by Dan Mahoney
As long as there was a chance Meaghan was alive, McKenna had no desire to finish off Lieutenant George Mosley. He had been hoping that Brunette wouldn’t ask to see the folder, but figured that he would. Brunette would want to know every detail about his department’s case before discussing it with another sharp guy like Janus.
Brunette had been a supervisor in the detective bureau for most of his career and had reviewed thousands of case folders. He knew that whispered words can scream on paper and he had learned to see through every written attempt at ambiguity. He also knew the difference between what the rules said could be done in any case and what really should be done to solve it and put the bad guy away.
Walsh’s work didn’t take Brunette long to go through and he unconsciously nodded his approval as he read. Then he came to Swaggart’s reports and McKenna braced himself.
It took Brunette under a minute. Then, eyes wide in disbelief, he read it again. “Good God!” was all he said before glancing at McKenna’s reports and returning the folder to him.
McKenna knew that a simple “Good God!” from Brunette could easily translate into an enduring “God-awful!” for Mosley, but he didn’t want to know what was going through Brunette’s mind. Even in his late forties and after having spent years in homicide squads, McKenna still closed his eyes at the scary parts in horror films.
The waiter came with their espresso and Angelita’s order. McKenna felt it was a good time to change the subject. “When are you going to call Janus?”
“As soon as I get back to the office.”
“Tonight? Isn’t it pretty late there now?”
“Makes no difference. Icelanders never know what time it is.”
“Why’s that?”
“Daylight for most of the summer and darkness for most of the winter. Add in that most of them work two jobs anyway and you’ve got people with no biological clock. Besides, it’s a big country and Janus doesn’t have many people. I want to get him started looking for her as soon as possible.”
“Not much crime there?” McKenna asked.
“I believe that they’re the most underemployed police in the world.”
After returning to the office to sign out, McKenna took a cab home for a relaxing evening with Angelita. But it wasn’t to be. Before he could get out of the taxi in front of the Gramercy Park Hotel, the doorman raced over with a message. Brunette wanted him back at headquarters.
McKenna realized at once that the message meant trouble on two fronts. Brunette had reached Janus and had received some disturbing news requiring immediate attention. That was bad enough, but what troubled him more at the moment was the order of eggplant parmigiana on his lap. That meant personal trouble because Angelita expected him upstairs and she hated eating alone.
McKenna thought about bringing the food up to her and offering an explanation, but decided that the coward’s way out was called for this time. He gave the order to the doorman and asked him to have it brought up to Angelita, then told the cab driver to take him to headquarters.
Brunette was sitting at his desk and on the phone when McKenna walked into his office. “He’s here now. Talk to you later,” Brunette said before hanging up.
“Angelita?” McKenna asked.
“Yeah. Just squaring some things away on the home front for you, Buddy. Pull up a chair.”
McKenna did. “Who called who?”
“I called her, figured you’d be in some trouble about coming back here.”
“You had that right.”
“How come you didn’t tell her what you’ve been up to? I had to explain the whole thing to her.”
“I was going to, but we haven’t had a lot of time to talk in the last few days.”
“Well, I told her all about it. She’s interested.”
Angelita thinks it’s an interesting case? Good! McKenna thought. “What did she say?”
“Said she wanted you to get the guy who killed Meaghan Maher, but that’s not gonna happen.”
It was expected, but Brunette’s statement still put a knot in McKenna’s stomach. “She’s dead?”
“Looks that way. On March second the body of a red-headed girl washed up on one of the big islands off the coast of Iceland. They weren’t able to identify her, but they think she’s connected somehow to the bombing.”
The murder of the British foreign secretary and his wife in Iceland had been front-page news worldwide for a few days. McKenna had followed the story with some interest until the coverage ended, which meant to him that the investigation wasn’t going well in Iceland. Just another IRA bombing that would never be solved, he had concluded. But how could Meaghan have been involved in that? Couldn’t be, he decided. “When was the bombing?”
“Same day. March second, around one in the morning.”
“How long had she been dead when they found her?”
“The body had been in the water for about a week, but she had been seen in the company of the guy they suspect did the bombing.”
“When?” McKenna asked.
“She had dinner with him in a Reykjavík restaurant on the night of February twenty-first.”
Her first night in Iceland and also the day Owen was in Brussels buying clothes for her, McKenna thought. “So the bomber killed her and blew up the Brits a week later.”
“That’s the way it looks. The Icelandic police have her as either another victim or an untrusted accomplice who was tortured and killed.”
“Tortured?” The knot in McKenna’s stomach tightened.
“Yeah. According to Janus, she was in pretty bad shape when she washed up. Her fingers had been cut off, her teeth had been knocked out, and her nipples were gone. Rope burns on her wrists and ankles, her face battered beyond recognition, bruises and burns all over her body.”
“Sounds like a sex killing to me,” McKenna observed.”
“I agree, but apparently the Icelanders don’t.”
“Why do you say that? Because they’re thinking that maybe Meaghan was IRA?”
“Yeah, but I can see how they made the jump. Janus must be under a lot of pressure with a double political murder on his hands.”
