by Dan Mahoney
Well, that accounts for the federal presence on Chipmunk’s intramural team effort, McKenna thought. “Anything else?”
“Nothing. Now you know what I know.”
“Everything except what your gut feeling is on this.”
“Same as yours is gonna be after you snoop around and look at it awhile. Talk to everybody who knows her, and they’ll all tell you that Meaghan Maher being gone doesn’t make sense. She’s a little wild, but she’s levelheaded and responsible. Besides that, she’s close to her family and always kept in touch.”
“You think she’s dead?”
“Yeah. Hate to say it, but she’s either dead or in some real serious trouble,” Walsh said, then dropped the case folder in front of McKenna on the bar. “Good luck. Call me if you need anything else,” Walsh said, then turned and walked back down the bar.
McKenna turned his attention back to Chipmunk. Somebody hadn’t said a word during the whole conversation and McKenna had noticed that Chipmunk had looked bored through most of it. Nothing Walsh had said had been news to Chip. “Well, you ready to fill me in on Boyfriend Number Two?”
“What makes you think I know anything about him?”
“Chip, I know you twenty years. The whole time Walsh was talking, that blank look you’re so good at left your face only once. It was when he told me about Number Two.”
“You know I was gonna tell you anyway, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“His name is Owen and he’s probably in the military.”
“Last name?”
“I don’t know. Seen him a few times, but only met him once.”
“Tell me about it.”
“About six months ago I was at home and I ran out of smokes. I decided to go out and get some, but as I’m going down the stairs I meet Meaghan going up. She’s arm-in-arm with this guy and giggling up a storm. Having a good time and about to have a great time, I assumed.”
“What time was this at?”
“Maybe three A.M. Meaghan’s surprised to see me, but she’s brassy and she trusts me enough to introduce me to Owen. He’s clean-cut, in shape, and squared away. Even had his shoes spit-shined. Then he sticks out his hand and says, ‘Very pleased to meet you, sir.’ That clinched it, he’s a good trooper in my book.”
“No other conversation?”
“No, but I could see by the way Meaghan was holding on to Owen that she really liked him.”
“You ever see him again?”
“Twice. Once in the stairwell and once in front of the building. Always in the wee hours.”
“When was the last time?”
“Around Christmas.”
“Any further conversation?”
“No, we’d just pass and wave to each other.”
“Ever talk to Meaghan about him?”
“Nope. That’s not my place.”
“You told Walsh about this?”
“Just that I saw her with another guy once or twice.”
“You didn’t give him a name?”
“No.”
“Or tell him that he was in the military?”
“No.”
“Why’s that?” McKenna asked.
“Because I could see that Meaghan wanted to keep Owen a secret from everybody she knows. That means the people at Jameson’s, that means her brother the priest, and that certainly means O’Malley. Walsh reports to too many people and word gets around. You report to only Ray.”
Another reason I’m here, McKenna thought. I can see where this is heading. “I guess Meaghan figured that Owen wouldn’t play too well to the folks back home.”
“I’d say she’s right. Meaghan’s secret pal Owen is as black as my shoe.”
Five
After leaving Churchill’s, McKenna returned to the Major Case Squad office in police headquarters. It was a large, modern office on the tenth floor, but there were only two detectives there catching up on their paperwork. Everyone else was either at lunch, in court, or out working their cases. Even Inspector Dennis Sheeran, the CO of the unit, was out of the office.
That was fine by McKenna. He wanted some quiet time to go over the Meaghan case folder. He began with the photos, spreading them out on top of his desk. After studying the fourteen shots for half an hour, McKenna was sure he would know Meaghan anywhere he saw her and he had formed some impressions about what she was like. She reminded him of a Raggedy Ann doll all grown up, but still cherished by those who knew her. He put the photos back in the envelope and went through Walsh’s work.
There was a lot of paper, all photocopies made by Walsh since the original reports had been sent to the Missing Persons Squad. He had been thorough in documenting his interviews of Chris O’Malley, Ray Donovan, seven Jameson’s employees, six of Meaghan’s neighbors, the building super, and her parents in Ireland. He had also visited four Irish bars frequented by her and had received the same story from all quarters: Meaghan was a hard-working, reliable girl with a loving family and lots of friends, and she had told none of them that she had any intention of leaving on vacation without O’Malley. All thought her disappearance suspicious, and although many had stated that Meaghan could handle herself, they all feared for her safety.
According to the information originally given by Chris O’Malley on the standard missing persons report, Meaghan was a legal resident alien, twenty years old, five-foot-four, and 115 pounds, with red hair, fair complexion, and no tattoos or noticeable scars. She had been born in Ireland, had graduated from secondary school there, and had been in the United States for three years. Her ears had been pierced for earrings, but O’Malley hadn’t been sure how many times. Under the JEWELRY caption, O’Malley had reported that besides earrings she usually wore a Claddagh ring on her left hand and a crucifix on a gold chain around her neck.
