Never Alone

by C. J. Carpenter

  She jumped on her bed, powered up her laptop, and lit another cigarette while doing a search for SIN. The irony of searching for sin made her grin. “That’s usually not a problem for me.”

  The website was first on the results. It opened to a framed outline of the map of Ireland. A leprechaun danced to Irish music and tossed four-leaf clovers into the air. Then in a sweet lilt of an Irish brogue said, “Irish? Single? Lookin’ fur luv in the big city?”

  “Sweet Jesus.” Megan rolled her eyes at the site’s introduction. She clicked into a sample offer of men that the site promoted. “This is unbelievable. Christ, my father would have loved some of these guys. I cannot mention this site to Aunt Maureen. She’ll have my photo posted in a heartbeat.”

  Shamrocks blinked around a green cupid holding a bow and arrow. The advertisement read SIN, Single Irish New Yorkers looking for love. Men of every shape, size, and age range were listed. And they had two things in common: they were Irish and looking.

  “I’m willing to bet one of you boys may have dated one recently murdered Shannon McAllister. I’m going to find out who.”

  You were allowed only limited access to the site unless you joined for a small fee. Megan pulled out her credit card and filled in the information.

  “I can’t believe I’m doing this.” She completed the required questionnaire. “Looking for: a man. Age range. Let’s see, Shannon was in her twenties, so I’ll say twenties to early thirties. My age: I’ve heard people say I don’t look a day over thirty, so I’ll say … twenty-six. Religion: skip that. Height: average. Body type: curvaceous. Occupation: I’ll put down social worker. Smoke?” She took a deep drag.“Nope. Never. Drink: occasionally.”

  In other words, there really doesn’t need to be an occasion.

  Once she’d paid and selected a user name and password, she scrolled through women in their twenties searching for men. “God.” She read multiple listings. Women looking for their soul mates, women looking for long-term relationships, one woman offering Irish men American citizenship in exchange for marriage. “Desperate, much?” The next one cracked her up. “‘I’m your Irish wet dream waiting to cum.’ You’re a classy gal, sweetie.” She found Shannon’s listing on the fourth page.

  Lovely Irish lass looking for her Irish lad. Her photo was in the corner of the page. It was a simple headshot displaying her big smile. Megan read Shannon’s biography. It was generic. Nothing overstated, as she expected it would be.

  Megan called Clarice at the office. It went directly into voicemail, and then she checked her watch. She hadn’t realized how late it was, so she planned to call Clarice in the morning to see if she could find anything on Shannon’s laptop from the SIN website. There was little doubt in her mind there was a connection.

  thirty-five

  Megan’s cell phone woke her before the alarm went off. She rolled over and mumbled into the receiver, “McGinn.”

  “Wake up, sweet cheeks.” Clarice accentuated her Southern drawl when she wanted to be cute.

  “What time is it?” Megan threw her head under one of the pillows.

  “Ten after six.”

  “You’re an evil woman, waking me up at this hour,” Megan groaned.

  “Do you want the information I found on the laptop?”

  “Is it worth waking me up at six o’clock for?”

  “Yes,” Clarice answered.

  “Shoot. No, wait. On second thought, let me guess: she belonged to a computer dating service, appropriately named SIN.”

  “I won’t even ask how you found that out. Anyway, there are a few emails from a Seamus McCann.”

  “Threatening emails?”

  “No, not at all; sweet, actually. How much he enjoyed their dates and so on.”

  “Is there any information on him?” Megan asked.

  “There aren’t many emails, but from what I’ve been able to gather, he’s a schoolteacher in Manhattan. I took the liberty of getting into the New York State Department of Education’s database to make a match.”

  “God, you’re good,” Megan said.

  “There is a Seamus McCann registered to teach at a school on the West Side.”

  Megan wrote down all the information Clarice was able to give her. “You’re an absolute diamond, Clarice. I owe you big time,” Megan said, yawning into the phone.

  “I’ll have more for you later this morning. I do have to make it look like I’m earning a paycheck here, though, know what I mean?”

  “As far as I’m concerned, you already have.”

  Megan logged on to the SIN website to look up Seamus McCann. With the exception of Irish Teddy Bear Looking for a Hug, he wrote as generic a biography as Shannon had. He was a teacher, he enjoyed sports and going to movies, and he loved Italian food.

  _____

  Seamus McCann was kicking a soccer ball back and forth with a few of his students. He was a lot heavier in person than his photo led one to believe. That’s where the Italian food comes in, Megan assumed. He was a good-looking guy, but not exactly what she was expecting.

  “Mr. McCann?” Megan approached. “I was wondering if I could take a few minutes to ask you some questions.”

  “I’m sorry?” He looked at her with more concern than defensiveness.

  “It’s regarding Shannon McAllister.”

  “Hey, guys—get a few of the others and get a game going. I’ll be with you in a minute.” He kicked the soccer ball back to his students. “Is it okay if we talk out here? I have to be on the premises with them.”

  “Sure, of course.”

  They walked over toward the basketball court and Seamus leaned against the chain-link fence surrounding the playground.