“We’re not making that jump, are we?” McKenna asked.
“You tell me, but I know that sex killings aren’t the IRA style. Their people take a puritan, purely political approach to murder.”
“Then the Icelanders are wrong. Unless she’s been fooling everyone, including me, Meaghan wouldn’t have anything to do with the IRA. Her brother was killed in the British Army and I know she doesn’t hate the Brits. She’s a peace-loving girl.”
“Unfortunately, that’s not our concern. All the Icelanders want from us is to get their body identified.”
I don’t like that slant, McKenna thought. But even identifying her could be a problem. No fingers, no teeth, a battered face, and a week in the water. “Okay. It’s gonna be tough on everybody, but if it’s Meaghan they’ve got, I’ll get her identified.”
“How? Chris O’Malley?”
“Yeah, O’Malley. He knows her well and has seen her naked, so he fits the bill. Then what?”
“Then nothing. Talk to O’Malley and send him over there. If he identifies her, you’ve closed your missing persons case.”
McKenna saw the logic of Brunette’s decision, but disagreed with it. “You and I both know that if that’s Meaghan, it’s not a missing persons case anymore. She’s not IRA, she’s a victim. One of our people has been tortured and then murdered.”
“Now you sound like Angelita,” Brunette said, smiling. “Think maybe you’re getting too close on this one?”
Ray’s right, McKenna realized. I’ve been violating one of the cardinal rules. “Maybe I am taking this too personal, but I think we should take a look at it.”
“Technically, Meaghan Maher is not one of our people, remember? She’s an illegal alien.”
“Just a technicality. She’s an American as far as I’m concerned. An innocent American tortured and murdered b
y terrorists in a foreign country. If she were Jewish and we thought the Palestinians were involved, think about what the reaction of our government would be then. Not to mention the Israeli government. The FBI, the CIA, the Mossad, and Lord-knows-who-else would all be in Iceland right now, poking around.”
“You want to go to Iceland?”
“Yes.”
“And do what, if it’s her?”
“Just take a look at it and at least establish that she’s an innocent victim.”
Brunette sat back in his chair and appeared to be thinking over McKenna’s request. “Janus tells me he’s got his best man assigned and that he’s already getting some help from the Brits,” he said, but he seemed to be talking to himself as he thought.
“His best man? How good could he be?” McKenna asked.
“Janus said he’s solved every murder in Iceland in the past twelve years.”
So maybe he is pretty good, McKenna thought. “How many murders is that?”
“Four.”
“Four? Give me a break, Ray!” McKenna said, standing up. “We don’t have a man in any of our homicide squads who hasn’t solved four murders this year, and we’re only in March. How good can this guy really be?”
“Janus says he’s good. If they had more murders, he’d solve more murders.”
“I should still go.”
Brunette thought a moment longer, then appeared to reach his decision. “What the hell, the cardinal’s involved. Go, but there have to be some ground rules.”
“I know. Be polite, ooh-and-aah over the fine work they’ve done so far, and don’t get in the way.”
“And no gun. The police there usually don’t carry.”
“Okay, and no gun,” McKenna agreed. “But I just thought of another problem. O’Malley’s also here illegally and might have a hard time getting back into the U.S.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Brunette said simply.
Taking care of it meant talking to Gene Shields, McKenna realized. Shields was the head of the New York office of the FBI and had worked with McKenna and Brunette in the past. He was a good friend to both and a man of extraordinary influence in federal circles. “Okay, so I’ll book a flight out for tomorrow?” McKenna asked.
“I’ve already taken care of it,” Brunette said, smiling. “I’ve got you and O’Malley on the Icelandair flight out of JFK, leaves at eight tomorrow night.”
God! I love this man, but why does he do these things to me? McKenna asked himself, then answered his own question. Ray wasn’t sure if it was the right thing to do, so he used me again as a sounding board. He also wanted to see if I was as personally committed to this case as he thought I was. “I guess Janus already knows I’m coming?”
“Yeah, says he’s looking forward to seeing you again. He’s going to pick you up at the airport himself.”
“And I guess Angelita already knows I’m going?”
“Sure. After I explained what’s happened in this case so far, I waited for her to suggest it. She’s smart and logical and asked the same questions you just did. She said she’s not crazy about the idea, but told me that you going to Iceland with O’Malley was the only thing that made sense.”
“Well thanks for that and thanks for breaking my balls so professionally.”
“My pleasure. But while you’re over there, please keep one thing in mind.”
“I know. Officially, it’s not our case.”
Ten
When McKenna finally did get home, Meaghan Maher and her family were all Angelita wanted to hear about. The twins had been good all day, Janine had been a pleasure to have around, and the kids were all sleeping soundly. It was finally time to talk objectively about something important, and that was always done at the dining room table with Angelita sitting across from McKenna. No touching was the rule, just talk until the matter at hand was resolved.