During his interview with O’Malley, Walsh had gotten the truth about Meaghan’s legal status and he had attached a hand-written, unofficial note to the report stating that she was an illegal alien and that she was twenty-two, not twenty-four. Her birthday was March 18th and she had been in the U.S. for two years. Walsh had also done a criminal record check on both O’Malley and Meaghan. O’Malley had been arrested for a minor assault two years before, but the case had been dismissed. Meaghan had never been arrested.
It took McKenna an hour of studying the folder before he was satisfied that he really knew everything Walsh knew on the case. By that time the office was filling up with detectives returning to document their day on paper.
Inspector Sheeran came in, took a quick look around the squad room, gave McKenna a wave, and went into his office without asking McKenna what he was up to.
A few years before, McKenna had held a political appointment as an assistant commissioner and had been, in theory, Sheeran’s boss. McKenna had hated that job, finding it meaningless and unrewarding work, and had finally given up the fancy title with the nice office and the obscene salary and returned to police work as a detective. However, although Sheeran was an old friend, McKenna knew the inspector was uncomfortable supervising him. This, in turn, made McKenna uncomfortable.
The occasional mission from Brunette didn’t help matters, either. Whenever somebody influential enough was scammed, robbed, or burglarized in New York City, they invariably wound up asking that McKenna be assigned their case. Most of the time Brunette ignored these requests, but not always. He believed that he had the best detectives in the world working for him, but occasionally he would drop one of those cases on McKenna.
The criteria Brunette used was still something of a mystery to McKenna, but he suspected the mayor had something to do with it. Most people Brunette could politely rebuff or tacitly ignore, but the mayor was a politician in charge of a city many people classified as unmanageable. However, His Honor was doing the impossible because he understood the political process of give-and-take: Grant a favor now and get it returned later, when needed.
Aside from what was implied in many of the newspaper columns, the ma
yor was the popular police commissioner’s boss and both men knew it. McKenna suspected that the rule of thumb among the politically influential in town was put pressure on Brunette and you got nowhere; put pressure on the mayor and you got McKenna.
Which was good in this case, McKenna thought. Without ever having met Meaghan Maher, he had grown fond of her. He couldn’t explain why in words and realized that it was unprofessional, but he had already taken a personal interest in her life and wanted to get to the bottom of her disappearance. He was growing impatient waiting for Brunette’s call and was about to go through the case folder again when the phone rang.
Two minutes later McKenna was sitting in Brunette’s office on the fourteenth floor, listening to his friend make the usual small talk with his feet propped up on Teddy Roosevelt’s big desk. Although Brunette recognized that political influence was a fact of life that had to be dealt with, he didn’t like bending his department’s traditional procedures by assigning McKenna to his missions. He would eventually bring up the case as a conversation piece and wait for McKenna to express interest in it.
So they talked about the latest note-passer McKenna was working on, a guy who had robbed four banks in a month, making a total of six thousand dollars for his efforts. McKenna had identified him but hadn’t yet located him. To help Brunette along, he described the case as boring and then asked how lunch went with the cardinal.
“Funny you should ask,” Brunette said, taking his feet off the desk. “With St. Paddy’s Day coming up, I figured he wanted to talk about ACT UP and Queer Nation, but he hardly mentioned them. Glossed right over it.”
Before his meeting with Chipmunk, McKenna had also assumed that the cardinal had wanted to talk to Brunette about the two radical gay rights groups. According to ACT UP and Queer Nation, the Catholic church and the cardinal were inherently antigay. St. Patrick’s Day, when the cardinal was the focus of national media attention as he presided over the St. Patrick’s Day parade from the steps of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, was their time of action. For the past few years, ACT UP and Queer Nation had sought publicity by disrupting church services and organizing demonstrations protesting the cardinal’s perceived stand.
Everyone suspected it was a tough time for the cardinal, but he never deigned to publicly acknowledge the activities of the two groups. “I guess the cardinal had something else on his mind,” McKenna stated innocently.
“Yeah, he’s got an Irish aide over from Ireland. Introduced me to him and we all had lunch together.”
“Nice guy?”
“A sweetheart, and sharp as they come. Cardinal told me he’s gonna be a monsignor before long, figures that one day this fella might be heading up the church in Ireland.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, but the cardinal also mentioned a problem the poor guy’s having. He’s real upset about his sister.”
“Because she’s missing?”
Brunette sat up straight and eyed McKenna shrewdly. “Damn! Sheeran tell you about this already?”
That was a cat out of the bag. So he’s already discussed it with Sheeran, McKenna realized. Good, saves me the trouble of tiptoeing around the inspector. “No, Ray. He didn’t say a word, but I already knew I had this case. Got it from a higher source, probably knew before you did.”
“Higher than the cardinal?”
“Yep. I got it from Chipmunk.”
Six
Since it was almost quitting time, Lieutenant Mosley was busy clearing his desk. In front of him was a pile of COMPLAINT FOLLOW-UP reports that documented the work his detectives had done on their cases that day and he was signing them at his usual rate of six a minute. Then there was a perfunctory knock at his door and McKenna walked into his office.