  “You’ve obviously heard about Ms. McAllister’s murder.”

  He nodded, staring down at the ground.

  “How did you know Shannon?” Seamus asked.

  A lie followed Megan’s slight hesitation. “Distant friends.”

  “I watch the news, Detective, I’m not stupid.” Seamus McCann looked over at his students, checking on them. “I knew who you were right away.”

  “Let’s just say I’m on a brief vacation but am still very interested in finding who did this.”

  Seamus nodded. “Okay.”

  “How many dates did you go on with Ms. McAllister?”

  He didn’t look surprised, but asked anyway, “You mean from Single Irish New Yorkers, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “We had three dates. The first was at a coffee shop. I guess it went well because she said yes to a second one.” His smile turned more serious as he continued. “We sat drinking coffee, and more coffee, for almost four hours. It was great, we really clicked.”

  “What did the two of you talk about?”

  “Our work, our families, where we went to school. The usual first-date conversations.”

  “I don’t know many first dates that last four hours. That’s a marathon conversation.”

  “Tell me about it. Shannon was the first woman I met on the site that I found truly interesting. She had a lot of depth, and she was really …” Seamus started to get choked up recalling his first encounter with Shannon. “She was special.”

  “Why were you so surprised she said yes to a second date?”

  Seamus looked at Megan and then back at himself, motioning up and down with his hands. “Detective, how many women enjoy dating a man thirty pounds overweight with bitch tits?”

  Megan smiled.

  “Yeah, well, anyway, our second date was dinner. We went for Chinese food.”

  “Another four-hour date?”

  “No. Unfortunately. She said she’d had a long, stressful group session with her clients and was exhausted. She seemed distracted, like something else was bothering her, but we had a good time. She relaxed as the night went on.”

&nb
sp; “You didn’t ask her what was bothering her?”

  “No. I could tell she wanted to just switch gears and let it go.”

  “And the third date?”

  Seamus stalled by yelling over to the kids playing soccer as if it were the World Cup, “Guys! Guys! Bring it down a few notches.”

  Seamus McCann was no killer, but there was something he wasn’t quite sure how to share.

  “Detective, may I ask you a question?”

  She nodded.

  “Have you ever met someone—” He placed a closed fist over his heart. “Met someone and in an instant there’s a switch that just gets turned on? You just know. Conversations aren’t worked for. You don’t try to be someone you’re not. All those stupid dating games go out the window.”

  Megan didn’t have a convincing enough poker face to answer his question, and he knew it, too.

  “I hope someday you feel that. I hope someday you know what I’m talking about, because that’s how it was with Shannon. Immediate.”

  Megan hoped for that connection with someone, someday, but she wasn’t ready to go all-in on a bet that it would happen any time soon.

  “The third date?” she asked.

  “I had a day off. I called her in the morning. I told her I’d bring lunch over. We could spend some time in between her classes that day. I picked up a few sandwiches and met her during one of her breaks.”

  “When?” she asked.

  He looked Megan directly in the eye when he answered, “The day before she was murdered.”

  “You saw her the day before she was murdered,” she repeated.

  “Yeah.”

  “Where were you during this lunch?”

  “We sat outside at the campus. We only had forty-five minutes, until her professor came by and asked to see her in his office about a project she was working on.”

  The word professor made Megan’s stomach turn. “Do you remember his name?”

  “No, he was a young guy, for a professor. At least it seemed that way to me.”

  “How did Shannon react when he approached the two of you?”

  “She was completely annoyed. As soon as he walked away, she told me what a jackass he was. She was irritated he’d interrupted our lunch, let alone wanted her to stop by his office given how tight her schedule was.”

  “I see. I don’t mean to be insensitive, but I have to ask, when I’ve spoken to some of Shannon’s friends, and to her family, they didn’t know about you. They didn’t know she had started dating someone. Do you know why that was?”

  “She said she’d just gotten out of a relationship and wanted to take things slow. It’s funny, usually men say that, and women jump in. This time it was opposite—I fell hard, and she was being the rational one.”

  The soccer game across the schoolyard was getting out of hand at this point. The players seemed to be kicking the ball at one another rather than at either goal. “Guys! Guys!” Seamus yelled over again.

  “Go ahead. Thanks for your time,” she said.

  As Seamus walked away, Megan couldn’t help but add, “Hey, bitch tits or not, I think you’re pretty cool. Teddy bear qualities, and all.”

  thirty-six

  Icy rain spat down on the skylight while Megan waited in the conversation room. An odd name, she thought, “conversation room”—it just seemed so peaceful for a place of such emotional and mental unrest. Her visitor’s tag hung haphazardly on her leather jacket. She stood with folded arms listening to pages for so-and-so doctor, blue, yellow, red codes—extraneous considerations equaling that of elevator music.

  Megan was cold. Chilled to the bone, actually, but she wouldn’t display any vulnerability. With each breath she visualized a brick wall surrounding her, her personal castle without a moat. No one crossed, no one entered, not anymore. Not ever again.

