by Dan Mahoney
“About one minute after I’m gone, of course. I imagine he’ll be recalled to London, so tell him I’ll be ringing him at his office sometime tomorrow.”
McKenna was glad to finally close the door on O’Dougherty. He felt drained after the interview, both emotionally and physically. He sat down and reviewed his session with the man. Considering that he had been worked over by a professional, he concluded that he had done as well as could be expected. Naturally, the strategy he had worked out with Rollins hadn’t withstood O’Dougherty’s attack, but that couldn’t be helped. In order to preserve a shred of Ferguson’s reputation for as long as possible, McKenna would admit no knowledge of her affair with O’Bannion. Rollins had also suggested that, to preserve her family’s IRA reputation and safety in Belfast, McKenna would try to avoid mentioning her connection to British Intelligence.
McKenna hadn’t shared Rollins’s concern about the Ferguson family, but he couldn’t tell the inspector why without revealing his meeting with McGuinn and her real connection to the IRA. In any event, he was sure that in time, McGuinn would set the record straight on Maggie Ferguson.
McKenna had felt a little guilty about not being able to reveal the McGuinn meeting to Rollins, but no longer. In retrospect, he now suspected Rollins of some duplicity in his motives. It now seemed likely to McKenna that the real reason Rollins had not wanted him to reveal Ferguson’s connection to British Intelligence was precisely the reason that O’Dougherty had been so interested in it. It was another case of the British running an unauthorized intelligence operation in a friendly foreign country. Considering the security leaks inherent in the Irish situation, he could possibly forgive their actions on the terrorist front. However, he thought the British attempts at economic spying to be unconscionable and unpardonable, even though most of the information O’Bannion fed them through Ferguson was false.
With a man like O’Dougherty on the case, McKenna thought it probable that someone in British Intelligence would have to pay.
McKenna dialed Rollins’s number at Keflavík Airport in Iceland. The phone rang six times and McKenna was just about to hang up when Rollins answered. “You just caught me, old boy. My flight leaves in half an hour and I was on my way out.”
“I believe you know a Senior Investigating Constable Padrick O’Dougherty, don’t you?”
“Yes, quite a decent fellow. Is he the one who interviewed you?”
“Yes, he was the one.”
“That’s too bad for us. He’s really first rate, probably the best they have.”
Too bad for you, McKenna thought, but didn’t say. “I’m glad to hear that, because I sure wouldn’t want to be grilled by someone better than him the next time.”
“I understand. How much did you have to tell him?”
“In so many words I had to agree with him that Maggie Ferguson was probably IRA, that she had probably been involved in an romantic affair with O’Bannion, and that she was probably working for British Intelligence.”
“That is quite a lot, but less than I would have expected with O’Dougherty on the case. Did you tell him that it was O’Bannion who planned the bombing here?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think he believed you?”
“I’m certain of it.”
“Well, that’s one good thing to come out of it, as far as my government is concerned.”
“As far as your government is concerned, O’Dougherty seemed quite angry about British Intelligence running an operation here without the Irish government’s permission or knowledge. I’m certain he’s going to act on his suspicions and he asked me to tell you that he’ll be calling you at your office tomorrow.”
“That’s to be expected. He’s quite right, you know, and he’s got plenty to be angry about. Does he know about our economic spying?”
The lack of concern in Rollins’s voice surprised McKenna. “No, not yet. Are you going to be in any trouble over this?”
“Me in trouble? Heavens, no! Long ago, I advised my superiors that I thought we should alert O’Dougherty to our operation with Ferguson and try to get the Irish government on board through him. I even went so far as to say that he should run the operation. My recommendation was endorsed by my superiors, but rejected by Intelligence. I guess they’ll now have to explain their decision to someone, but that doesn’t bother me.”
“How about the economic spying?”
“I never wanted to accept that information. I’m on record stating my views, but I was overruled by the chaps in the Exchequer. Greedy bunch they are. No regard for rules and no sense of fair play. I’m sure that there will be hell to pay over this affair and there’s bound to be political casualties. You reap what you sow, I always say, but personally I’m in the clear.”