The lieutenant immediately suspected he had a problem. An unannounced visit from the PC’s pal could mean nothing else, so Mosley quickly ran his cases through his mind, searching for the one that had a booby trap for him inside. A few came to mind, but he couldn’t attach names to them. There were just so many people reported missing in New York City, but that had never been a problem for Mosley. Experience had taught him that sooner or later, somebody found them, usually by accident.
“Good to see you, Brian,” Mosley said. “What brings you here?”
McKenna didn’t think that Mosley looked glad to see him at all. “I’ve been ordered to take over one of your cases.”
In any other circumstances involving any other detective, any squad commander would indignantly shout, “Ordered by who?” But not with McKenna because everyone knew who the who was. “Good. So you’ll be working for me?”
“No.”
“I see,” Mosely said as he mulled over the implications of McKenna’s simple “No.” “Which case?”
“The Meaghan Maher case.”
“Meaghan Maher?”
“The one you got two weeks ago from the 19th Squad.”
“Oh, that one. According to the guidelines, it never should have come here. Peters should have closed it, but you know him. I figured he sent it to me just to break my balls.”
“That’s not why he left it open,” McKenna said. “Whatever the guidelines say, Lieutenant Peters was sharp enough to see that there was something to it.”
That was not what Mosley wanted to hear. “There a heavyweight involved here, somewhere?”
“I never ask,” McKenna lied.
“Good policy. Good thing I assigned one of my best men to it.”
“Detective Swaggart?”
“Yeah, Swaggart. Very experienced man, been here for years.”
“Could I speak to him?”
“Sure.”
“And could you ask him to bring the case folder in?”
“You got it.” Mosley picked up his phone and a few minutes later Swaggart was in the office.
Swaggart was an old-timer in his late fifties, but he looked like he had jumped out of the Mod Squad. He had muttonchop whiskers, a long, droopy mustache, and he wore a checkered polyester sports coat and frayed polyester slacks. McKenna didn’t like that look in a detective. Worse, Swaggart had just been summoned into his squad commander’s office and he was standing there with his top shirt button undone and his tie pulled down.
McKenna felt he was rocking on a very loose ship. After seeing Swaggart, he wasn’t interested in what the man had to say. “May I see the case folder, please?”
“Not much to it. Pretty routine,” Swaggart said as he handed the folder to McKenna.
It took McKenna only a minute to read because Swaggart had done only four short reports on the case. In the first he acknowledged receiving it for investigation; in the second he verified that the alarm for Meaghan Maher as a missing person had been transmitted; in the third he described a phone call he had received from the subject’s mother in Ireland, a call in which he had assured her that everything possible was being done to locate her daughter; and in the fourth he had recommended that the case be closed pending further developments. Mosley had signed each report.
McKenna was shocked. Swaggart had never once left the office to work the case. His initial shock was replaced by anger and he struggled to keep himself under control. Like Swaggart, McKenna was a detective, not a boss, and he knew it wasn’t his place to offer criticism. But something had to be said. “This is it? Four reports that say absolutely nothing and case closed?”
“Yeah, pretty routine,” Swaggart offered. “Remember, this case is outside the guidelines. It never should have come here in the first place.”
You’re right about that, McKenna thought. After all, it’s people’s lives we’re dealing with. Their problems, worries, and concerns should never wind up in this investigative cesspool. “Lieutenant, is Detective Swaggart related to you in any way?”
“No. Why would you think that?” Mosley asked suspiciously.
“Just a thought. After looking at this case folder, I figure you must owe him something because you let him get away with it. Figured that years ago, maybe
he did you a favor and married your ugliest sister.”
Mosely turned red and visibly angry. His lips quivered and he looked like he wanted to shout, but then he thought better of it. He put a pleasant smile on his face and asked, “I guess you think he should have done more?”
“Much more.”
“Let me explain something to you, Brian. Most people are missing because they want to be missing. Fine, but we know that they all show up, sooner or later.”
“But you don’t find them?”
“I’ve got twenty-six detectives and we get a hundred cases a day. There’s procedures and we follow them. Finding someone who wants to be missing is a difficult, time-consuming job.”
Too difficult for this crew with their present boss, McKenna thought. “Don’t a number of them wind up as victims of crimes?”
“Not a sizable number, but it happens,” Mosely conceded.
“Let’s hope it didn’t happen in this case. Let’s hope we don’t find out that this girl has been kidnapped, raped, or murdered while you’re sitting on a closed case that your very experienced detective here never really worked.”
“And if we do?”
“Use your imagination.”
“Are you threatening me, Detective McKenna?” Mosley asked, angry and indignant.
“Yes,” McKenna answered, then turned and headed for the door.
“Think you can do better, McKenna?” Swaggart shouted.
“That shouldn’t be hard.”
Like many other valuable investigative tools used by detectives for years, the telephone records of a subject have been officially denied to them by a host of court decisions relating to privacy. The telephone companies were forced to comply and now require a court order or subpoena before releasing subscriber information to the police. McKenna knew that he couldn’t fill those requirements in this case, but that didn’t concern him. Telephone companies traditionally hire retired police bosses as their heads of security, and NYNEX was no exception. Running their security operation was Steve Tavlin, an old friend who had recently retired as chief of Manhattan detectives.