Black Irish (21 page)

“This.”

Abbie flipped open the file and saw a mug shot of a man with burning black eyes and a six-day growth of dark beard.

“Seamus O’Murchu,” Z said, pronouncing the “ch” as a hard “k.” “Or ‘O-Mur-tchu.’ How the hell you say it I have no idea. In December 1980, he was caught coming across the Peace Bridge with a nine-millimeter tucked in his waistband.”

Abbie was reading the charge. “And Marty Collins took the case.”

“Yep. First call this guy makes. Must have had the number in his back pocket.”

“He was traveling on a British passport, resident of Clonmel in Northern Ireland. A record of arrests for intimidation, possession of a handgun …”

“And look who was driving the car.”

Abbie flipped ahead a page, then another. She began to read again.

“Jimmy Ryan.”

“None other.”

“Never charged, but he’s mentioned here in the arrest report. He said he’d gone up to Niagara Falls to do some gambling at the Indian casino when O’Murchu offered him twenty bucks for a ride back to Buffalo. O’Murchu claimed that he’d been cleaned out playing blackjack and couldn’t afford the bus back.”

Abbie looked up. “Z, that can’t be true. They only sell round-trip tickets on those bus coaches that go up there. You need proof that you can make it back to the United States before they let you in. The Canadian government didn’t want to be responsible for a bunch of broke gamblers.”

Z took a sip of his coffee and shook his head wonderingly. “How do you know this shit?”

“I had friends in high sch— Never mind, it’s not important. What’s important is that the guy lied.”

“And I’ll bet Jimmy Ryan knew it. Who goes up to Canada and gives a perfect stranger a ride back across a border? The guy could have been carrying heroin or his passport could have scanned for an outstanding warrant. Jimmy’s street-smart by this time, he’s not going to take that risk for twenty dollars.”

“You’re right. You think it was a meet?”

“Of course it was. He went up there to get this guy, and the idiot forgot about the gun he was carrying.”

She sat back in her chair. A bunch of lawyers walked into the cafeteria, arguing loudly about the hockey game the night before.

“This is August 1980. Jimmy’s mother said he started hanging out at the Gaelic Club right before he started at National Grid. When was that again?”

Z pulled a notebook out of his lapel pocket.

“Hold on, hold on. I have the interview with his boss here.”

Z licked his thumb and began flicking through pages.

“Nineteen eighty. He was hired in January.”

Abbie nodded. “So he’s been going by the Club by then. He’s got a record for minor drug offenses, small-time dealing, and I’m sure everyone there knew that; it’s impossible to keep something like that secret in the County. He has connections across the border. Then seven months later, he’s caught coming back with an armed IRA militant, who has Marty Collins’s number in his back pocket for emergencies. What does that tell you?”

“Jimmy’s in the Clan already.”

“And he’s their errand boy. Meeting their contacts and escorting them across the border.”

Z swirled his coffee in his cup, his shoulders hunched over. Abbie tapped the edge of the table.

“But for what?” she said. “A meeting? Were they setting up some kind of new drug route?”

“Could be.”

“It could be, but I’m not convinced. Look at where Jimmy Ryan lived; if there’s a house owned by a National Grid route-walker, it’s that. He didn’t have money for luxuries. His wife said he took out a second mortgage on the house just to pay for Catholic school for the kids. And Collins had money, but not drug distribution money. I want you to get his tax returns, see if they match up with his lifestyle.”

“Done.”

“If they were opening up Buffalo as a drug entryway to the U.S.,
don’t you think they would have lived better? Don’t you think Jimmy Ryan, from all we know about him, would have splurged on a fishing boat, or a vacation home up in Crystal Beach? But he didn’t have money like that for twenty years. And not to hear one whisper of his drug deals, not one? The County’s good at keeping secrets, but not that good.”

“Guns?”

“Same problem. If the Clan was exporting guns through Canada and across the Atlantic, where’s the money?”

“Maybe they were doing it for the cause.”

The face of Jimmy Ryan’s mother popped into Abbie’s mind. The pride in her boy was practically shining out of the woman’s face. Had Jimmy been involved in wholesaling cocaine to western New York, would her eyes have been glowing with motherly pride? Would she have accepted his death so easily?

