by Dan Mahoney
But he wanted to be sure. Unlike Angelita, McKenna spoke Spanish with an accent, one he didn’t want Janine picking up. Sometimes he spoke to Angelita in Spanish just so Janine would think it natural that everyone spoke the language, but when he spoke directly to Janine, it was always in English. Still, he looked forward to the day she knew enough to make fun of his accent. “Has my little girl been good today?” he asked.
“Sí, Popí. Estoy buena.”
Now who’s teasing who? McKenna asked himself. “Don’t tell me that my smart little girl forgot how to speak English,” he said, tweaking her nose and assaulting her pride.
“No, I didn’t forget. See? I still talk English.”
“Oh yeah? What’s my name?”
“Daddy. Did you forget?”
Perfect, perfect, perfect! It won’t be long before we’re on to French, McKenna thought. “Yes, Daddy forgot his name for a minute. Good thing you remembered.”
Then Janine tweaked his nose. “Fibber,” she said, quite sure of herself.
Two years old and already she’s got my number, McKenna thought. If she were a judge, I’d be in on my way to jail. Guess I got myself a tough eighteen years ahead raising this little girl.
Then Meaghan popped into his head and spoiled the mood. Somebody had destroyed more than one life when they killed that other tough, smart girl. McKenna winced and shuddered as he imagined himself in the shoes of Meaghan’s parents. “Who do you never talk to?” he asked Janine.
“Strangers!” she shouted at once.
“My, you really are a smart little girl.”
For the rest of the morning, McKenna did the things he loved doing, and it seemed that everyone appreciated having him around. He played with Janine and listened to her proudly name objects around the apartment in both Spanish and English, he had a nice breakfast with Angelita while Janine had fun destroying a coloring book with her interpretation of art, and then he fed and changed the boys, one at a time, without incident. But there were a few unpleasant tasks that had to be performed that day, and Angelita had to be told.
“I have to go out for a while,” he said to her after he put Shane in his bassinet.
“I know.”
“You do?”
“Sure. Someone in Meaghan’s family has to be told what you think happened to her in Iceland, right?”
“Right. Go on,” McKenna urged, prepared to be mystified once again by Angelita’s logic and foresight.
“Therefore, knowing you, you’ll go see her brother the priest. You’ll tell him and he’ll tell her mother.”
“Right again. But how did you know that?”
“Easy. Because we both know that you’re a big, soft, cowardly sissy, don’t we?”
“I guess we both do,” McKenna admitted as he grabbed her and hugged her. “But can we pretend every once in a while that I’m the only one who knows?” he asked, whispering in her ear.
“Okay, next time we’ll pretend. I promise.”
“And here’s something you haven’t thought of, yet. There’s somebody else I have to go see.”
Angelita pushed him away and stared at him with laughter in her eyes. “You mean you have to go see Chris O’Malley to ruin his life and tell him he’s going to Iceland in about eight hours.”
Damn!
“Please come in,” the cardinal’s housekeeper told McKenna. “His Eminence is expecting you.”
He is? How would the cardinal know I was coming? McKenna wondered as the housekeeper showed him to a large waiting room off the entrance hallway. And how come everyone in town lately knows where I’m going before I do myself?
Has to be Ray, McKenna concluded. He called to tell the cardinal what’s happened and he knows me. Like Angelita, he figured I’d rather tell the bad news to Meaghan’s brother the priest than give it to Mrs. Maher.
McKenna settled into an overstuffed leather chair and waited in the old-fashioned, mahogany-paneled room. When the cardinal came in, his appearance surprised McKenna. The man in charge of the archdiocese of New York looked like an ordinary man in the street, wearing blue jeans, a flannel shirt, and loafers. McKenna stood up and the cardinal offered his hand. “Thanks for coming, Brian. And thanks for working so fast and so hard on this.”
None of that kiss-the-ring stuff from this cardinal, McKenna thought as he shook the cardinal’s hand. “I guess Ray told you what happened?”