“Funny that you should put it that way, but I’m glad to hear it. Have a nice flight.”
Rollins’s innocence in the affair was good news to McKenna. He had liked and respected Rollins and was glad to find that his feelings were still justified.
McKenna didn’t want to be late for his own flight, but he had one more phone call to make—one he had been dreading since O’Dougherty had left, but one he knew he had to make. He had to call Angelita.
Sooner or later, his dinner with Maggie Ferguson would be reported on the news and his future happiness and health depended on convincing Angelita that the only reason for the dinner was that his assignment had demanded it. That would be the easy part, he knew. The hard part would be explaining to her why he hadn’t told her last night about Maggie Ferguson and the dinner.
He took three deep breaths, then dialed.
It had taken McKenna a long phone call to almost smooth things over with Angelita, so long that he missed his flight. Of course, he had admitted that he had been wrong not to tell her about the dinner with Maggie Ferguson. Wrong is wrong—period—so he would still have problems with her when he got home. Looking at things from her point of view and projecting a bit, he felt he deserved some problems because it was going to cause her problems. His dinner at a hotel with a very attractive and attractively dressed Maggie Ferguson would be reported in the New York papers with innuendo somewhere in the articles. He also realized that at least some of that coverage would focus on the lost hour.
Angelita knew him, trusted him, and would be quite certain that nothing unseemly had happened, but she would still be left to deal with questions from her family, friends, and maybe even the press. McKenna felt it wasn’t fair that he had put her in that position without having given her advance notice of the dinner. He would have to pay for his bad decision. Fortunately, Angelita wasn’t a woman capable of administering misery on the installment plan, so it would be over after just one night of profuse apologies coupled with a plea for understanding. He was ready to do whatever was necessary to get back in her good graces.
Then McKenna got some more bad news when he called the airlines. The next flight out that had an available seat wasn’t until 10:00 P.M., leaving him with time on his hands and nothing constructive to do. The only good to come out of it was that he did get to play the tourist and wound up seeing quite a bit of Dublin after all.
Twenty-Six
SUNDAY, MARCH 15TH—JFK AIRPORT, NEW YORK CITY
The weather was good, the service was excellent, the cabin attendants were solicitous and friendly, and even the food was tasty, but it was still a long flight for McKenna. He had met two interesting people he had liked during the past two days and both were now dead, two victims on opposing sides of the madness. He couldn’t stop thinking about Roger Forsythe and Maggie Ferguson. The more he thought about them, the more depressed he became. He was glad to be leaving the Emerald Isle and its conflicts far behind him, even though he was flying toward another major problem generated by the Troubles. The whole idea exhausted him, and he fervently wished that Mulrooney was already in irons in Iceland, doing life plus forever for his crimes.
McKenna’s plane landed at JFK at 12:10 A.M. Sunday morning, ten m
inutes late. Sheeran and Johnny Pao were at the Customs exit to meet him. Both looked tired, but upbeat.
McKenna was happy to see Sheeran and felt honored that his boss had accompanied Pao to pick him up, but he was even happier to see Pao. McKenna understood Pao, although most people didn’t. He preferred to describe the tough marksman’s disposition as taciturn, while most others considered him a big grouch. But McKenna didn’t mind and felt that the many pluses of working with Pao far outweighed that one minus.
“How have you been?” McKenna asked them.
“Busy,” said Sheeran.
“But apparently not as busy as you were in Ireland,” Pao added. “You’ve got one big politico dead, some grand scandals shaping up, and the governments of both Ireland and England shaking. I like it, but what the hell were you doing over there?”
“Police work, Johnny. Just police work,” McKenna said lightly, but he was concerned. He had trusted O’Dougherty not to give the details of his interview to the press, but it was obvious by Pao’s statement that O’Dougherty’s superiors had folded under pressure from the press. “What’s been on the news?”
Sheeran answered, “Quite a bit. Besides the murder-suicide, the press is reporting that the Irish police are investigating O’Bannion’s role in the Iceland bombing. They’re also looking into the possibility that Maggie Ferguson was either an IRA agent or a British agent, or maybe both. Besides that, the press is digging real hard over there. They’ve come up with two more O’Bannion girlfriends and they’re making a big thing over it.”
