Irish Car Bomb

by Steven Henry

  “Sure thing, Mom,” Erin said. “I love you.”

  There was a short pause, then Sean O’Reilly’s voice came down the line more clearly. “Okay, kiddo, your mom’s gone to work on dinner. What’s up?”

  “Dad, I’m working a case.” She took a deep breath. “I met a guy who said to tell you an old friend said hello.”

  “This guy have a name?”

  “Morton Carlyle,” she said. “I’ve heard people call him Cars.”

  There was such a long silence on the other end of the line that Erin was afraid the call had disconnected. “Dad?”

  “I’m here,” he sighed. “Cars Carlyle. I haven’t heard that name in years.”

  “Is he?”

  “Is he what?”

  “An old friend?”

  “No!” he said, almost snapping at her. Then he amended, “At least, I don’t think so. It’s complicated.”

  Erin felt a cold hollowness in the pit of her stomach. “Dad, what are you talking about?”

  “It’s not much of a story, and it’s almost twenty years old.”

  “Dad, I need to know about this guy.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s a person of interest in a car bombing. A man got blown up this morning, and he’s involved. The victim owed him a lot of money, gambling debts.”

  “Hmm,” Sean said, and Erin pictured him thoughtfully stroking his mustache. “Well, we did think Cars was behind some garbage-truck bombings back in the ’90s. That’s how he got his nickname, you know. Because the word on the street was that he knew everything about how to blow up a car.”

  “Garbage trucks? What was it, vandalism?”

  “No,” he said. “This was before your time on the force. I don’t know if you remember, but the Mafia used to run the garbage business in all five boroughs. It’s funny, people think about the mob’s money coming from drugs, prostitution, that sort of thing, but it turns out there’s millions of dollars in garbage collection. Do you have any idea how much trash needs to be hauled out of New York every day?”

  “Lots,” Erin said.

  “Tons of the stuff, and the Mafia controlled the whole thing. They monopolized the industry, made a real killing. But they didn’t have it all their own way. There was a major undercover operation in the early ’90s to break up the garbage cartels. And some competitors tried to break into the business. Down in Queens in ‘94 and ‘95, there was an immigrant gang that tried to strong-arm the Italians, beating up their drivers, blowing up their trucks, that sort of thing.”

  “So Carlyle was working with them,” Erin said. “Is that how you met him?”

  “Not exactly. Look, kiddo, there’s some things here… it’s ancient history.”

  “Not anymore,” she said. “I talked to him this morning. He knew stuff about me. I have to have something; I’m going to need to go back there soon, and I need an edge.”

  Sean paused again. “Okay,” he said finally. “The cops were getting ready to move on the garbage organization. This was in ‘95. It turned out my partner was into something heavy. He was taking money from the Italians.”

  “Jesus,” Erin said. “Which partner was it?” Her thoughts were racing, thinking of the various men her father had worked with over his career. “Oh God, it was Nate, wasn’t it.” She remembered the small, cheerful guy who’d come to dinner with them more than once. She also remembered that, while she’d been in high school, her dad had suddenly changed partners and Nate had never come to the house again. She’d never found out what had happened to him.

  “Good memory,” her dad said. “I knew he was into something a little shady, but I wasn’t sure how deep it went. And he was my partner. If you go upstairs on your partner, word gets around the precinct, and pretty soon no one trusts you. I knew it wasn’t right to keep my mouth shut, but I didn’t know the right thing to do. I was still trying to figure it out when Cars came by.”

  “He came to the house?” Erin exclaimed.

  “Yeah. Just the once.”

  “Did you know who he was?”

  “Yeah,” he said again. “We’d run into each other on the street a few times. He wasn’t like most of the gangsters. He was always well-spoken, a real smart guy, could even be fun to talk to. And he didn’t antagonize the police. You’d have thought he was a civilian if you didn’t know better, but I knew his rep.”

  “What’d he want?”

  “He had something for me,” Sean said. “An envelope.”

  Erin closed her eyes. “You took money from a gangster?” The cold feeling in her stomach was back.