“Yes, he called me this morning. Terrible thing. Just horrible.”
“Did you tell her brother about it?” McKenna asked hopefully.
“I would have, but Ray told me you’d probably be around.”
That’s too bad, McKenna thought. I was so close to getting out of this job, and then Ray had to spoil it. “Is Father Maher up to this kind of news?”
“Nobody is, really, but he’s a tough man in a sensitive kind of way. He was very close to Meaghan and we saw quite a bit of her around here. I know he misses her already, and so do I, but I’m sure he’s been expecting bad news all along.”
“What did you think of her?” McKenna asked.
“Delightful young lady, charming and so full of life. When Father Maher first arrived, I gave him a week off and she was here every morning to show him around the city. They had a ball together.”
“Where is he now?”
“Upstairs. He’s been helping me get my sermon together for St. Patrick’s Day.”
“Well, we might as well get this over with.”
“Do you want me to stick around while you tell him about it?” the cardinal asked.
“Please. I’m not too good at this sort of thing, so I wouldn’t mind if you jumped in if you see me floundering.”
“Just between you and me, I’m not too good at it, either. Done it hundreds of times, but it never gets any easier to tell folks that their loved ones are dead.”
Just great, McKenna thought as the cardinal left. I was counting on help from him, and now he tells me that he’s a sissy like me. McKenna paced and fidgeted, trying to get his thoughts together until the cardinal returned with Father Maher.
McKenna had seen pictures of Meaghan’s brother, but they hadn’t accurately conveyed what he was like. He was photogenic, looking relaxed and easy-going in Meaghan’s photos of him, but that wasn’t the man McKenna was looking at now. He appeared apprehensive, but he hadn’t forgotten his manners. “Ryer Maher,” he said, offering his hand. “So good of you to come, Detective McKenna. My mother’s become quite a fan of yours.”
“A pleasure to meet you, but I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news,” McKenna said, shaking the priest’s hand.
“Meaghan?”
“Yes, Meaghan. It looks like she’s dead. The police in Iceland have a body that matches her description and that was the last place I tracked her to.”
McKenna figured that Ryer must have spoken to his mother that day, because he didn’t ask McKenna what his sister was doing in Iceland, the logical next question. Instead, he asked, “How did she die?”
“She was murdered,” McKenna said, hoping he could leave it at that.
He couldn’t. Ryer reacted to the statement as if he had been punched. His head snapped back and he rubbed his jaw, but he remained in control of his emotions. “Did she suffer?” he asked.
Here comes the really hard part, McKenna thought. Might as well just say it and get it over with. “Yes, she suffered. She was tortured before she died.”
“What was it? A sex attack?”
“I think so, but I’m going to Iceland to be sure.”
“God help us!” Ryer said, more to himself than to McKenna. He remained straight and erect, but his eyes filled with tears. “Poor Meaghan. How can I tell my poor mother and father about this? How can I tell them that our Meaghan was horribly murdered by some animal, alone and so far from home?” he asked, looking to McKenna for an answer.
You got me, McKenna thought, embarrassed as he felt his own eyes filling. He looked to the cardinal for help, but that other big sissy al
so was close to tears.
However, the cardinal came through. “I’ll tell her if you prefer, but it would be better coming from you.”
“I agree,” McKenna said, glad that he wasn’t to be the one to do it.
“You’re right, of course,” Ryer said. “Can you give me the details?”
The three men sat down and McKenna told Ryer what he had learned. The priest followed McKenna’s account with interest, but without a single question. When McKenna told him about Owen Stafford, he expected some reaction, but got none. McKenna concluded that Ryer knew his sister better than he had believed and got the impression Owen’s race wasn’t a matter of great importance to him; what was important was that Meaghan had loved Owen and he had made her happy.
Ryer’s questions came when McKenna thought he had finished. “Are you going to be able to find the person who did this?”
“Officially, it’s not an NYPD case, but I’m going to try. If it’s any consolation, I’ve got the backing of our police commissioner and he’s a man of some influence.”
