The Trust

by Ronald H. Balson

  “One lives in America?”

  “Right, New Jersey. His name is Denny Lefferty and he owns a cartage company in North Bergen. He’s a naturalized U.S. citizen. He’s lived there for the past twenty years. He moved there with his mother when Sean Lefferty was sent to prison. According to U.S. Customs and Border Protection, his passport hasn’t been used for several years. He hasn’t left the country.”

  “He could have been the guy who threw the cocktail into my house.”

  McLaughlin shook his head. “CPD identified the attacker as Vincent Bertucci. Last known address in Queens.”

  “That’s awfully close to New Jersey.”

  “I know, but he wasn’t a Lefferty. Besides, how would Lefferty’s kid know anything about you? You weren’t connected with his father’s arrest. You gave Lefferty’s name to Westerfield who gave his name to the police. There’s no way he would know that it was Liam Taggart who disclosed his father’s name.”

  “How did the other son die?”

  “We don’t have that information. His name was Michael Lefferty. Vital records show he is buried in the St. Francis Cemetery in north Belfast. He was eighteen.”

  “Did you find out anything about the sniper?”

  McLaughlin shook his head and snorted. “Nah. He’s a pro and he’s long gone. We scanned the area and all the warehouses and apartment units that he might have used to make the shot, but we came up empty. Robert is still in the hospital and Belfast PSNI has a man stationed there. Your cousin Riley, on the other hand, has not been seen since the shooting.”

  “Maybe he’s on vacation. Did you check with his family?”

  “His wife hasn’t heard from him and doesn’t know where he is. She’s going to file a missing person’s report. Conspicuous absence, don’t you think? To my way of thinking, it makes him either complicit or another victim. I heard he had a serious argument with Robert.”

  I sure hoped he wasn’t either another victim or complicit. I hoped there were other explanations. “He may have asked Robert to guarantee a loan to buy some stock from Fergus’s trust. He told me he was going to do that. Robert may have refused. That could have been the cause of the argument. Did you ask Robert?”

  “He’s recuperating at Belfast General. We haven’t interviewed him yet. I told you about Conor, that he seemed genuinely upset to learn your house was firebombed. He’s been to the hospital several times to visit his uncle. If he’s the killer, he’s got me fooled. That’s about all we have on the suspects, except for one.”

  “Janie?”

  “Nah. The Dublin trust, the one called the Bridget McGregor Trust. It’s become a pain in the ass for me to get information on that trust. Through channels, I sent a request to the Garda Síochána, Dublin Metropolitan Region, to issue a warrant for the trust documents, but it’s all tied up in red tape. The trustee, whoever he is, doesn’t want to provide the information. I am being told that I have to come up with ‘compelling reasons’ to break the confidentiality of the trust.”

  “Well, the murder of the man who set up the trust would seem pretty compelling.”

  “Seems that way to me too, but not to the powers that be. Any help you can provide will be appreciated. Maybe, as trustee of Fergus’s trust, you can influence the trustee of the Bridget McGregor Trust.”

  I didn’t know who the trustee was. I didn’t know who Bridget McGregor was. All I knew was that money was deducted and sent to a trust account in a Dublin bank. Deirdre didn’t seem to know anything about Bridget McGregor either, or if she did, she wasn’t telling me. I had a feeling that Annie knew and would give me the information if I asked her. I don’t know why, but I felt that Annie had a lot of answers. She hadn’t come forward, but maybe she didn’t know she had answers. The thought of having to spend an afternoon probing Annie’s memory was very unsettling.

  * * *

  WE ARRIVED AT THE farm a little after noon and unloaded the Land Rover. The medical community should be informed immediately that the best antidepressant for a great-aunt is to show up with a little baby. All signs of depression and sullenness will immediately vanish. Deirdre was full of joy.

  “Let me hold that wee laddie,” she squealed. She got no argument from Catherine who had been holding Ben for nine hours.

  Deirdre had prepared a bountiful lunch of roasted chicken, scalloped potatoes and fresh baked bread. She insisted that McLaughlin stay and she took a plate to the officer who stood watch outside on the front porch. “I can see why Frank is gaining weight,” McLaughlin said.