  “It wasn’t money,” he said sharply. “It was bank records, photographs, and a copy of a court order. It was a whole Internal Affairs case against my partner, and there was evidence I’d been complicit with him.”

  “But you weren’t,” Erin said with more conviction that she felt at that moment.

  “No,” he said. “But I could’ve been, as far as they knew. The way IA was working at the time, they’d have burned both of us. At best, I was looking at early retirement, forced out without my pension.”

  “How’d Carlyle get his hands on all that?”

  “He didn’t say, and I didn’t have the chance to ask. He handed over the envelope and left before I’d opened it. What it was, was a lifeline. I turned over all of it to our IA guy, said it had been an anonymous package left on my doorstep. And I agreed to testify against Nate.” Erin heard the pain in her father’s voice at the memory of the old betrayal. “I had to turn in my own partner to save myself. And Cars knew I’d do it.”

  “Why’d he help you?”

  “He never said,” Sean said. “I think it was just a favor.”

  In the distance, Erin heard her mother call, “Dinner’s ready!”

  “A favor?” she repeated.

  “Yeah. That’s how the mob runs, how it’s always run,” he said. “It’s all about favors. The money’s just for the outside world. Once you’re inside, what matters is what you’ve done for everybody else, and what you can still do for them. Carlyle did me a favor, so he’d have me owing him one. And the bastard never called it in.”

  *

  Erin didn’t have an easy time getting to sleep that night. What she wanted was to go straight down to the Barley Corner and have it out with Carlyle. But she couldn’t do that. She was a detective, working a case, and she had to be smart. Whatever her family’s history with the Irish mobster, she couldn’t let that get in the way of solving O’Connell’s murder.

  Eventually, she got out of bed and went to her couch. She turned on the TV and let herself zone out in front of it, hoping her brain would slow down enough to let her lose consciousness. What she got was a mid-’90s action movie in which the hero was trying to stop a mad bomber from blowing up a bus. She couldn’t help smiling at the connection to her investigation. She let herself enjoy the mindlessness of Hollywood cops, then dozed off with the TV still running.

  She sat up suddenly, blinking at the screen. The movie was about halfway done. She’d nearly missed something. The hero had made his way under the bus to the bomb and recognized something about it. It was a personal memento, a calling card the bomber had left. He’d done it on purpose, to lure the good guys into a trap. Erin, mind still a little foggy, rubbed her temples. Why was that important? Real bombers didn’t use calling cards. Did they? She didn’t know much about bombs. But there was someone she could talk to who did.

  She got off the couch, went into the kitchen, and scribbled a note on her Post-It pad. It said, Talk to Skip. She slapped it on the fridge where she’d be sure to see it in the morning.

  Apparently, her brain had just been waiting for her to have a direction to take. All the stress and confusion of her first day caught up with her. She barely made it to bed before falling fast asleep.

  Chapter 6

  Erin was up early, wide awake and rested, eager to take on the day. Rolf, sensing her energy, was as ready to get started as she was. She took him on t
heir usual morning run, grabbed a quick shower, and set off for work. She still didn’t have a car, so it was the subway again.

  Jones was the only one in the office when Erin arrived just before eight. The smell of coffee caught Erin’s nose and she made a beeline for the break room to grab a cup. It tasted like shit. Erin walked over to Jones’s desk, taking small, cautious sips.

  “Hey, O’Reilly,” Jones said. “I see you made it back for round two. Vic didn’t scare you off?”

  “He’s not that scary,” Erin said.

  “He’s exactly that scary,” Jones replied. “He’s too smart for pure tactical work, but too violent for most other jobs in the department.”

  “That’s why he’s here, working Major Cases?” Erin asked, leaning a hip against the edge of the desk and taking another sip of coffee. It wasn’t growing on her.

  “He’s got an eye for weakness,” Jones said. “He’s good at getting suspects to fold. Sometimes all he needs to do is lean over them and scowl. And if things ever get tough, he’s an excellent shot, especially with a rifle.”

  “Does that happen much?”