“If it helps, you also have my backing,” the cardinal added. “Anything I can do to help you along, just let me know.”
If it helps? Are you kidding? McKenna thought. One phone call from you to the mayor and the entire Major Case Squad is transferred to Iceland for the duration. “Thank you, Your Eminence. That’s good to know.”
“If you do find him, what do you think will happen to this man?” Ryer asked.
“Depends on where he goes. If he’s in Ireland, maybe not much. Finding him and arresting him there might be difficult.”
“No it won’t,” Ryer countered. “If you find that he fled to Ireland, just let me know. Even if he’s with the IRA, our people have a very low tolerance for sexual psychopaths who murder young Irish girls.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” McKenna said.
“Now I need two favors from you,” Ryer said.
“Anything.”
“I would like Lieutenant Stafford’s phone number. I think he should be at the funeral, if he cares to come.”
“Certainly,” McKenna said, happy to be relieved of another chore. He took his notepad out and gave Ryer the number of the guard company in Brussels. “What else?”
“I assume the Icelandic police will release the body so it can be shipped to Ireland?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Then, I know it’s a lot to ask, but could you find a good undertaker and have her embalmed in Iceland before the body is shipped? I don’t want my mother to see Meaghan in the condition she’s in right now. I’ll pay you back, whatever it costs.”
“I’ll take care of it. Now I have a question for you. How would you describe Meaghan’s politics?”
“Well, as you know, she can’t vote here. If she could, I’d call her a Liberal Democrat.”
“That’s not what I mean. How did she view the political situation in Northern Ireland?”
“I don’t think she even thought about it and probably couldn’t care less. Meaghan thought of herself as an American. I think that if somebody pressed her for her views on Northern Ireland, she’d probably say that killing people over religion was stupid.”
Smart girl, McKenna thought. “Thanks. I just had to know that.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s my understanding that the police in Iceland have some kind of notion that Meaghan might have been involved with the IRA.”
“Ridiculous.”
“That’s what I said. They’re probably not too bright.”
Eleven
SUNDAY, MARCH 8TH—KEFLAVÍK, ICELAND
It had been a smooth flight, but a horrible time. McKenna had wanted to finish the book on the IRA he had brought, but that hadn’t been possible with Chris O’Malley sitting next to him. The large young man had wanted to do nothing but talk about Meaghan and cry. Feeling sorry for him, McKenna had comforted O’Malley for most of the flight. By the time they landed at 8:00 A.M., McKenna was extremely uncomfortable, feeling they were the object of attention of every other passenger on the plane.
As promised, Janus was at the gate to meet them. The big man was dressed in a white suit, white bucks, and a white tie, evoking in McKenna the image of a polar bear dressed for his First Holy Communion. None of the Icelanders leaving the plane ahead of them thought Janus’s appearance out of the ordinary. They all stopped to greet him so that McKenna felt like he was on a receiving line before it was finally his turn.
“Good to see you again, Janus,” McKenna said.
“Thank you for coming, Brian,” Janus replied. “Nice flight, I hope?”
“Not too bad,” McKenna answered, then introduced O’Malley.
Janus took one look at the red-eyed O’Malley and said, “I’m truly sorry about your girlfriend. She must have been very pretty and quite a girl.”
“What do you mean, ‘must have been’?” O’Malley asked. “Did he beat her that badly?”
“I’m sorry, but yes. You should prepare yourself because I think you’re going to have a hard time recognizing her.”
O’Malley’s eyes filled with tears again, but there was still something he wanted to know. “What makes you think she was quite a girl?”
“Because the killer didn’t take her easy. According to the Saga Hotel staff and from the video we have of him, she must have fought very hard. He had quite a black eye and she might even have broken his nose.”
“Then I don’t have to see her. That’s Meaghan,” O’Malley said proudly, talking from experience. “She’s the toughest woman I ever met.”
“I’m afraid that you’ll still have to identify her, Chris,” Janus said sympathetically.
“When will that be?”
“Did you eat on the plane?”
