“What do you suggest I do? Lock myself in my room?”
“Live your life normally. Keep out of it. And tell me everything.”
“I’ve told you what I know.”
“No, you haven’t.”
“I haven’t?”
“You didn’t mention the fact that it was your brother who last saw Seamus alive.”
“He walked him home. Seamus went inside alone.”
“So he says.”
“How did you know that?”
“It’s my job to know. I’m good at my job. Now, go about your normal life. And keep your mouth shut, unless you’re talking to me.”
“I’m supposed to be filming in the area.”
“Don’t film in or around the pub right now.”
He rose, finished with her. “Want me to walk you back?”
“No, thanks, it’s broad daylight, I’m not far, and I’ve got a few errands to run.”
They exited the shop together. Kyle lifted a hand to the cops at the front. They waved in turn.
Kyle watched her as she started down the street. She walked to the first corner, then turned, not sure where she was going. She didn’t really have errands; she just wasn’t ready to go home. She felt dull and afraid, sick at heart.
Then she knew. No matter how tough Kyle Browne might be, Seamus had died. And though it certainly appeared to be an accident, that didn’t make it so.
She ducked into a drugstore and pretended to read cold remedy boxes. She purchased one, looking around all the while. Her next stop was a shoe shop, then a clothing store. She bought a blouse, watching all the while.
Finally, she headed in the direction she had determined to go.
“Where’s Moira?” Dan asked Eamon, who was behind the bar checking his inventory again. Dan had thought she was safe enough that morning, at Flannery’s with her father and sister.
“She went out with Siobhan and the kids.”
“Where’d they go?”
“Buying flowers. Of course,” Eamon said with a frown, “that was some time ago. Then I think Siobhan was taking the kids to spend some time with her folks.”
“You think Moira went with her?”
“Maybe.”
“You know, maybe I’ll call them and find out,” Dan said.
Moira wasn’t with her sister-in-law.
“Do you need her?” Eamon asked.
“No, not really. I just wanted to see if I could give her a hand.”
Eamon shook his head. “Well, she might be with that fellow of hers.”
“True,” Dan said, feeling something knot in his stomach. “What do you think of him, Eamon?”
“Good-looking fellow.”
“Yeah.”
“Very bright.”
“Yeah.”
“Seems willing to bend over backward for her.”
“Yeah.”
“And…”
“And?”
“He’s an American. Doesn’t fly in and fly out every time he gets her heart going.”
“Eamon, you know I love her. But I wasn’t settled in my heart and mind.”
“Ah, well, that’s life, eh?”
“You think I’ve lost her?”
“Well, now, you know, she’s a fine daughter, but she’s not quite shared her feelings with me. Looks like a good thing for her, though. The fellow is part of her business. Works for her, with her. Dotes on her. Takes her places. Like they say, what’s not to like?”
“Yeah, Eamon, I guess you’re right,” Dan said, turning away. He needed to get out.
“Danny?”
“Yeah?”
“There’s still something in her eyes when she looks at you. Something sparks when I see you arguing with one another.”
“Thanks, Eamon.”
Dan walked out the door.
Moira took a circuitous route to the T station to catch the subway. Once there, she bought her ticket, wondering if she had become completely paranoid. She tried very hard to survey the crowd around her, but it was impossible. She had seldom seen the subway system this busy during the day.
When she emerged from the subway, she was certain that she hadn’t been followed. She hurried along with brisk steps.
When she reached the hotel, she slipped into the ladies’ room and waited a few minutes, then found a house phone. She was afraid she might have difficulty getting through to Jacob Brolin’s room, but the operator connected her right away, and she was answered by a deep, very businesslike male voice with a rich brogue.
“My name is Moira Kelly,” she told the man. “Mr. Brolin said that I might stop by today.”
The man asked her to wait just a minute, then asked if she was in the hotel and if she could come right up. Brolin had an appointment with city officials soon, but he would love to see her.
Moira headed for the elevator.
He sat in a chair in the lobby, watching her. She didn’t see him, of course, because he kept his newspaper high, blocking his face.
When she was gone, he let the newspaper fall.
It was perfect. Everything was going according to plan.
One of the huge men who had been with Brolin downstairs at the restaurant opened the door to the suite. “Hello, Miss Kelly, welcome. Mr. Brolin will see you in the den. Can I get you some coffee or tea?”
“Oh, no, thank you.”
“Nonsense, you must have some tea,” Brolin called from the doorway to the room. “A meeting of the Irish, from the old country and the new, we must have tea.”
Moira smiled and shrugged. “I guess I’ll have tea.”
She approached Brolin, smiling and offering a hand. He took her hand, then kissed both her cheeks. “Actually, I’m a coffee man myself, but everyone seems to want the Irish to drink tea. Wherever I go, they serve tea in my honor.”
“We can have coffee,” Moira said politely.
“Which do you prefer?”
“Either. I’ve had a bit of coffee already today.”
“So have I. We’ll stick with the tea.”
