Irish Car Bomb

by Steven Henry

  “Okay,” Webb said. “So he had a sidearm and was doing something with the bomb, either trying to figure out what it was or trying to defuse it. Sounds like he might have military experience. What else have we got on him?”

  “There’s a wallet in his hip pocket,” Levine said. “It was shielded from the blast by his body, so appears undamaged. There’s a rolled-up necktie in his left front pocket and keys in his right front.”

  “Car keys?” Erin asked.

  “Car, house, safe-deposit box,” Levine said.

  “Well, that proves he didn’t set it off by starting the engine,” Erin said. “They’d still be in the ignition otherwise.”

  “Seat belt wasn’t fastened either,” Taylor said. “Not that that proves anything. If he was dumb enough to monkey with a homemade nitro bomb, he probably wasn’t smart enough to buckle up.”

  “What else have we got from the car?” Webb asked.

  “Driver’s side door over there,” Neshenko said, pointing with his thumb. The door had been blasted away from the car at an angle, leaving a streak of black paint on the garage wall before coming to rest in a twisted heap.

  “Yeah, I think the door was open when the bomb went off,” Taylor said. “If it was only secured by the hinges, it would’ve angled forward like that. If it’d been closed, it would’ve gone in more of a straight line.”

  “So our victim was leaning over the seat with the door open, standing about where his shoes still are,” Webb said.

  “Just like car crashes,” Erin said, her Patrol experience still fresh in her mind. “You can usually judge point of impact when a pedestrian gets run down by where you find the shoes.”

  “That’s right,” Webb said. “Okay, we’re getting a picture.”

  “Trunk’s open,” Neshenko reported. He was prowling around the edges of the crime scene like a restless junkyard dog. “I got a toolbox, open lid, a triple-A kit, and a spare tire.”

  “All right,” Webb said. “So you’re all telling me this guy comes down to the garage, is all set to get into his car, and what? Sees a bomb wired to his ignition switch. For some reason he doesn’t call the cops and decides to take care of it himself. Probably because he’s a moron. He takes off his tie, stows it in his pants pocket, pops the trunk, opens his toolbox, gets out his tools and tries to take the bomb apart. He screws the pooch, the bomb blows up in his face, and here we are. And there he is.”

  Erin looked around at the others. All of them were nodding.

  “So why doesn’t he call the cops?” Erin said. “Is this guy on the FBI Top Ten? There’s nothing illegal in the trunk. Has he got diamonds in the door panels? Cocaine in the glove compartment?”

  “We’ll go over the car,” Taylor said. “I need to confirm the explosive. I’m only guessing it was nitro. I’ll know more when I run the lab tests. If there’s anything else in there, we’ll find it. We’re taking the entire vehicle to the department lot.”

  “We need to talk to the wife,” Jones said.

  “Where is she?” Erin asked.

  “Upstairs, in their apartment,” Webb said. “We’ve got uniforms with her.”

  “And she’s a real piece of work,” Neshenko said.

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “You’ll see.”

  Chapter 2

  “Who’s taking the lead on the interview?” Erin asked as they rode the elevator to the fourth floor. Neshenko, Taylor, and Levine had remained in the basement, cataloging evidence.

  “I am,” Webb replied. “But I want you and Jones handy.”

  “For the woman’s touch, you mean?” Jones asked with a wry twist of her mouth.

  “Something like that,” he said. “And in case you think of something I don’t. Have you done many interviews with family members of victims, O’Reilly?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Usually car crashes, not homicides.” Erin paused. “Sir, is the wife a suspect?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Let’s call her a ‘person of interest’ for the moment.”

  The elevator came to a halt, interrupting the conversation. The detectives walked to number 415. Webb knocked. A uniformed cop answered and nodded to the lieutenant. They went inside.

  Erin’s first sense of the place was of clutter. It was a two-bedroom apartment, spacious by Manhattan standards, but it was packed full of furniture and artwork. Some of it might have been good, all of it looked expensive, but there was no pattern to the presentation, so the effect was like a high-class estate sale. She half-expected to see price tags on everything.

