“Talk to Feeney. He knows you’re comin’. I’ll be at the gym.”
I needed that morning sunshine to keep my spirits high enough to put one foot ahead of the other. I knew that whatever unthinkable revelation the day was about to bring would have to be broken ultimately to Colleen. But one thing at a time.
I was there at the curb when the Cooper pulled in. The driver was somewhere between forty and sixty with a face that indicated a life in the ring—a life for which he had apparently not been particularly well suited. Between a misshapen jaw, an angular nose, and a brogue as thick as beef stew, I could scarcely understand a word he said. The blessing was that he was more into driving than conversation.
He wove through the heavily trafficked streets of Dublin to a section of small roadways above the North Circular Road. It was about ten o’clock when he pulled up to the curb at the side of St. Margaret’s Avenue. The small sign in front of the door read, GRIMES & FEENEY FUNERAL HOME.
My driver said his first two words since we left the hotel. “I’ll wait.”
I took the cue and walked to the door. The chimes were answered by a tall, gaunt figure in black. He had a nose that hung over his upper lip and eyes that had become practiced in professional mourning. He looked like a raven that was on the verge of giving or receiving bad news.
“Good morning. I’m looking for Mr. Feeney.”
He answered with a single mournful syllable, “Aahhh,” and a bowing invitation to cross the threshold.
Once inside, I fully expected the door to creak when he closed it. It didn’t, thank God.
“Mr. Feeney, my name is Michael Knight. Mr. Sullivan suggested that I see you.”
“Uh-huh.” I read it as expressing his own personal grief that I was there about past rather than future business for the house. He led the way to a sedate office. Once seated, I took a stab at beginning one of the most difficult conversations of my life.
“Mr. Feeney, I’m looking for a child around two years old. Her name is—or was—Erin Ryan. You may not have been given that name. I guess the best way to ask it is this. Have you buried a little girl like that in the past week?”
“Mmm. You understand, Mr. Knight, that we carefully guard the confidentiality of our clients. It is the hallmark of Grimes and—”
I sensed I was about to be smothered in funereal bullshit. It was not what I had the mind-set or time to endure patiently. It seemed the moment to play my only trump.
“Mr. Feeney, I believe you’re acquainted with Mr. Ten Sullivan. With all due respect to your professional crap, let’s cut to the chase. Mr. Sullivan has put his very personal interest behind your answering my questions truthfully. Let me try it again, and for the last time. Did you bury a two-year-old girl recently?”
He was sitting on the edge of his black leather chair with a rigidity that suggested that my direct approach had rammed a poker to the hilt where it would do the most good. He was struggling vainly to continue playing a role that would do me the least good.
“Mr. Knight. There is no call—”
“Mr. Feeney. There is call. The child was murdered. You may well be an accessory to the murder. You can either answer my questions without excessive posturing and it will stay between us. Or you can bid me an incriminating farewell on my way to the nearest office of the Garda. Your call. Quickly.”
The rosy tinge of his Irish complexion was paper-white. He looked up at me as I rose out of the chair for effect.
“I do believe, Mr. Knight, that our company handled a matter such as you suggest. I, personally, had no—”
“Tell me about the girl. Everything. Leave the denials out of it. How old? What did she look like?”
He fumbled in a drawer for a file card with hands that practically vibrated. He pretended to read from the card.
“She was apparently two years old. She had reddish-blonde hair. What more can I say?”
“When?” “She was brought to us last Friday. They wanted the burial immediately. We were able to inter the body the following day. There was to be no service.”
That part stung particularly. I knew how Colleen would take it.
“What was the cause of death?”
He checked the quivering card. “My only indication is ‘terminal illness’.”
“When you embalmed the body—I assume you did.”
“Oh yes. Quite legally.”
“Right. Were there any identifying marks?”
“You mean?”
“Birthmarks? Be specific.”
“Why, ah, yes. There was a heart-shaped birthmark on the left side of her neck. I’m merely reading—”
That did it. That pulled the last plug. He babbled about having no personal part, but I could hardly hear a word he said. I had to get it together. Where do I go from here? Do I dig to find out who was behind it? I don’t think so. Would it bring Erin back to us? Would it relieve me and Colleen of facing a conversation that would rebreak both of our hearts? The only thing that mattered was getting Erin’s body back home for a real burial by her family—with a funeral Mass.
I stood up. “Thank you, Mr. Feeney.”
“I must assure you, Mr. Knight. The body was simply delivered to us. Payment was made. It was most irregular. Completely anonymous. I have no idea—”
I have no conception of what Irish laws were violated by Grimes & Feeney, nor did I care. Whatever they did was probably done under threats I couldn’t even imagine.
“It doesn’t matter, Mr. Feeney. You have nothing to fear from me. I have just one more question. Where is she buried?”
He seemed sufficiently calmed to answer the question. “She’s buried in Glasnevin Cemetery. It’s in the north of Dublin County on Finglas Road. Where there was no service and we didn’t know her faith you understand, we were limited. She’s in a row reserved for young children.”
“Thank you, Mr. Feeney. I’ll be going there directly.”