And then there was Billy Carney’s transformation from a has-been to a sleek young gangster. She knew Billy; he’d been looking for a role to play ever since he tossed his baseball glove in the back of his closet. Fronting for a drug outfit? It was dirty, unheroic. It didn’t scan.

But running guns for the IRA? In the County, that would earn respect. A great deal of respect.

“Let’s think about what we know. We know the killer is hunting members of the Clan na Gael. We know the Clan is or was involved in supporting the cause of the IRA. Billy Carney said there were four members; two are dead. The Clan isn’t cooperating, and we can assume they’re hunting the killer, too. We know that Jimmy Ryan was bringing something across the border and there’s an IRA connection. We know Jimmy had a past with drugs. And we know the killings have been very well thought out and highly personal.”

“There’s the ski mask.”

“Right. He wears a mask. But we don’t know
why
. Is he protecting his identity against cameras and possible eyewitnesses, like any skel who’s going to rob a 7-Eleven? Or is he protecting it because people in the County would know his face?”

“He could just be cold. My fucking pipes froze last night.”

“He’s not just cold, Z.”

“My head is starting to hurt, which means it’s time to stop thinking. What else?”

“The monkeys.”

“Dead end. I checked with the manufacturer like you asked. Production started in 1968. They made millions of ’em. If you throw a stick on Genesee Street, you’re going to hit three people who played with them as a kid.”

“But it gives us a glimpse into motive. It’s personal. More than that, it feels—”

Z winced. He hated when she used that word in a professional context.

“It feels
biographical
,” she said, leaning in. “The murders involve the killer’s past in some way. Those toys were worn down with use. Someone loved them. Let’s put it this way: It could date the origin of the motive.”

Z hunched over and stared angrily into Abbie’s face.

“That’s where you drive me crazy. If the toys are personal, they date the whatever the fuck you called it—the origin—to when? When’s the latest someone plays with things like Monkey in a Barrel? When they were eight, nine? Are you telling me that Jimmy Ryan did something to this wacko when they were in grammar school and now, twenty years later, he’s come back for revenge?”

Z leaned back and spread his arms in supplication.

“Ab, come on.”

Abbie folded her arms and leaned back in the chair. Her mind was spinning.

“It’s a black box. We can’t know what any of it means until we have a leak from inside the County. We
have
to get someone to talk.”

“Right. Sure. I’ve been up and down South Park and Seneca talking to all the young business executives and Internet millionaires that drink dry martinis in the bars there. And they’re stumped. I know when someone’s holding back and this ain’t it. They’re in the same position we are. Spectators. The Clan or whoever is running the show has this wrapped up tighter than a Catholic girl’s panties.”

Abbie made a face.

“Sorry. Tighter than, uh …”

“Forget about it, Z. I can feel a Jewish reference coming on. Who’s the person most likely to talk? Who’s most desperate right now?”

Z tapped his fingers on the desk, looked past his shoulder. He looked like a contemplative walrus, thought Abbie. Finally, his eyes switched back to hers.

“The two remaining members.”

“Exactly. They know they’ve got a bull’s-eye burning through the back of their shirts right now. And, if the Clan isn’t using them for bait—which I find unthinkable, knowing how the County feels about all things Irish—then they must have the two of them locked down somewhere, with no access except for the absolutely trusted. We need to go back to the bars and find out who’s gone missing from work unexpectedly. Whose house has a car parked in front of it day and night? Who’s canceled their bowling night out with the boys?”

“That’s good.”

“But it’s not good enough. Let’s face it, Z, we’re not even playing at the killer’s level right now. And you know how much I like that.”

“You look tired, Ab.”

“You keep saying that.”

“You keep making me say that. Go home and get some rest.”

“I will.”

“No, you won’t. You’re going to go find Patty Ryan.”

Abbie smiled.

“Now, how’d you know that?”

“Because she knows something you don’t. And we all know that’s one thing you can’t stand.”

W
HEN
A
BBIE RANG THE DOORBELL AT
J
IMMY
R
YAN
’
S HOUSE, IT WAS HIS
mother who answered.

“Abbie! You’ve come for the photo.”