  “Robert may be released from the hospital Friday,” Deirdre said. “He’ll be moving into our back bedroom for the time being. I’m planning a dinner for Sunday night. Just like old times. You may come as well, Inspector.”

  McLaughlin smiled. “I may just do that. I’ve been hearing a lot about your cooking skills and now I know for a fact that they’re true.”

  McLaughlin’s phone buzzed and he stepped outside to take the call. It was nice to see flashes of the old Deirdre returning. I hadn’t seen that look on her face since I was here in the nineties. It was solid evidence that the laugh of a baby can blow away all symptoms of melancholia. Catherine made herself right at home and was helping with the dishes when McLaughlin hurried back into the house. “Liam, that was the bartender at Willy’s. Walker’s there right now.”

  Catherine and I looked at each other. “There’s an armed policeman sitting on the front porch,” she said. “Go with Inspector McLaughlin. We’re fine here.” I told her I wouldn’t be long and I jumped into McLaughlin’s car. “Please be careful,” she said as we left.

  TWENTY-NINE

  THOUGH THE NOONDAY SUN was bright, not much of it made it to the inside of Willy’s Pub. There were a couple dozen men scattered here and there, downing beers in the dimly lit, staunchly unionist watering hole. Sometimes people say they can feel tension when they walk into a room, but at Willy’s it was embitterment. It was instantly apparent to me that these men perceived themselves as disenfranchised. They exuded resentment for being marginalized by a society run by the damn politicians and Catholics, who were all combining to keep them off of easy street where they most assuredly belonged.

  The bartender saw us come in and tilted his head toward the end of the bar where two white-haired men were arguing over the upcoming Mayo/Tyrone football match. We didn’t have a picture of Walker, so we didn’t know right off who was who. We slid down to their end of the bar and ordered a couple of pints of Guinness. The two men looked at us in an unfriendly way. We were intruders. Worse than that, we were strangers. The entire bar was open, why the hell would we choose to stand right next to them and horn in on their football conversation?

  McLaughlin butted right in. “Mayo’s Simon is a far superior midfielder. Rusten doesn’t have the lateral movement. Any fool knows that, and that is why Tyrone cannot beat Mayo.”

  As little as I knew about Gaelic football, I was smart enough to know that favoring the Republic of Ireland’s Mayo over Northern Ireland’s beloved Tyrone in a championship match was a social faux pas in Willy’s Pub, certain to raise the hair on the back of the necks of these two barflies.

  “Aye,” the smaller of the two men said, “and you have shit for brains as well, but I agree that Rusten is a stiff. Still, we’ll bury the Mayo ballers and that is a fact.”

  McLaughlin raised his mug and saluted him. “The name’s Farrell,” he said, and he stuck out his right hand. “And this here is me partner, Liam.”

  “Tom,” he said taking McLaughlin’s hand. “And he’s Lloyd. And what are you exactly meaning by ‘partner’?” He put a sly grin on his face, snickered and winked to his companion.

  McLaughlin tightened his grip on Walker’s hand and pulled him up close, showing him his badge with his other hand. “I mean you and I need to go outside without making any trouble in this fine establishment.” He clipped the cuffs on Walker’s wrists as quickly and as smoothly as I’d ever seen anybody do it. If this was the son of a bitch w
ho’d firebombed my home, he was either going to have the worst day of his life or the last day of his life.

  “What did I do? You got no cause to pinch me.”

  McLaughlin held his left arm and slowly walked him forward. “Come along now, Thomas, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

  As we walked out of the pub, the other patrons gave us the eye, and I was thankful that no one took a step in our direction. Still, I had my hand on my Glock. McLaughlin put Walker in the back of the PSNI Land Rover, where he cursed and complained the entire thirty minutes it took to drive to Antrim. “Where’s the warrant? I didn’t see no warrant. I wasn’t committin’ no crime, there wasn’t no complainant, wasn’t nobody dead, why the foock am I being kidnapped? This is bullshit.”

  “He sure sounds put out, doesn’t he, Liam?”

  “That he does, Farrell.”