“Yes.”
“Then we should wait a while. Maybe this afternoon sometime we’ll go to the morgue.”
Janus’s simple suggestion caused a look of terror to pass over O’Malley’s face and did nothing to ease the new knot developing in McKenna’s stomach.
Janus led them through the terminal, stopping at Immigration and Customs only long enough for Janus to return the agents’ waves. Within minutes they were in his Volvo.
“What’s the plan for now?” McKenna asked.
“I’m going to take you to meet Thor. He’s the man in charge of the investigation and he’s here at the airport. You two will have a lot to talk about, so I’ll take Chris to the hotel and you can come into town later with Thor.”
“What’s Thor’s last name?” McKenna asked.
“Officially, he’s Senior Investigating Constable Thor Eríkson, but Thor will do here. Icelanders don’t use titles and last names much.”
“Why not?” McKenna asked.
“Because here Thor Eríkson means only that he’s Thor, the son of Erík.”
Simple enough, but a man could go a long way with a name like Thor Eríkson, McKenna thought. Could be a tough name to live up to.
After a few minutes of driving, Janus slowed as he approached a gate with a U.S. Marine MP on guard. The marine saluted, then waved Janus’s car through.
“We have a base here?” McKenna asked.
“U.S. Naval Air Station, the only military base in the country,” Janus answered.
“What do they do?”
“Used to keep track of Soviet submarines in the North Atlantic. Now, I guess, they don’t do much of anything.”
“Do the Icelanders mind an American base in the country?”
“Some of them used to, but not anymore. Used to be demonstrations here about once a year protesting the foreign presence, but then somebody figured out that the base employs about ten percent of the total workforce in the Reykjavík area. Now our government is petitioning yours to keep the base open.”
Janus drove through the base, then followed a service road until he came to five olive-drab trailers arranged in a circle. There was another marine MP there standing guard in the rain. He als
o saluted and waved the Volvo into the circle of trailers.
McKenna was surprised to see an old souped-up Mustang parked outside one of the trailers. It was the kind of car an American teenager would own.
Janus pulled in next to the Mustang. “That’s Thor’s car,” he said, smiling and shaking his head as he looked at it. “It’s his one concession to lunacy. You’ll find him inside. If you like, I’ll have your luggage brought up to your room at the hotel.”
“Thank you. Which hotel are we staying at?”
“The Saga, same one the bombing was in. I guess I’ll see you sometime this afternoon.”
McKenna got out and ran through the rain to the door of the trailer and knocked. The door was opened by a tall, blond man who was casually dressed in tan slacks and a checkered shirt. “Come in, Brian,” he said. “Heard a lot about you and we’re glad to have you on board. I’m Thor.”
McKenna entered and saw that he was in a well-equipped mobile crime lab, almost identical to the one used by the NYPD’s Bomb Squad. Besides Thor, there were another two men inside. Thor made the introductions in almost-unaccented American English, presenting Insp. Bob Hackford and Insp. Sydney Rollins from Scotland Yard.
Hackford was wearing a white lab coat, but it was Rollins who interested McKenna. He had written the foreword in the book on the IRA McKenna had been trying to read on the plane.
McKenna thought some small talk was in order before getting down to business, so he said to Thor, “I guess you’ve heard this before, but your English is perfect.”
That drew a smile from Hackford and Rollins, but Thor looked pleased. “My gracious new colleagues here would disagree with you. They tell me I sound like a gangster from Chicago, and they might be close. I have a cousin in Milwaukee and I try to visit her whenever I’m taking one of your courses.”
McKenna knew he was pushing politeness to the limit, but he just had to ask. “You’ve taken police courses in the United States?”
Thor didn’t look offended at all. “Among other places. My government doesn’t spend much money on police, but what it does spend, it tries to spend wisely. I was able to convince Janus to send me to your FBI Academy for the eleven-week course. Also been to your government’s bomb course in Alabama and attended quite a few seminars in America. Matter of fact, we have a friend in common.”