“Good God!” McKenna exclaimed. “I was lucky to get out of there before their reporters found me.”
“There’s more,” Sheeran said. “The Irish prime minister has convened something they call a Special Panel of Inquiry. Then he summoned the British ambassador to his office and demanded that the British government provide the head of British Intelligence for questioning by the panel. I imagine that there’ll be diplomatic notes flying back and forth between Dublin and London for weeks.”
“Any mention of my involvement?”
Pao couldn’t resist answering that one. “You kidding? You’re getting more famous every minute. They got you visiting the minister for finance in the afternoon, then taking his secretary slash old squeeze slash British agent slash IRA terrorist out to dinner that night in a very fancy hotel, talking about Lord knows what. A little more than an hour after dessert, they’re both grisly dead. I’d say that’s some mention of your involvement, wouldn’t you?”
“Johnny, you’re always such a breath of fresh air.”
“You know me. I’m always putting the best slant on things, trying to cheer you up.”
“Do the newscasters have me as the hero or the villain in this thing?”
“The jury’s still out, but you know they love you in this town. All the same, every reporter around will be trying, vying, and dying to talk to you.”
That’s not good news, McKenna thought as the three men walked to the unmarked car parked outside the International Arrivals Terminal. The reporters will want to know what I was doing over there and whether I’ve learned who killed Meaghan. I wouldn’t mind defending myself, but I don’t want to give them Mulrooney’s name yet. Lying to reporters is bad business in this town, so the press has to be avoided for a while.
After loading his luggage in the trunk, McKenna climbed into the backseat. As Pao drove, Sheeran gave McKenna the progress made in New York. At 3:30 that afternoon Mulrooney had called his boys again on their cell phone, but this time the NYPD had been listening in. Mulrooney was going to take his sons to the St. Patrick’s Day parade on Tuesday, but they weren’t to tell their mother. Instead, they should dress for school, bring their books, and Uncle Jack would pick them up on the corner of Crotona Parkway and East 230th Street, two blocks from their house.
“So it’s almost over,” McKenna said.
“If we play our cards right, but we have to be as careful as he is. He told the kids to walk all around the neighborhood before they go to meet Uncle Jack. If they see anything that looks the slightest bit suspicious to them, they’re to stand on the corner with their book bags between their legs on the ground.”
Careful isn’t a strong-enough word, McKenna thought. Assuming that Mulrooney’s raised himself some street-smart kids, we’re gonna have to be meticulous in our planning if we’re gonna let “Uncle Jack” and the kids lead us to Mulrooney. “Any idea where Mulrooney was calling from?”
“Yeah. Midtown Manhattan,” Sheeran answered smugly. “We also know who Uncle Jack is.”
Wow! Sheeran’s dying to tell me how he’s so smart, but one thing at a time. “Who’s Uncle Jack?”
“The owner of the cell phone the kids are using. Jack O’Reilly. According to the phone company records, he lives on 73rd Street in Jackson Heights, Queens, and he works for the Brooklyn Union Gas Company. We’ve got his whole life history, but more on him later. Next question.”
“How do you know where Mulrooney was calling from?”
“Modern magic, and Tavlin is the magician. When Mulrooney called his kids he was also using a cell phone and Tavlin’s got a program going to track down stolen phones and cloned numbers. We’ve got Mulrooney on East 41st Street, Fifth to Madison when he made the call. He was on the phone for less than two minutes, too short for us to get anybody there in time, but we’ll be ready for him the next time he uses that phone and we’ll get him if he talks long enough. Got plenty more manpower spread out all over the city now and I’ve got East 41st Street covered, just in case that’s one of his hangouts.”
McKenna was amazed. “We can do that?” he asked. “We can zero in on his phone?”