  “She’s in her bedroom,” the uniformed officer said, pointing with his thumb.

  “Her bedroom, or their bedroom?” Jones asked.

  “Hers, I’d say,” the cop said in a low voice. “His is next door.”

  Webb nodded and motioned the others to follow him.

  Stepping through the bedroom door, Erin paused and blinked. The change from the rest of the apartment was startling. The only furniture was a small twin bed, a dresser, and a night table. The rest of the space had been converted into a greenhouse. There was a bank of sun lamps, a clear plastic curtain running across the middle of the room, and the strong smell of roses. She saw rose bushes covered with brilliant blossoms, ranging from pale pastel to deep scarlet.

  Another uniformed policeman stood against the wall. A tall, slender woman was inside the greenhouse, bending over one of the plants. She took no notice whatsoever of the new arrivals.

  Webb beckoned Erin and Jones. “Mrs. O’Connell?” he called softly.

  The woman turned. She had a face that was just a little too angular to be called beautiful. She seemed to be made of sharp ridges and hard lines. She stared at them with an expression of cool, polite interest.

  “Yes, I am Cynthia O’Connell,” she said. “And who might you be?”

  “Lieutenant Webb, NYPD,” he answered. “These are Detectives Jones and O’Reilly. Ma’am, I’m very sorry for your loss, and sorry to have to do this, but I need to ask you a few questions.”

  “I would much prefer you to be prompt than sorry, Lieutenant,” she said. “I have been waiting for you. I would appreciate it if this could be taken care of prior to ten o’ clock.”

  Erin was about to ask why the time was important, but Jones caught her eye and gave a slight shake of her head. Instead of speaking up, she waited and watched, trying to learn. Webb’s voice was calm and quiet, if a little flat. Cynthia’s manner was matter-of-fact to the point of being cold. Her self-control was amazing, considering her husband had been blown to pieces only a few minutes before. Erin had never seen someone react to any violent death with so little emotion, much less that of a spouse.

  The woman’s eye fell on Rolf. Her lip curled in distaste. “What is that… animal doing?”

  Erin glanced at her partner. The Shepherd was, at that moment, doing absolutely nothing. He was on duty, which meant he was standing still, paying close attention to her.

  “He’s my K-9,” Erin said. “He won’t do anything I don’t tell him to.”

  “I will hold you responsible for any damage it causes.”

  “Ma’am, in your own words, can you tell me what happened?” Webb asked, trying to turn the conversation onto its intended course.

  “Certainly,” Cynthia said, giving no further notice to the dog. “William left the apartment at approximately seven o’ clock. A short while later, I felt a violent shock that shook the building. A few minutes after that, Miss Harland knocked on my door.”

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” Webb said. “Who is Miss Harland?”

  “A neighbor,” Cynthia said. “She is a fellow aficionado of horticulture.”

  A what of the which? Erin very nearly said out loud. It must have showed on her face.

  The woman rolled her eyes ever so slightly. “To put it in layman’s terms, she shares my interest in flowering plants.”

  “Thank you,” Webb said, ignoring the contempt in her voice. “Go on, please.”
r />   “She told me that my car had exploded, and that William was dead. She was quite distraught. I went to the garage and confirmed what had occurred. A number of bystanders were present, but none were engaged in any constructive activity. I returned to my apartment and telephoned the police department, whereupon I awaited your arrival.”

  “When exactly did the explosion occur?” Webb asked.

  “I really couldn’t tell you, Lieutenant,” she said. “I was fully engaged in my preparations for my exhibition. One loses one’s sense of time when engaged in one’s passions.”

  “Why did you stay inside when the blast happened?” Erin asked, jumping into the conversation.

  Cynthia made an elegant, deliberate motion that suggested a shrug. “It did not appear to concern me. I thought perhaps a gas main had burst, or an automobile accident had occurred. No fire alarms followed, no panic in the hallways, no aroma of combustion.”

  “If a car bomb went off in my basement, I think I’d recognize it as an explosion,” Erin said.

  “Perhaps your upbringing was more conducive to familiarizing you with such occurrences than was my own,” Cynthia said, her way of elongating words sounding almost British. “Your speech betrays, shall I say, plebeian origins?”