He ushered her into the den, indicating a comfortable armchair. “So, now, shall we discuss what you’d like me to do on your show?”
“I’d like you to say and do whatever you want,” Moira told him. “What I do is a travel show about the wonders of America, sometimes big events—which I think we can consider Saint Patrick’s Day in Boston to be—and sometimes small events, like a quilting bee in Nebraska. I love to do shows on what makes us special in America, which includes all our different ethnic backgrounds. Of course, Irish emigration to America has been huge over the years. The Irish have certainly put their stamp on this country.” She paused as the large man came in with the tea.
“Thank you, Peter,” Brolin said.
“Yes, sir, my pleasure.”
Peter left them.
Moira leaned forward. “Actually, Mr. Brolin, I didn’t come to see you about the show.”
“Oh?” He arched a brow, offering her a deep smile. “I never met your father, but I know many people who have. By all accounts, he’s a truly fine man. I never had an affair with your mother, if that’s what you’ve come to discover.”
Moira stared at him for a moment. “Oh, no! I didn’t come to quiz you about my mother, Mr. Brolin.”
“Ah. Well, that wasn’t much of a fine moment for a politician, eh? Offering information where none was requested.”
“Mr. Brolin—”
“If you’ll be good enough to call me Jacob, I’d be delighted to call you Moira.”
Moira nodded, taking a breath. “Jacob, I want you to know you’re in danger.”
A slight smile curled his lips. “I’ve been in danger, you know, from the day I was born.”
He wasn’t being patronizing. He was reminding her gently that he knew his business and his life very well. He saw the distress on her face and knew that she was genuinely concerned. “Strange, but peace is a dangerous way to some. But I’m grateful, truly grateful, that you would
come here to say this to me.”
“Mr. Brolin—Jacob—I’m afraid that something may be going on in my father’s pub. There’s a rumor going about that it was to be…a meeting place, I guess, for people arranging to assassinate you while you were here in Boston.”
He set down his tea and leaned forward, hands together, listening intently. “What have you heard?”
“I can tell you what I’ve pieced together—which I’m afraid seems totally vague. We have a house band, a very good band, which plays Irish music. Pop, as well, but a lot of Irish music. They’re called Blackbird. We also have a drink called a blackbird. My dad invented it years ago, though I hadn’t heard an order for that drink in a very long time. Apparently, the word was to be used between people when they came into the bar to connect with other people. If someone made a mistake in looking for a contact, it could be easily solved, since the word also signified the drink and the band. My father had a very good friend who died the night before last. He fell down a flight of steps, trying to help the man who lived beneath him, or so the police assume, since they found both men dead.”
“I’m assuming autopsies were done?”
“Yes,” Moira said, a little frustrated. “And Mr. Kowalski, the man living downstairs, died of a heart attack. Seamus died of a broken neck.”
Brolin was silent.
“But you see, Seamus had been muttering about hearing strange whisperings in the bar, about the name Blackbird the night before he died.”
“I see.”
“I really believe that someone, and I’m afraid it might be someone I know, might be part of a plot to kill you. And, it isn’t just me. There’s a government man who has been coming into the pub, watching people.”
“A government man, you say.”
She nodded. “I’ve spoken with him.”
“And what has he told you?”
“To be careful, really careful. To stay around friends who aren’t Irish.”
“Ah, that’s difficult, when your father owns the pub.”
“Yes.”
“So this man told you to be careful, and you came straight to me?”
“I thought you had to be told. Of course, I don’t really know anything solid at all, it’s just that…that I felt you had to be warned. Maybe you shouldn’t ride in the parade.”
Brolin’s smile deepened. “There may be many people walking around Boston right now who would like to kill me.”
“I know.”
He leaned back in the sofa, still watching her with a half smile.
“You’re a very brave young woman.”
“Not at all.”
“You’re here.”
“Yes, but everyone knows that I want to interview you for the show.”
“True.”
He leaned forward again. “Moira, I agree with what the government man told you. You must be very careful. Stay close to good friends and family, preferably in groups. And keep quiet about your suspicions regarding the death of your father’s friend. And…” He hesitated, but only for a moment. “We’d had word about the rumors. Actually, there are several possible danger zones in the city. Comes with the territory. We Irish like to be dramatic. What more noticeable than an Irishman killed on Saint Patrick’s Day? I’m afraid that the situation is prime for people who still believe that terrorism is the only way. Naturally we’ve looked into many rumors regarding trouble here. We’re watching your father’s pub, as well, and though a man such as myself is always vulnerable, I have some strong support behind me. We have computer technology to trace people and the friendship of the government to help us. This is a free country, and no one can make your dad’s place into an inquisition chamber. Again, I thank you sincerely for coming to me. Now, I want you to pretend that you know nothing, and watch out for your personal safety. You must behave as if everything is completely normal. Go about your business, but be wary. Most important, watch out for yourself. For me, will you take care to do that?”
She nodded, not really feeling assured, just colder. Brolin had heard that there might be a conspiracy.
Stemming from Kelly’s.
“When is your father’s friend’s funeral?”