  Jones shrugged. “This unit’s new. We haven’t done much of anything yet, including swapping bullets with bad guys. I’ve never fired my piece in the line, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

  “Did you work with Vic, or any of the others, before coming here?”

  Jones shook her head.

  “Then how come you know so much about him?”

  “I read his service jacket. And I asked around.”

  Erin nodded thoughtfully. “Jones? You transferred out of Internal Affairs, didn’t you.”

  Jones laughed quietly. “Okay, I see why they grabbed you. You’ve got good instincts. Yeah, I used to be IA. But I’m really an okay girl, once you get to know me. I did some work with the gang task force as a liaison, too, so I’m real police.”

  “Why’d you make the switch from IA?”

  “It was all bureaucratic bullshit,” Jones said. “I’m good at it, but I wanted to go after real criminals, not guys who were trying to game the system or juke their stats. I wanted to see some action.”

  “Speaking of action,” Erin said, “what’s our protocol? If I’ve got an idea, a direction I want to take things, do I run it past the Lieutenant first, or do I just do it?”

  “We’re pretty free-form,” Jones said. “But we don’t want people doubling up on effort. Shoot him a text, or leave a note on his desk, if he’s not around, but clear things in person when you have the chance. What’s your plan?”

  “I want to talk to the bomb squad about the blast.”

  “Oh, go on down,” Jones said. “They’re in the basement, level 2. I’ll tell the boss where you are when he shows up.”

  *

  Erin found the right door without any trouble. Some smart-ass had stuck a skull-and-crossbones sign on it with the label WARNING: MINEFIELD, and even strung a few strands of barbed wire just above head height. Under that sign was a more serious one. It said, IF DOOR IS CLOSED, RING BELL. DO NOT OPEN DOOR WITHOUT PERMISSION. She obediently pushed the doorbell and waited.

  Skip Taylor opened the door. He had a pair of needle-nose pliers in his hand, an iPod clipped to his belt, earbuds looped around his neck, and a cheerful smile on his face.

  “Morning!” he said. “O’Reilly, right? C’mon in!”

  “Erin is fine,” she said.

  “Okay, Erin. Welcome to the blasting pit.” He gestured to the room. It was mostly bare concrete, with shelf units lining the walls and a wooden work table. In the middle of the room was a scattering of familiar-looking scrap metal.

  “That’s from the explosion yesterday,” she said.

  “Yup,” Skip said, looking pleased. “I’ve been putting the car back together. If you can line up the pieces just right, you can tell where in the car the explosion originated.”

  “I’ve got some questions about the bomb,” she said. “Rolf! Komm hier!”

  Her partner had adopted his “alert” posture, sitting bolt upright and staring at a shelf. On hearing his partner’s command, he returned obediently to her side.

  “Sure thing, Erin,” Skip said. “What do you want to know?”

  “I know you’ve already reported the materials,” she said. “We have that info upstairs. What I’m looking for is the signature.”

  He grinned at her. “Been reading up on mad bombers?”

  “Actually, I was watching Speed on TV last night,” she admitted a little sheepishly.

  Skip laughed. “I’ve seen that one,” he said. “Sorry to disappoint, but this device didn’t have a wristwatch stuck to it.”

  “What can you tell me about the bomb-maker?” she asked. “What’s his style?”

  “He doesn’t have one.”

  Erin’s face fell. “Oh.”

  “Hey, that’s not all bad,” Skip said. “It tells us something important.”

  “Yeah?” She looked at him, trying to gauge whether he was pulling her leg. “What?”

  “This one wasn’t set by a pro.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “I dismantled a couple hundred IEDs over in Iraq,” he said. “Just about everything you can rig to explode. Grenades, artillery shells, land mines, plastic explosive, sticks of dynamite, you name it. After a while, you get a feel for the craftsmanship. The expert bomb-builders are artists. You can tell when a guy knows what he’s doing. I’m not talking about anti-tampering devices, any of that crap. It’s more like, things move smoothly. Everything’s where it’s supposed to be. The Unabomber was like that. He’d polish the inside of the casings on his bombs. The inside. He took that much pride in his work. This guy here? No pride at all. This was amateur hour.”