  Erin, very aware of her working-class Queens accent, clamped her mouth shut and quietly fumed.

  “Ms. O’Connell, can you think of any reason anyone would want to hurt your husband?” Jones asked.

  “Would you prefer my answers in order of probability, or shall I alphabetize them?” Cynthia replied. Then she gave a theatrical sigh. “William was a man quite skilled at attracting troubles. He was a failure in every entrepreneurial adventure upon which he embarked. You have seen our parlor, much reduced from our former circumstances. He squandered my savings and inheritance, and in the end, he found that the pastime he most enjoyed was the one furthest beyond his intellectual capacity.”

  “What was that?” Webb asked.

  “Please, Lieutenant, my garden club meets at ten, I really must make my preparations and be on my way,” Cynthia said. “I can hardly drive myself there now, can I? I shall have to summon a cab. If we might continue this interview at a more opportune moment, perhaps after a few hours’ interlude?”

  Webb’s eyebrows drew together. Erin, having seen that look on men about to get into bar fights, could see that he wasn’t as calm as he appeared. “This is a homicide investigation, Mrs. O’Connell,” he began.

  Erin didn’t stop to think. It felt like the right play to make, so she made it. “What do you need to do to get ready for the garden club?” she asked, putting a bright, interested smile on her face.

  “I shall be exhibiting my damask roses,” Cynthia said. “They have just begun to bloom, and I shall bring several of the blossoms. I must cut them and place them in water.”

  “May I have a closer look?” Erin said, pointing to the flowers. “They’re lovely.”

  Cynthia, for the first time in the interview, looked genuinely pleased. “Oh, yes,” she said. “Very well. You may come in while I cut them. But you mustn’t touch anything. And your animal must remain on the far side of the curtain.”

  “Certainly, ma’am. Rolf, sitz,” Erin said, using the German commands with which the Bavarian-born Shepherd had been trained. “Bleib.”

  Rolf obediently sat and stayed, head high, ears perked, awaiting further orders.

  Once in her greenhouse, Cynthia changed. The hard lines on her face softened as she bent over her plants. She seemed almost unaware of Erin’s presence.

  Erin saw that the roses were indeed beautiful. They were lovingly tended, with full, lush blooms. A heavenly smell filled the air.

  “This is a special place for you, isn’t it?” she asked quietly. “Away from your husband.”

  “Precisely,” Cynthia said, staring at a pale pink blossom, brushing its petals with her fingertips. “This was one thing William could never take from me. We once inhabited a larger residence, you know.”

  Erin had already guessed as much, from the cluttered state of the apartment. It had the look of a home that had been downsized. “How did he lose the money?” she asked gently.

  “Gambling, naturally,” Cynthia replied, still not looking at Erin. “I suppose only real-estate speculation could lose money more swiftly. Unfortunately, he bled our funds away so rapidly that I was only able to protect some of my assets. I am certain he owes more than he ever told me. It is possible his insurance policy will cover his legitimate debts, but I live with the knowledge that unsavory characters may emerge to demand restitution.”

  Erin blinked. “Are you saying he owed money to mob guys? Organized crime?”

  “It would not surprise me in the slightest,” the recent widow said with her unshakable coolness.

  “Are you sorry he’s been killed?” Erin asked.

  Now Cynthia did stop attending to her roses, turning her attention back to Erin. “It will cause me considerable legal and financial difficulties,” she said calmly. “But so would a divorce. On the whole, William’s passing has done me a favor. Nothing in his life so became him as his taking leave of it.”

  The phrase tugged at a high school memory. “Hamlet?” Erin guessed.

  “Macbeth,” Cynthia corrected. “But at least you correctly identified the playwright. Perhaps your formative years were not wholly wasted.” She turned back to the rosebush, measured the stem with her hand, and expertly snipped off one of the largest blooms. She dropped it at once into a glass of water, which Erin saw had a plastic bag lining it. The woman cinched the bag tight around the stem with a rubber band. “Now, I really must be going.”