“Thursday morning.”
“What time?”
“The church service is at nine. We’ll be at the graveyard around ten.”
“Ah. The parade starts at eleven,” Brolin mused. “Will it work for you if I give you that interview you want right after the parade? I believe that I get off the float at about one in the afternoon.”
“I would love the interview whenever you have time to give it.”
“You’re frowning, Moira. You’re afraid that I’m not going to live long enough on Saint Patrick’s Day to spend time with you.”
“Oh, no! You’ve got to live.”
“I will,” he promised her. “I will.” He rose. “Come, we’re going to give you an escort downstairs and pretend that all we’ve talked about is the interview. We’ll do it at Kelly’s. As soon as I’m free from official duty, I’ll come to the pub.”
“It will be crowded to the gills,” she said worriedly.
“And I’ll be delighted to be the center of attention in an authentic Irish-American pub,” he told her. “Trust me, we will survive it. And we’ll drink to Ireland, and to America.”
Moira rose to join him. He reached for her hand.
The tall blond man was just outside in the parlor area of the suite, glasses low on his nose as he read from a file folder.
“Peter, we’re going to escort Miss Kelly down,” Brolin said.
“With pleasure,” Peter assured him, setting aside his file and rising.
As he did so, Moira noted that his tailored suit covered a shoulder holster and gun. Brolin was certainly being protected, but she wondered if any amount of strength and firepower could stop someone who was really intent on murder, especially if—as she feared—they were willing to die to achieve it.
Peter opened the door for them, stepping into the hallway first. Brolin spoke casually about the weather. Strange, it had been so cold, so much snow that winter, ice on the walks, and now, suddenly, the days were warming, almost as if the heavens were bringing spring a few days early, just for Saint Patrick’s Day.
“We’re expecting a high in the sixties tomorrow,” Brolin said as they stepped into the elevator and pushed the button.
“That will be nice,” Moira replied casually. “It was a rough winter. Even in Manhattan, we had snow piled on the sidewalks.”
They reached the lobby and walked together into the center. Brolin made a point of kissing her cheeks.
“It will be wonderful to chat on camera with such a lovely young lady,” he said, his voice carrying to the registration desk and beyond. “I look forward to it. I have a few old tales I can tell on camera for you. And a few new ones, too, of course.”
“Thank you so much for your time, and thank you so much for agreeing to the interview,” Moira responded.
She thanked Peter and said goodbye, then headed for the large main doors. She knew without looking that they stood in the lobby and watched her until she was headed down the street.
As she went down the steps to catch the T to the pub, she was deep in thought regarding her conversation with Brolin. So they knew. There were several possible danger zones, but Kelly’s pub was one of them, and they had known.
There was nothing for her to do. Everyone was warned. The Irish were watching; the American government and the police were watching. She had done all she could. Now all she had to do was watch out for herself.
And pray that her brother wasn’t a terrorist.
And Danny…
She had to go about normally. Work, stay with groups of people, act as if she knew nothing, suspected nothing.
The wake was tomorrow night; the pub would be very busy. It would be busy tonight, as well. She had to help her father; that would be normal.
Tonight…tomorrow night.
Saint Patri
ck’s Day.
She remained deep in thought.
And never noticed the man following her down into the bowels of the T station.
15
As she hurried down the steps to her train, Moira wondered again at the number of people. She had been on the South Side, a busy enough place and often filled with tourists, but it still seemed like a lot of commuters. She found a spot just behind the worn line on the pavement in front of the tracks, anxious to make sure she got on the train. As she stood waiting, she noticed movement on the tracks. A few rats running feverishly here and there. She wondered how many of them died, run over or electrocuted. She couldn’t help feeling sorry for the creatures, even if their species tended to be disease-ridden and had carried the fleas that spread bubonic plague to Europe.
From the distance, she heard the arrival of the train. The crowd started to surge forward.
Suddenly it didn’t seem like the natural surge of a crowd. She was being pushed.
“Whoa, excuse me,” a heavyset man behind her apologized, as he was pushed against her.
“Hey!” a woman at her side cried with alarm.
Moira tried to slide between them, realizing she was dangerously close to the edge.
“Who the hell is pushing?” another man cried angrily.
But as he spoke, there came another massive crush as someone at the rear tried to get closer, shoving everyone forward.
“Stop!” the woman screamed.
Another hard push nearly sent Moira flying. Grabbing at the coat of the man to her right, she kept from soaring over the edge of the platform, but the impetus at her back sent her sprawling.
Her lower body was on the platform.
Her upper body hung over it.
She lay breathless and stunned. She noticed the rats again. Scampering around at a maddened speed.
Of course. The train was coming. Trying to rise and looking the tracks, she saw the nose of the vehicle bearing down on her with the speed of lightning.
“Back off!” someone from the rear shouted with furious authority.
She desperately tried to gain her balance.
“Jesus!” breathed the woman at her side.
The fat man was down, reaching to get hold of her legs and help her as she struggled to get on the platform.
Night of the Blackbird Page 26