“Sure, we can do anything. We’re the Major Case Squad, remember? Of course, Tavlin’s given us some help that makes us as wonderful as we are. His NYNEX system is computer-controlled, triangulates Mulrooney’s location from his signal strength as he moves from cell to cell or even within a cell. A map of the area he’s in comes up on the screen and Mulrooney’s the flashing dot in the middle. Whenever he uses that phone, all the bells go off at NYNEX and Tavlin’s installed an extra terminal in our office.”
“How accurate is this system?” McKenna asked.
“Half a city block, but that should be close enough.”
“Who’s the registered subscriber on the phone Mulrooney’s using?”
“The late Thomas Winthrop of Toronto, Canada. His service was AT&T, but we’ve switched him to NYNEX. Mulrooney never has to worry about his phone being turned off because we’ll be more than happy to pay his bill.”
Figures, McKenna thought. Mulrooney took his credit cards, his identity, and his life, so why not his phone? “How about Winthrop’s recent bills from AT&T?”
“Tavlin just got them for us tonight. Mulrooney didn’t start using the phone until March seventh, but the calls were made from here and they’re all local calls. Two calls to his kids and the rest to three different beeper numbers. After he beeps one of those numbers, he always gets an incoming call.”
“Do we know who owns those beepers?” McKenna asked.
“Not yet, but we will tomorrow. The three phone lines for those beeper numbers belong to an outfit called Page America. We tried to get a hold of them to find out who they sold those beepers to, but no luck. Their office is closed till Monday.”
No luck? I’d say we’ve had plenty of luck so far, McKenna thought. Sheeran’s done great and it’s time to let him shine some more. “How did it happen that you know Jack O’Reilly’s life history?”
“Easy,” Sheeran answered. “You know Timmy Restivo?”
Another lucky break, McKenna thought. Sheeran said that O’Reilly works for the Brooklyn Union Gas Company. “Sure I know Timmy. Retired lieutenant from Queens Homicide and now chief of security for Brooklyn Union.”
“Well, I called him at home tonight. He went back to his office and brought us O’Reilly’s personnel folder. O’Reilly’s a meter reader, been with them for thi
rteen years. Married for nine years, three kids. Good worker, never a problem, but he was born in—”
“Belfast, Northern Ireland,” McKenna said.
“Yes, The Lower Falls in Belfast. Timmy gave us a copy of his photo ID and we ran O’Reilly and his wife through DMV. He’s got two cars, but one of them wasn’t in front of his house.”
“Any idea where his wife is from?”
“Certainly not Ireland. Her maiden name is Cocchi.”
“We’ve got a surveillance on the house?”
“Yeah, and a wire on his phone. He doesn’t know it, but he now has Caller ID. He called his wife at seven-ten this evening to tell her he would be home by one. He also asked if Mike had called, but he hadn’t.”
“Where was he calling from?”
“The Pioneer Bar, Main Street and 58th Avenue in Flushing. We sent Fitzhughs there to check it out and he found O’Reilly right away. He’s working part-time as the night bartender. There’s Irish flags everywhere in the bar, England-out-of-Ireland posters, loads of radical IRA songs on the jukebox, and a real Irish clientele, many of them from the other side.”
“Is Fitz still inside the place?” McKenna asked.
“Yeah, he’s got it good tonight, soaking up suds with the Job picking up the tab.”
“Has he talked to O’Reilly?”
“Yeah, says that he’s real popular, knows everybody in the place. We’ll find out just who else he knows because we’ve got the bar phone and the pay phone tapped.”
“How about eavesdropping warrants?”
“That’s what you’re gonna be doing now,” Sheeran said, then passed a folder back to McKenna. “The applications have been typed up, the judge has been briefed, and he’s waiting at home right now for you to swear to them. I kept it simple and didn’t mention anything about his crimes in the rest of the world.”
Pao put the interior light on and McKenna read the applications. There were six of them, all with an unsigned eavesdropping warrant attached. The applications listed the phone number to be wired, the telephone subscriber for that phone, the type of information sought, and a statement that, in the opinion of the investigating officer, this information could not be obtained by other investigative means. The information sought was “Particulars from any conversation that would disclose the location of Michael Mullen, a fugitive wanted in the State of New York for the crimes of Grand Larceny and Bail Jumping.”