  A killer had entered her private world.

  Only one person could give her answers, and it was the man who was being escorted by two orderlies and one fully armed guard. Her gut told her someone as sick, as heinous as he was, could give her a glimpse into the killer she now tracked.

  The atmosphere of the room seemed to change as the man entered, as if the universe could accommodate only so much evil, leaving Megan to defend and honor the remaining miniscule space for justice.

  Fintan D. Worth—his hair slicked back, his demeanor annoyingly confident—spoke with genuine appreciation, as much as a killer can. “Detective,” he nodded, “as usual, a pleasure to see you. I gather you received my note.”

  Megan didn’t contribute to his pleasantries. She sensed that a monologue was on its way. Always place high bets on narcissists to enjoy the sound of their own voice, she thought. He didn’t disappoint.

  Fintan fixed on her with a beady stare as he began his soliloquy. “Based on your body language and intentional silence, I’m to assume you’ve called on me for one of two reasons. Would you care to hear my hypotheses?”

  Megan maintained her stance leaning against the wall.

  “My first”—he pointed his index finger into the air—“and most hopeful hypothesis is that we’re about to continue our conversation from the night you captured me. Now, I say hopeful because our discussion was surprisingly interesting, and great fun as well. Fun isn’t the correct word, though, is it? Fascinating is more appropriate.”

  Fintan studied her reaction, or rather her lack thereof.

  “Mmm. No takers on that topic. Color me disappointed. Now, that leaves me with my second possibility. I’ve been following the newspapers. The Tailor?” Fintan applied a thick French accent as he said, “Tacky sobriquet.” He tapped his fingers on the table, humming a classical arrangement. His self-anointed grin was evidence that he took credit for her current professional achievements. “I have to assume you’re not here to ask me about the recidivism rates in mental hospitals, and if I dare say, you are not here with anything to do with my world. You’re here for much more personal reasons. Much, much more.” He crossed his arms over his lap. “How did I do?”

  He studied Megan before asking in a melodic tone, “Detective, you want something from me?”

  “Are you done?” Megan’s cool demeanor amused Fintan.

  “Mmm.”

  Megan turned away from the wall, pulled out the chair, and sat opposite Fintan.

  “What in the world happened to you, Detective?”

  Her cut lip and blackened cheek were obvious, even in the poor lighting. She ignored his question. “I’m here to speak to you regarding the case I’m working.”

  “Is your handsome partner still by your side, Detective?”

  “I’m asking the questions.”

  “Tsk, tsk.” He waved his finger at Megan. “Now, you’re here asking me questions, for all intents and purposes, asking for my help. Don’t you think you could perhaps show a little gratitude? Or, at the very least, civility?”

  “Civility?” Megan pushed back her chair hard enough for it to turn over. “After what you’ve done, you think you have the right to use a word like civility? Coming to see you was a mistake. Rot in here, Worth.”

  He turned his palm over. “Now, Detective, we’re getting a little emotional, don’t you think?”

  “Go to hell.” She pounded on the door. “Guard!”

  “Megan.” Fintan folded his arms. “You haven’t figured out why he sutured poor Miss Shannon McAllister, have you?”

  The fact Fintan had the audacity to use her name made her stomach turn, but what made her skin crawl was the fact he was right.

  “He didn’t just suture her, though, did he?” He traced the edge of the table with his feminine-like nails. “There’s something else. Something only those working on the case know. Well, those working on the case as well as the girl’s family, of course.” He removed his glasses, polishing them with his shirt. “What was placed i
n the girl’s body?” Fintan put his glasses back on. “Fine, don’t tell me.”

  She acquiesced, knowing she had to give something in order to get something. “A wedding ring.”

  “Now, that’s sick.” His comment was barren of empathy or shock, not that Megan expected any different.

  “What could be the reasoning behind it?” she asked.

  “It’s a religious symbol. Were there spiritual or theological overtones to the scene?”

  Megan nodded. “Yes, but I’m not going into that detail with you just so you can get your rocks off.”

  “I’m not like that.” Fintan shook his head. “A rude assumption on your part, Detective. I will say that ring belonged to whoever killed her, or someone related to whoever killed her. A personal memento. It sounds similar to Greek mythology. The dead had a coin placed over each eye to pay the boatman crossing the River Styx to ensure safe passage to the other side, their place in the afterworld.”

  Megan thought about what Fintan said. It did make sense, but she wasn’t about to let him know that.

  “Did he do that to you?” Fintan pointed to her face.

  “No.”

  “How were you contacted?”

  She couldn’t hide her surprise regarding his question. “What?”

  “Detective, I don’t smell fear from you, but I do smell anger, like a wild animal whose private territory has been invaded. Marked by an enemy, so to speak.”

  They sat staring one another down until Fintan spoke once more. “You’ll be contacted again.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “That’s what I’d do. You’re a part of the game now.”

  “This isn’t a game.”

  “It’s all a game, Detective.”

  Megan called for the guard again. He was opening the door when Fintan said, “I do look forward to our next conversation, Detective McGinn.”