  * * *

  MCLAUGHLIN TOOK MUG SHOTS and fingerprinted Walker. Then he put him in an interrogation room and let him cool off for a couple of hours before we returned to question him. He stopped me at the door. “I know how you feel, Liam, but you’ve got to let the police do their work here. I can’t let you in the room if you’re planning on giving Walker his due.”

  “I’ll behave. I promise.”

  McLaughlin brought in copies of the photographs and laid them on the table. He pointed to the burned-out remains of the Walker residence. “Do you recognize this house, Tom?”

  Walker nodded and pursed his lips. “I should say I do. That’s me brother Archie’s house, burned up by the foockin’ Taggarts forty years ago. Why you showin’ me that now? You think I burned my brother’s house down? He was kilt with his wife and his kids inside by the muther-foockin’ Taggarts. Did you catch ’em, is that it? You want me to be a witness?”

  “Are you a witness, Tom? Did you see anyone firebomb this house?”

  “Nah. I was livin’ in Derry, but everyone knows it was them Taggart boys.”

  “How are things going for you these days, Tom?”

  “I’m a master pipefitter, when I can get the work. Work is tough to get. I ain’t livin’ in no boomin’ economy.

  “Where are you living?”

  “Why the foock do you care?”

  “Well, you’re out on parole and your address is invalid. You don’t live on Brookmount Street anymore.”

  “Landlord gave me the boot. So what?”

  “So where are you living? You’re violating parole unless we have a valid address.”

  “I’m staying with a lady on Bootle Street. Number 14 Bootle.”

  McLaughlin looked at me and raised his eyebrows. “He’s got a lady.”

  “She’s eighty-two and I’m renting a bedroom. What’s it to you? What’s that got to do with me brother’s house?”

  “This picture was found in the mailbox of a man who was murdered. Kind of makes us wonder.”

  “Foock,” he said under his breath. “I shoulda told the guy to get lost.” Walker closed his eyes and nodded his head. “I sold that picture. A man bought it off me for a hundred quid. I also sold the picture of me brother’s wake, the other one right here on the table. My prints are probably on both those pictures.”

  “There are no prints on the pictures. They’ve been wiped clean. And these are copies. Who did you sell these pictures to?”

  “I don’t know his name. Tall guy. Taller than me. Shows up at my place on Bootle and asks if I have any pictures of me brother Archie. I got a few, I say. What’s it to you? I’ll buy ’em, he says. Hundred quid apiece. Why you want ’em, I say, and he just shakes his head. I had three in a footlocker. I ask him if he wants pictures of me mother, I got those too. He says no, just Archie. I ask again why he wants Archie’s pictures, but he just smiles. Do I want to sell them or not? Foock yeah, I’ll sell ’em. He goes into his pocket, pulls out a wad and hands me three hundred.”

  “What name did he give you?”

  Walker shook his head and smiled. “He didn’t give me no name and I didn’t ask.”

  “I need a better description, Tom.”

  “Look, he was tall, taller than me, that’s all I remember.”

  “Where were you on Monday, August first, Tom, just a few weeks ago?”

  “How am I supposed to know? Probably drunk at Willy’s. That was about the time I got the three hundred.”

  “What about August sixth?”

  “I was in Derry at me son’s house. At a birthday party for me granddaughter. You can check.”

  McLaughlin nodded to me and we stood to leave the room. “Wait a minute,” Walker said. “You can’t leave me in here. I didn’t do nothin’. There’s no law against selling pictures, is there?”

  “I need better cooperation, Tom. A more detailed description of the man who gave you the money would help. I’m going to give you time to think. All the time you need. I have plenty of beds here.”

  “Hey wait, no, wait. Foock. Foock both of yourselfs.”

  We shut the door and walked down to McLaughlin’s office. “I have to cut him loose. I’ve got nothing to hold him on, Liam.”

  “It couldn’t have been Walker, anyway,” I said. “It would take money and connections to run this string of crimes. He’s a part-time pipefitter. He’s been evicted from his apartment. I don’t see how an impoverished old man like this could get close enough to my Uncle Fergus to shoot him in the chest, or to drive a stolen truck into my Uncle Eamon, or to hire an arsonist in the U.S. or a sniper in Belfast. Does he harbor resentment and hatred for the Taggarts? No question. But I think he’s telling the truth.”

