stainless-steel screen door was Billy Carney.

B
ILLY HAD BEEN TRANSFORMED
. H
IS LANKY HAIR WAS FRESHLY CUT INTO A
stylish overhang, he wore a dark wool suit that shaped his ex-athlete’s body into a thin V, a crisp white dress shirt with a wing collar, and a thin black-and-green-striped tie. His face looked freshly scrubbed and he eyed her through the screen door with a composure that momentarily silenced her.

Billy smiled quickly, looked behind him, murmured something to whoever was just behind the wooden door, and then opened the screen and stepped onto the porch. Abbie’s eyes drifted down the length of him, ending up at a pair of new leather oxfords, the swirling whorls of the design subtle in the winter light.

“Jesus, Billy,” she said. “I thought you were dead.”

“Dead?” he said casually, walking past her. “What made you think that?”

Billy reached the white porch rail. He scanned Potters Road up and down before turning to face her, leaning the back of his powerful thighs against the rail.

“
You
did, on the phone yesterday. What happened to you?”

He shrugged. Underneath the new clothes, she sensed a new confidence, a willingness to displease.

“What do you mean?”

“What do I mean? You look like Bugs Moran.”

Billy reached inside his suit jacket and pulled out a pack of Marlboro Reds. “Who’s Bugs Moran?”

I wonder when he started smoking
, Abbie thought.

“An Irish gangster. You should read a book once in a while.”

“You should have a drink once in a while,” he said. Billy lit the cigarette with a thin gold lighter and breathed in the smoke. “And relax.”

“You said you were going to Vegas.”

“Change of plans,” he said. “A new position opened up. Had to stay in town.”

“How nice. A new position with who?”

Billy did the not-important frown.

“A private company.”

“The Clan?”

He leaned away from her, sucking at the cigarette as he appraised her through slit eyelids.

“What’s that?”

She gave him a look.

Billy held his hands up. “Is this an official question?” he said.

“I can make it one.”

He exhaled and looked away down the street.

“I don’t think you can, Ab. But let’s be friendly. The executive committee of the Gaelic Club.”

She nodded. For a moment, she felt a sudden urge to embrace Billy, for all the disappointments and failures that the new suit and the good shoes and the gold lighter were in payment for.

Then she wanted to slap him.

“I thought you were going to disappear. Instead the Clan bought you out. That’s nice for you. But I have a feeling it’s going to end the same way.”

“How?”

“With you dead.”

He leaned toward her and looked at her from under his naturally perfect eyebrows.

“Not likely.”

She glanced down as he pulled back to the railing.

“Where’d you get the piece?”

“The what?”

“The gun.” She pointed at his chest. “There.”

He looked down, then back up, avoiding her eyes.

“If you’re going to play in this world, at least learn the basic terminology.”

“It’s licensed. Went down to register it yesterday.”

“Some cops from the County put you at the front of the line?”

He smiled.

Abbie sighed, then walked to the rail and leaned against it, facing the house’s huge plate glass window. She noticed that heavy drapes had been pulled across it since she’d arrived.

“You sure you want to do this?” she asked.

She watched him in her peripheral vision. Billy looked at his new shoes, then raised his head and nodded.

Abbie sighed and then rose, walked to the door.

“How can we help you, Ab?” said Billy.

She turned. Her face was grave.

“
We?
I’m here to talk to Mrs. Collins.”

He met her stare with a steely one of his own.

“She’s resting. Can’t talk to anyone.”

“We’ll just see about that.”

Abbie opened the screen door and rapped hard three times on the door. When it was opened, a beefy, red-faced man with a paunch opened the door. He looked flustered.

“Who’s that?”

She pulled out her ID, held it up.

“Detective Kearney. I’m here to talk to Mrs. Collins about the murder of her husband.”

“She’s resting. Please leave your card and—”

“Who are you?”

“I’m James Collins, her nephew. Now, if you don’t mind …”

James Collins looked like an accountant who was more comfortable
with numbers than actual human beings. He was sweating now, looking like he wanted to slowly close the door and sit quietly in the basement for a while.

“Mr. Collins, is the family interested in solving this case?”

Collins looked nervously past her to Billy Carney. Abbie turned and sent him a fast look. Billy nodded.

“Of course we are. But my aunt needs time. She’s only just arrived back from a visit to East Aurora and heard the news.”

“If the family wants to find out who murdered and skinned alive your uncle like a deer—”

She heard Billy get up and turned to hold a hand out his way.

“Then she
has
to talk to me. Today.”

The nephew stared at her.

“Please try and understand—”

“I’m paid to solve murder cases, Mr. Collins. If you’d rather have the blood of the next victim on your heads, so be it. I understand that certain people are putting pressure on you not to cooperate with me. But if you’re relying on Billy Carney here and whatever boy desperadoes you have inside to catch the killer, then let me guarantee you that other people are going to die. Horribly.”

James Collins looked like he wanted to grow wings and fly. As it was, he stroked his tie once.

“Your card,” he repeated.

She snapped open her card case and stuck a card into the frame of the screen door. Then she leaned in and lowered her voice.

“If I find out you or your aunt had information about the killer you didn’t share with me, I’m going to make that clear to everyone in Buffalo. Including the next victim’s family. Do you understand me, James?”

She turned and headed for the street. Billy was watching her, smoke drifting up around his face.

“Playing rough, Ab?”

Her look was of the stone-breaking variety.

When she walked onto the fourth floor of HQ the next morning, Perelli saw her coming from his corner office. He raised his right hand and the tips of his fingers bent inward twice. She nodded as she came through the door.

“Have a seat.”

Abbie glared at him. A sit-down in Perelli’s office was never good.

“Marty Collins. Tell me what you know.”

Abbie felt her skin itch.

“He’s dead,” she said.

Perelli studied her. “No shit. The whole city knows that. In fact, I’ve just received a call from Grady.” Bill Grady was the chief of police.

Perelli leaned across his desk.

“Who got a call from the mayor.”

Abbie looked up, startled. “The mayor called him about Collins?”

“No, the mayor called him about the police budget for next year, but at the end he asked what was happening with the Collins investigation. Which was clearly the whole point of the call. And when a mayor mentions a case after talking about the budget, Kearney, the implication is very clear. Do you know what the implication is?”

Abbie thought for a second.

“The County vote.”

“Very good. Maybe you should be chief of police.”

The Irish in Buffalo had always held the advantage in numbers and political power. They’d elected a string of mayors going back to before Abbie was born. All of them had either been born in the County or had claimed it as their spiritual home, suddenly showing up at Bishop Timon football games, communion breakfasts, and bingo nights at the Gaelic Club. But with the slow strangling of the city, more whites had left than blacks. As bad as things were in the County, things were worse on the mostly black East Side—the people there had less education, fewer skills. They were nailed to the pavement. They had nowhere to go, so they stayed. And a few of them even voted.

So now the numbers were roughly even. When, three years
before, an Italian and an Irish candidate had failed to reach a consensus on who would represent the white neighborhoods, the black candidate, Reginald Theribauld, had snuck in and Buffalo had its first black mayor. It had made
USA Today
and caused a small ripple nationally—a civil rights “first,” if a minor one. The mayor’s seat in Buffalo was no longer a prize to be fought for and won; it was scraps for the desperate.

“What did the chief tell Theribauld?” Abbie said.

“That there was probably a connection through the Gaelic Club. That we were tracking it down. I’m sure that failed to calm the mayor’s nerves.”

“There is a connection.”

“So I repeat my original question: What do you have?”

“Jimmy Ryan and Marty Collins were member of a semi-secret organization within the Gaelic Club. It’s called the Clan na Gael.”