Many people who knew Angelita would characterize her as difficult. This trait McKenna overlooked because, as he told himself whenever she was acting up, getting the best things in life should be difficult. Along with McKenna’s love, Angelita also constantly earned his respect. She was slow to trust and disliked people in general, but individuals were a different matter. For those few she liked and admired, she would do anything. In addition, she had a finely tuned, though unorthodox, sense of justice. According to her, bad things should always happen to those who do bad things to good people. Always, no matter what.
McKenna agreed in theory, but professionalism and a desire to avoid prison kept him from acting fully in accordance with their shared beliefs. He was never one to physically abuse prisoners and was courteous to every suspect, no matter how heinous the crime. He hurt them by sending them to jail, frequently bending the convoluted judicial rules along the way to get his evidence admitted and heard by the jury.
After talking the case over, Angelita now liked Meaghan and thought she was a good person. It followed that whoever killed her was a bad person and bad things should happen to him. “You have to get the monster who did this,” she told him.
Typically, Angelita disregarded not only judicial procedures, but also important things like internationally recognized police procedures, time, distance, and national boundaries. “I don’t know if that’s possible,” he said. “The Brits have been dealing with IRA bombers and assassins for years and they haven’t been having much luck.”
“So? You haven’t been dealing with them until now.”
“Don’t you see a few problems here?”
“No, I don’t. An innocent person from New York has been murdered, and one thing you’re good at is solving murders and tracking down the people who commit them,” she said as a simple statement of fact. “Come to think of it, you’re probably the best.”
McKenna was introspective by nature, self-critical, and well aware of his faults and shortcomings. While never considered a braggart, he still knew he was good at what he did. But the best? “Baby, I appreciate the compliment, but I think you might be overstating the case.”
“No I’m not. Ray says the same thing, told me again tonight. Said she’s dead two weeks already and nobody’s come up with anything. According to him, the only way to solve it is to send you to Iceland.”
McKenna immediately went up another hat size, but then realized what Brunette had done. I could learn something here, he thought. Ray wanted to send me anyway, but he figured that Angelita had to be kept happy for me to operate effectively. So what does he do? Plays to the pride she has in me. So I’m going to Iceland and better yet, Angelita wants me to go.
What do I say now that won’t break the bubble? he wondered. “Okay. I’m going to Iceland and I’m gonna find the man who murdered three people there,” he tried, sounding as modest as he could.
“No, you’re going there to find the man who killed Meaghan,” Angelita said, looking at him strangely, as if she suddenly doubted his intelligence. “The other two aren’t important and have almost nothing to do with it.”
“The British foreign secretary and his wife aren’t important?”
“No. Those were just political assassinations. They have nothing to do with Meaghan or us.”
“But they were probably killed by the same man. That’s not important?”
“Only if it helps you to find him,” Angelita explained as if she was talking to Janine. “Don’t you see that?”
McKenna didn’t, at first. But then he thought about it some more, hoping it wasn’t taking him too long to figure out what was patently obvious to Angelita. Finally he got it. “One has nothing to do with the other,” he said. “Killing the foreign secretary and his wife was just his reason for being in Iceland.”
Either Angelita broke the no-touching rule or the matter was resolved to her satisfaction. She reached across the table and took his hand. “Of course,” she said, proud of him once more. “Killing the foreign secretary and his wife was just his job and makes no difference to us. It wouldn’t matter if he was a truck driver or a mi
lkman. Work is work and apparently he does well in his occupation. Meaghan Maher he killed for fun, something that probably had nothing to do with his job.”
“Naturally,” he agreed, as if he knew it all along. “I’m just chasing another psycho sadistic sex murderer, an animal with a sick, perverted mind who just happens to blow people up for a living.”
“Right. He might be flawless in his work, but when he’s at play and enjoying himself by torturing our poor Meaghan? Who knows?”
“I do. He made mistakes. They always do.”
“And you’ll find those mistakes and get him, right?” Angelita asked, squeezing McKenna’s hand and giving him that smile he loved but hadn’t seen too much, lately.
Under the circumstances, there was only one answer. “Right.”
“Brian, you’re so smart that I just have to love you. What do you say we go to bed?”
“And go to sleep?”
“Of course not.”
McKenna was awakened at ten o’clock by Janine tugging at the blankets, but he teased her by keeping his eyes closed. He felt refreshed and well rested, although he had been only half-asleep for hours. He had first stirred when Angelita had gotten up for the 6:00 A.M. feeding, but she had kindly insisted that he stay in bed. Since he would be traveling all night and wasn’t due at the office that day, he had been content to lie there, listening to the sounds of his family when they were all being good.
Then Janine tugged at the blankets again and yelled impatiently, “Despiértate, Popí. Por favor, despiértate.”
As requested, McKenna opened his eyes wide and sat up in bed. Janine held out her arms to be picked up and he complied, hugging his show-off smart little girl with the Irish face, the Spanish complexion, and the French name.
McKenna was sure that Janine had made that major language leap in his absence during the past few days, a leap in understanding common in bilingual families. Finally, her confusion was gone. She had called him Popí instead of Daddy when she talked to him in Spanish. She was getting it straight that the same thing or person was called by different names in Spanish and English.