Abbie hadn’t expected the old woman, but she smiled. “Well, yes.”

“Come in, come in.”

Abbie stepped through the door onto the semi-shag carpet.

“I found it yesterday,” she whispered. “God knows what Patty was thinking—it was taken out of its frame and hidden away beneath the Waterford clock on their bedroom mantel. A strange place for a photo, don’tcha think?”

Abbie tilted her head and made a face. “With all that’s happened …”

“Sure, her mind’s in a thousand places. The paint stuck to the bottom of the clock as I lifted it. I hope she doesn’t notice.”

That’s odd
, Abbie thought.

“Wait here.” Mrs. Ryan’s smile faltered and a look of spreading horror came over her face as she turned away. “Now let me think where I put it.”

Jesus Christ
, thought Abbie.
Please remember where you put it
.

With one palm on her forehead as if she were a magician guessing a card, Mrs. Ryan weaved her way toward the kitchen.

There was the clatter of drawers opening and cupboards being searched. Abbie sighed and studied the mantel. All the pictures were there except the one of the three men. If Mrs. Ryan did find it, she hoped someone could recognize the back of the third man’s head. There was no doubt Jimmy Ryan and Marty Collins were the other two.

Mrs. Ryan bustled back into the living room, her face beaming.

“We’re just like a pair of spies, aren’t we, Abbie, like what’s his name—James Bond.”

Her face was close to Abbie’s now, and it had the terrible, friendly intensity that old Irish people sometimes had—the bursting blue eyes and the lips pulled back over the big shiny teeth, as if they were preparing to take a hungry little nip at your nose.

She slid the picture away from her chest and placed it in Abbie’s outstretched palm.

“You’ll make sure to take care of this?”

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Ryan. It’s safe with me.”

Abbie smiled. And again she marveled at how calm this woman was, with her son dead and in the ground just a week ago.
And she hasn’t even asked me how the investigation is going
, Abbie thought.

Abbie said her goodbyes and turned to leave.

“When this is all over, you come to my house for tea,” the old woman said, pronouncing it
tay
.

“I’d be happy to,” Abbie said, feeling a little ashamed of how she’d tricked the old woman into finding the picture, while at the same time her brain tingled with giddiness at having it in her hot little hand.

She turned and pushed the screen door open and stepped onto the porch. When she heard the wooden door close with a rush of air, she looked greedily down at the photo.

“Damn it all—”

It was the wrong picture.

Abbie smacked the photo against her palm and stamped on the
porch, turning to stare at the door. A tiny burst of water from a puddle there sprayed against her pant leg as she looked to see if Mrs Ryan was watching her from behind the curtains.

Had the old woman switched it or had it been hiding under the clock for months or years?
That crafty little bitch
, she thought.
That scheming old …

Abbie sighed and stepped down to the first porch step. She looked at the picture again. It had clearly been taken the same day as the other one, but now the third man was different. He was taller and wearing a green polo shirt and his hair was chestnut brown and slicked back.

Her eyes darted to the man’s face and she almost tumbled down onto the concrete path. Her vision slurred and her mind seemed to swerve and dip like a Tilt-a-Whirl.

Abbie dashed for her car at a dead run.

Sean MacCullahy took a modest sip from the pint of foamy Molson Golden and settled back in the stout wooden chair. He felt the beer slip down his throat. It was a harmless little drop, a tiny sting from the tail of a monster that had consumed nearly half his life. Having the taste was like nodding to a murderous old friend, now locked in shackles, begging through thick iron bars to talk shite about the old days. Sean had one beer and one beer only every time he came to the Gaelic Club, just to say he could. The whole crowd knew he’d beaten the drink, especially the ones who’d taken the Pledge—the Irish Church’s oath, whereby young men and women swore never to touch alcohol. Even they would nod at him with a gleam in their eye, though they couldn’t know the first thing of what he’d been through. But he’d nod back to them, peaceable now within himself.

Good man, Sean
, they were saying with their eyes.
Show the fecker who won
.

Won? Drink had nearly ruined his life. Not nearly, it
had
. He’d been a black-browed terror to his wife, Colleen, whom he’d buried twelve years ago after exhausting her faith in the power of God.