  “It worked well enough,” Erin said.

  “I’m not sure about that.”

  “O’Connell’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “Well, yeah, but that’s not the point,” Skip said. “You could take him out with enough C4 to bring down the whole apartment building and he’d be dead, but that wouldn’t make it a professional job. This bomb wasn’t placed right. There was too much explosive. It was just plain sloppy.”

  “That doesn’t sound like an experienced IRA car bomber to me,” Erin said.

  “You talking about Cars Carlyle?” Skip asked.

  Erin blinked. “You know him?”

  “Only by reputation,” he replied. “Hey, if an IRA veteran lives in my neighborhood, I want to know about him. I’ve never met him face-to-face, but I heard about the garbage-truck bombings.”

  “Do you think he could’ve done this bomb?”

  “He could’ve,” Skip said. “But I don’t think he would. I’ve studied some of his overseas work, along with the files on the garbage trucks. His alleged bombings. His devices aren’t fancy, but they work flawlessly. He’s always careful to avoid collateral damage. They’re precision instruments, shaped charges. Unless he’s deliberately hiding his skill, he didn’t make this bomb.”

  Erin nodded, but her thoughts were spinning. Carlyle was their best lead, and he certainly knew more about the case than he should. On the other hand, everything in his manner at their meeting the day before suggested a man who wanted people to know what he was up to. Would a man like that deliberately disguise his style? She needed to dig deeper on him.

  “Thanks, Skip,” she said. “That’s a big help.”

  “No prob,” he said. “Come by anytime. Tell you what, I’ll drop you a line the next time we’re gonna blow up some ordnance. You can come along, ride out of town and see some fireworks.”

  “Sounds fun,” she said, laying a hand on the door. “Say, Skip?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Why do they call you that?”

  He smiled. “Old joke from my time in EOD,” he said. “We had this great big truck we’d drive to bomb-disposal sites. Somebody in my squad named it The Boat, and that got us thinking a boat needed a captain. I was the driver, so they started calling me Skip
per, Skip for short. Crazy, really. I was just a corporal.”

  “What’s your real name?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think I’m gonna tell you that.”

  “I could find out.”

  “Okay, Detective,” he said. “Detect. I’m not gonna help you. Everybody needs practice.”

  Laughing, Erin left the blasting pit and went back upstairs.

  *

  She found Vic, Jones, and Webb all clustered around Jones’s computer. “Hey, Erin,” Jones said. “Come take a look at this.”

  Erin joined them. She saw a list of numbers and cryptic letters, recognizing it as the gambling slips they’d found in O’Connell’s safe. “What’s up?” she asked.

  “I think I’ve got an ID on another of the guys our victim owed money to,” Jones said. She pointed to a line labeled FERG. “Once we were working the Irish mob angle, I decided to look for possible matches. Here’s what I got.” She brought up another window.

  A mug shot of a tough-looking guy with an impressive Celtic knotwork tattoo on his neck filled the screen. “Franklin Fergus, AKA Frankie Fingers,” Jones said. “Small-time hood. A few busts for unlicensed gambling, paid some fines, with a couple assault raps. Did fifteen months upstate back in ‘09 for breaking all the fingers on both a guy’s hands.”

  “Hence the nickname,” Webb muttered.

  “What’s his connection to the O’Malleys?” Erin asked.

  “Hard to say,” Jones said. “He’s probably more competitor than collaborator to Carlyle. And he’s definitely more of an enforcer.”

  “No, Carlyle’s smoother than that,” Erin said. She couldn’t picture him breaking a man’s fingers. “How much was O’Connell in the hole to Frankie for?”

  “Nothing,” Jones said.

  “Nothing?” Vic echoed. “Then what’s the big deal?”

  “He was in deep until recently,” Jones said. “I found some older slips that have him owing fifteen large, but they’ve all got notes in O’Connell’s handwriting indicating they’re canceled.”

  “So he got his debt paid off,” Webb said. “You think Fergus waited until he’d gotten his money, then whacked O’Connell?”