  McLaughlin nodded. “Me too. Someone’s using Walker’s identity to divert our attention. Someone who knows the Taggart family history. Before I let him go I’m going to see if I can get a better description of the guy who bought the pictures.”

  “Do you want to go back there now?”

  McLaughlin shook his head. “No, let’s let him steam for a while. In the meantime, I want to talk to you about your cousin Riley. I was told that he had an argument with Robert three days before the sniper. What can you tell me about Riley?”

  That was a disturbing question. I’d been thinking a lot about Riley and Conor. They seemed to be the only viable suspects left. I was already cooling on Walker before we brought him in, but now I was certain he had nothing to do with any of the crimes. Conor was a wild man but was he the sort of guy who would murder his own father and uncle? I didn’t think so. Would he murder me? Well, that’s a different story, but I didn’t think he’d murder my wife. Riley had always been the quiet type. He and I were fast buddies in the seventies. I always liked him, but now the doubts were seeping in. He was in a jam. Could he be desperate enough to commit these murders?

  “I think we should look at Riley,” I said. “This Global stock may be more important than I realize.”

  McLaughlin nodded. He knew what I was talking about. No doubt he and Megan had done their homework.

  “Riley’s employed by Global as an investment counselor,” McLaughlin said. “He’s been there for eight years. The word is that indictments are coming down soon, not only against the company but all of its top executives.”

  “Riley wanted me to transfer the Global stock to him. The judge told me I couldn’t do it. Then, while I was in Chicago, he called and proposed furnishing a promissory note in the amount of the stock’s market value. Although that sounded reasonable, he told me he has no way of repaying the note. So I had to decline. Then he proposed having Uncle Robert guarantee the note. I thought that was fair and O’Neill told me it would be okay. I’m sure he went to Uncle Robert afterward to ask for the guarantee.

  “Janie told me that Riley visited Robert a couple days later. She said they had a terrible argument. I can only imagine. Robert is a conservative man and he lives very frugally. He probably declined. Riley has a temper. Things could have gone south quickly.”

  “It wasn’t a crime of passion, Liam. It didn’t happen in a moment of anger. Someone hired a profession
al. This was a carefully planned attempt at cold-blooded murder.”

  “What good would it do Riley to kill his uncle? Robert was Riley’s only hope at getting a guarantor. I would think that Riley would keep trying to convince him.”

  McLaughlin spread his hands. “Maybe he felt that he could never convince Robert and he needed the stock. In a hurry. Like I said, indictments are coming down. With Robert dead, there’s one less beneficiary standing in the way of Riley getting full ownership of the stock. Theory of relativity, Liam.”

  “But now Riley’s gone missing. What do you make of that?”

  “An innocent man doesn’t run. Flight creates an inference of guilt. But he could also be a victim. Let’s go see if Walker’s memory is any better.”

  Walker’s hands were chained to the desk and he rattled the chains as Farrell and I walked in. “Either charge me or let me go,” he yelled. “You can’t keep me tied to this table.”

  McLaughlin smiled. “Did I hear him correctly, Liam? He wants to be charged with two murders, arson and an attempted murder. That sounds very much like a confession, doesn’t it?”

  “Sounds that way to me, Farrell.”

  “Go foock yourselfs.”

  “Such a potty mouth. If you want to get out of here, Tommy, give me a better description of the man who bought the pictures. Was he as tall as I am?”

  McLaughlin was every bit of six feet. Walker nodded. “Maybe a little taller.” Riley wasn’t that tall. Neither was Conor.

  “Did he have brown hair, black hair, gray hair? What color was his hair, Tom?”

  Walker shook his head. “He wore a cap what covered his hair.”

  “What kind of cap?”

  “I don’t know, just a cap, like a sport cap. A white cap.”

  “How was he dressed?”

  “I don’t remember, truly I don’t. Wasn’t blue jeans. Regular pants.”

  “Any marks, scars, anything special you remember?”

  “No. Can I go?”

  McLaughlin thought about it, shook his head and surprisingly said, “I don’t think so, Tom. VOP. You violated parole. The address thing, you know?”