“I’ll call ahead. It’s the largest cemetery in Dublin. You’ll need directions to the gravesite. Just go to the office. I’m truly sorry for your loss, Mr. Knight.”
I had the feeling that he meant that last sincerely, which induced me to take the handshake he offered.
True to his word, my driver, Finbar O’Neil, was waiting. He knew the cemetery, and Ten had put him at my disposal for the day.
Finbar was still no conversationalist, for which small favor I thanked God. He wove through the streets of northern Dublin and had us there in twenty minutes. The office directed me to what was obviously a freshly made burial site.
I walked alone to the edge of the new sod. I’m not one for visiting the physical remains of people I’ve loved. I’d rather visit their immortal souls in prayer. But in this case, I had a message to deliver.
I stood washed in the memory of those tiny arms around my neck, of those dazzling greenish eyes that danced with bubbling joy, of that smushy little nose that she’d burrow into my cheek and giggle until I knew that of everything He did, this was God’s greatest achievement. I could scarcely believe that all of that was now sleeping in a box beneath the earth.
I knelt down on the sod beside her grave, and I said it aloud. “As God who’s holding you now is my help and my judge, Little Erin, I’ll take you home.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Ten Sullivan was in the ring refereeing and coaching at the same time. He called a break when he saw me come in the door and pointed back at his office.
“How’d it go, Michael? I think I can tell by lookin’ at ya.”
“You’ve been good to me, Ten. But I need one more favor.”
“Such as?”
“I need a lawyer. Probably a solicitor, at least to start.”
“Start what?”
“I have to take her home. Her mother needs at least that. I probably need a court order to exhume the body and whatever forms are necessary to send her home.”
He bent back in the chair. “Whew! You’re a little out of my area.”
&nbs
p; “Mine too. I don’t know where to begin. That’s why I need an Irish lawyer who does.”
He was up on his feet. “Well I don’t have one in my back pocket. Why all the fuss anyway? Understand, I’m not making little of the death of the child. But why disturb the body now?”
“Lot of reasons. Some closure for her mother. The right way of doing things. There wasn’t even a funeral Mass.”
“Then have a Mass. Have it here. Or there.”
I shook my head. “I could give you ten more reasons, but there’s only one.”
“And it is?”
“I made a promise.”
Ten looked at me and started to say something. Then he looked at me again, and he thought better of it.
“It’ll take a bit, Michael. I don’t run into a lot of solicitors here in the gym. But I know those who do. I’ll have a name for you by this evening.”
I lay on the bed in the Gresham while I brought Mr. Devlin up to speed. He was unusually quiet. I knew the final reality of Erin’s death was hitting him too.
“Do we have someone in Boston who can handle the legalities of getting her home from Ireland, Mr. Devlin?”
“I’ll check till I find the best one. I’ll have the information for you when you get back. Which will be when, Michael?”
“Probably a couple of days. I’ll have to find a solicitor on this end.”
I knew that wouldn’t take two days, but another plan was rattling around. It was too vague to debate at that point.
“Michael, have you talked to Colleen?”
That one stung. “No. I wanted to be sure first. Now that I am, I can’t do it over the phone. I have to be there.”
He accepted that without adding to the guilt I felt for postponing the inevitable.
The day was wearing on and I was wearing down by late afternoon. Ten called with the name and number of a solicitor. I called and made an appointment with him for early the following morning. Then I called the concierge to arrange for the rental of a car.
“I’ll have it here at the hotel in the morning, Mr. Knight. I take it you’d like a nice mid-sized or a compact.”
“No. More like a Lexus or Jaguar.”
“Ah, you have good taste. But on our wee Irish country roads? Are you sure?”
I was. And not for the ego or the comfort. It was part of a plan that was becoming less vague as I thought about it.
Eoughan Tynan’s firm of solicitors had an office on Great Georges Street by the corner of Parnell Street. It was about eight blocks from Ten’s gym, next to the James Joyce Center—a decided upswing from Ten’s neighborhood. He did me the professional courtesy of slipping me into his appointment book at eight in the morning.
When we met, I thought I was looking in a mirror. He was about my age, my height, and my coloring. If I could have mastered the brogue and Irish law, we could have swapped places.
I introduced myself and massacred the pronunciation of his first name. He smiled and steered me to something close to “Owen.” I knew I liked him when he sized me up as a coffee drinker and made the appropriate offer.
“Ten gave me the bare outlines. What exactly would you like to do about the little girl’s body?”
I gave him all the details.
“I want to bring her body home to her mother for burial. I’m a criminal defense lawyer in Boston. This is truly out of my bailiwick.”
“Right. Well, it’s not something I see every day either. The question is where to start. I think we have two hurdles. First we have to have the body exhumed. That’ll require a court order. With no one opposing it, that shouldn’t be too difficult. The second is to release the body to you as attorney for the mother, and transportation back to Boston. That will require another court order. That will depend on establishing your client as the birth mother of the little girl. That can be done through a DNA match, since I assume she has no identification here. Thank God this is not happening fifteen years ago.”
“I assume you’ll need to coordinate with an attorney in Boston for the DNA matching. My partner’s looking into it. I’ll have a name for you by the end of the day.”