  “I just have one more question, ma’am,” Erin said. “Can you tell me who your husband’s bookie was?”

  Cynthia shook her head. “I am terribly sorry, detective, I cannot.” She paused. “There is a safe in his room. I believe he kept his gambling receipts there.”

  “Do you have the combination?”

  “No,” the woman said. “But for all I care, you can cut the door off.”

  Webb didn’t want to let Cynthia go, but he wasn’t prepared to arrest her yet, either. He compromised by telling her not to leave town and getting her permission to remain in the apartment and search the premises, including opening William’s safe. Accordingly, once Cynthia signed her permission, Jones called a locksmith.

  “What do you think, O’Reilly?” Webb asked, once Cynthia had gone.

  Erin shook her head. “I can see why you’d like her for the bombing, but I don’t think it’s her.”

  “Why not?”

  “She hated him, that’s obvious,” she said. “But building a bomb? That’d be way too working-class. She’s sees herself as high society. Plus, why take out the car? There’s got to be plenty of ways she could’ve killed him that’d be less expensive. Tidier, too. I see her as more of a poisoner.”

  “So you’re thinking the organized crime angle?” Webb asked.

  “Yeah,” Erin said. “If he owed money to the mob, they’d totally be willing to blow him up.”

  “Loan sharks don’t like to kill their debtors,” Jones pointed out. “They’re glad to scare ‘em, sure, but they want money. Bodies don’t pay the bills.”

  “He was carrying a gun,” Webb said. “It looks like he was expecting trouble. Maybe they scared him too much and he decided to take a stand. It could be they figured the wife would be a softer touch.”

  “Yeah,” Erin said. “Except that now there’s cops all over the case. They can’t possibly have wanted that.”

  “Let’s see what’s in the safe,” Webb said. “Maybe it’ll give us something to go on.”

  *

  The locksmith was a small, bespectacled man with watery eyes. He examined the safe with the same expert attention Cynthia had given to her flowers. He took off his glasses, wiped them with a handkerchief, and nodded. “Yes, I can open it,” he said.

  “That’s great,” Webb said.

  Erin e
xpected him to produce a stethoscope and listen to the dial. Instead, the locksmith began setting up a massive industrial drill. Finesse was going to take a backseat to brute force.

  “You may want to wait outside,” he said, putting on headphones to insulate himself from the noise. Then the high-pitched whine of the diamond-tipped drill permeated the apartment. It only took a few minutes, but as he was finishing drilling out the lock, Neshenko joined them in the living room.

  “The bomb squad’s still packing up the pieces,” he reported. “You get anything from the wife?”

  “Yeah,” Erin said. “She hated his guts, he owed money to gamblers, and he saved her having to file for divorce when he exploded.”

  “Nice,” Neshenko said.

  “Hey, if they were nice guys, who’d want to murder them in the first place?” Jones asked.

  The sound of the drill died away. The locksmith appeared in the doorway. “Done!” he announced. The four detectives hurried into William O’Connell’s bedroom.

  The safe’s contents were unimpressive at first glance. There were no stacks of dollar bills, no sacks of bullion, just a sheaf of papers with cryptic notes filling page after page. Webb pulled on his gloves and flipped through them.

  “What’ve we got?” Neshenko asked.

  “Gambling sheets,” Webb said. “I’ve seen this kind of shorthand before. This is a record of O’Connell’s bets. Most of them seem to be referencing a bookie who goes by Cars.”

  “Street name?” Erin guessed.

  “Probably,” Webb said. “Jones, you want to run the alias?”

  “Already on it,” she said, tapping her phone’s screen. “Just a minute.”

  “How much was he in the hole?” Erin asked.

  “Hard to say,” Webb said. “At a glance, I’d say sixty or seventy thousand.”

  “Thousand?” Erin exclaimed. “That’s more than I make in a year!”

  “I’ve got something,” Jones said. “There’s a guy who’s known to run a sports book out of his bar. It’s an Irish pub, the Barley Corner. His name’s Morton Carlyle. His file’s thin, but he’s a known associate of the O’Malleys.”

  “Irish mob?” Neshenko guessed.