“Good. Then we can start right now. I’ll need a sworn statement from you setting out the facts as you’ve told them to me. Are you comfortable with that?”
I liked his get-to-it approach. My comfort level with accomplishing at least that much for Colleen was rising. I agreed.
“Excellent. Then let me get the girl in here for dictation.”
I could tell that my spirits were climbing out of the basement when I entertained the random thought that if I ever referred to my secretary, Julie, as “the girl,” I’d have her resignation on my desk and a pot of coffee in my lap.
I arranged to get back to Eoughan with the name of the Boston attorney by evening. His parting words were an admonition that Dublin courts plod at about the pace of the Boston courts. While he thought it could be done, immediacy was not in the cards. No matter, it was underway.
It was about nine thirty and still a sunny morning when I got behind the wheel—on the right side—of the first and probably the last Jaguar I will ever drive. I felt twinges of disloyalty bordering on cheating on my Corvette. I fought off the emotion of love-at-firstsight with the Jaguar with the self-admonition that “It’s just a car.” The echo came back from my subconscious, “But one hell of a car.”
I followed the directions of the concierge to the N7 and then the M7 through the rich, green, fertile, and storybook beautiful countryside of County Kildare west of Dublin. Rick McDonough, the Boston trainer of Black Diamond, had said that he had been shipped from a breeding stable in an area called the Curragh. I still had responsibility for the defense of Hector Vasquez, and I still believed that Danny’s death was somehow tied to the Diamond’s losing that race.
Curragh, it turns out, means a plain or down. This one is about eight miles square, some twenty-five miles southwest of Dublin. It’s no accident that the area is rife with stud farms and training facilities. The soil is unusually rich. It produces pastureland that is apparently the best for Thoroughbred racehorses. The concierge at the Gresham said that horse races had been held there as early as the first century, and the Irish Derby is still run there annually.
I checked a local phonebook for the address of the stable Rick mentioned, and within half an hour of entering the region, I was at the gate of a stone-walled facility with the name posted: DUBH CRANN STABLES.
I pulled up to the guard at the gate. He came out of his little enclosure with an attitude that said that he functioned more as a blockade than a reception committee.
Before he could speak, and without removing the mirrored sunglasses I donned for the occasion, I said without looking at him, “I’m here to see Kieran Dowd.”
I remembered that as the name of the man who arranged for Rick McDonough to train Black Diamond. It was a slender thread, but the only one I had.
I could see the guard eyeing the Jaguar. I stepped out of it to give him a full view of the conservative Italian wool suit I wore for the occasion. I bought the suit a year previously for a price that could only be called obscenely outrageous, but it had been my ticket of admission to some dangerously impenetrable places over the year. The whole package was put together to suggest that this was not someone to blow off without a hearing.
His attitude relented slightly when he asked, “What name?”
I still didn’t look at him. “It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t know me.”
“I need a name.”
I glanced at him casually. “Mention Seamus McGuiness.”
It was the only name I’d gotten from Vince Scully.
The guard walked away and spoke into a phone attached to his little guardhouse. Whether the car, the suit, or the name, tripped the trigger, I have no idea, but the heavy electric gate swung open. The guard pointed out a cobblestone drive that led to a row of stables.
“You’ll find Mr. Dowd just beyond the stables at the exercise track.”
I drove over the cobblestones to within six feet of a totally bald man, probably in his fifties, looking intently at a stopwatch. He was leaning his short, chunky frame against the middle rail on the outside of a racetrack that would have been the envy of Suffolk Downs. A small number of Thoroughbreds were engaged in breezing, galloping, or cooling out in different sections of the track.
I spoke through the open window of the Jaguar. “Mr. Dowd, I think perhaps we can do business.”
He looked at the car and then at me. His entire expression was a question mark.
“You want to work with me?”
“No.”
I got out of the car. He all but felt the Italian wool with his eyes. I took off the sunglasses and made eye contact.
“I may want you to work for me. I like what you did with Black Diamond. You may be of use to us.”
He smiled and turned back to the horses on the track. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, young man.”
I walked to the rail beside him with a smile as if at a private joke.
“‘Young man’ is it? I guess that’ll do for now.”
He looked back at me with a squint. “Who the hell are ya?”
“I take it you’ve heard of Seamus McGuiness.”
“Do you work for Mr. McGuiness?”
“No.”
His curiosity was turning to aggravation. “Then why’re ya takin’ up my time?”
“McGuiness works for me. I occasionally find him useful.”
His stunned look lasted only an instant. He pulled out a cell phone. “And suppose I call Mr. McGuiness. He’ll back you up, will he?”
I looked down at him with every ounce of detachment I could muster. “No, Mr. Dowd. He’ll say he never heard of me in his entire life.”
He had that stunned look again. I went on. “Go ahead. Call him. I want to hear this. If he admits to the slightest recognition of me or anything connected with me, it’ll be the last time you’ll be able to speak with him on this earth.”
He slowly closed the cell phone. “What’s your name anyway?”
I shrugged. “What’s the difference? There’s no one you can check it with. Do you want to stop playing name games and hear what I’m here for?”
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