Killer Score (The Irish Garda Files Book 2)

by Melinda Colt

  He reached across the table and retrieved a laptop, turned it on, then connected the phone to it through a USB cable. As Chelsea drew a chair closer and sat next to him, he opened what she thought was hacking software and started working. She knew he was a cybercrime expert, and technically it was a piece of cake to bypass a phone’s password, yet she was impressed by how fast he gained access to the device.

  He disconnected it from the laptop, then began to tap and swipe the screen. His methodical gestures told her he was searching for something. It was only a few minutes before his eyes narrowed. Chelsea almost jumped when he reached out and drew her closer, chair and all, until their shoulders touched. Without a word, he put the phone on the table and placed it between the two of them. Chelsea looked down, reading the text message conversation, as Evan swiped the screen slowly.

  Paddy: “Hey, darling, howya doing?”

  Shannon: “Just got home from work. You?”

  Paddy: “Oh, I’m just putting the final touches on the huge surprise I have for ye. *wink emoji*”

  Shannon: “OMG, really? What surprise?”

  Paddy: “Meet me at the Páirtí club at eight, and you’ll find out.”

  Shannon: “You are so sweet! I can’t wait! Can’t you give me a hint? Please? *heart emoji*”

  Paddy: “All I can say is that it’s gonna be the biggest surprise of your life. Now be a good girl and stop being nosy. I’ll turn off my phone until then, aye? I need to prepare. *wink emoji*”

  Shannon: “Okay. I’ll be there with bells on!”

  Chelsea turned to Evan, a small gasp escaping her lips. “So that’s how he lured her there. Bastard!”

  “So it seems. The next message is from Shannon, at 8:05.”

  Shannon: “Where are you?”

  Paddy: “Walk past the club’s entry, toward the end of the alley. Your surprise is waiting. *grin emoji*”

  “How stupid of him to leave the phone behind. It incriminates him worse than a letter M tattooed on his forehead. It’s true that rage can cloud a person’s judgment, but still…” She chewed on her bottom lip. “One thing’s for sure; we need to talk to this guy—now.”

  Evan raised an eyebrow, and Chelsea noticed it was crossed by a scar toward the outer corner.

  “We?” Sarcasm tinged his deep voice.

  “I’d like to go with you. If we leave now, I have time before my first appointment. I want to meet this guy, talk to him.”

  After holding her gaze a moment longer, Evan nodded. “Okay, but stay out of the way. I’m going to bring him in.”

  “You’ll arrest him?”

  “Hell, yeah. He’s officially a suspect.”

  “Okay. But how the hell do we find him? There must be dozens of Patrick O’Learys in Dublin alone.”

  He grinned and drew the laptop and phone closer. “Only one with this phone number, the one Shannon had saved in her phone. Smart phones have tracking chips. Since we have his phone number, it’s a piece of cake to learn his location in real time.”

  While Chelsea watched his fingers move over the keyboard, he worked more magic on the laptop. His hands were strong and capable, the hands of a fighter. His knuckles suggested they’d given their share of hits. Chelsea wondered once more what his story was, and why he’d gone from FBI agent to Garda Detective. Had it been his choice? What had urged him to make it?

  “We have an address,” Evan said, standing so abruptly she nearly jumped out of her skin. “Let’s move.”

  They stopped by John O’Sullivan’s office to check in. Although this was Evan’s case, John had kindly offered to assist as a senior detective, but would not interfere unless Evan requested his help. The only thing Evan asked him to do was help writing the reports and keeping the Chief Inspector informed.

  John was at his desk, talking to his partner, Detective Aidan Connor. Evan stuck his head into the office and briefly told John about the new development. John’s eyebrows rose, especially when he spotted Chelsea behind Evan.

  “Do you want me to come along?” John asked.

  Evan shook his head. “No, thanks. I’ll take a couple of Gardaí as backup. Anything from the officers who questioned the people in the club last night?”

  “Nope. No witnesses, no one even knew the victim. Dead end.”

  Evan sighed. “I figured as much. I’m taking Chelsea with me to bring in good ol’ Paddy. I’ll keep you posted.”

  Chapter Four

  Patrick O’Leary lived in a neighborhood that was borderline shady, where the cloudy daylight emphasized the cracks in the walls adorned by more or less artistic graffiti. There were no pretty flowers on the windowsills in this row of buildings, Evan noted as he walked with Chelsea by his side, taking notice of the unkempt sidewalk and overflowing trash bins. Mud slushed under his boots, and the air smelled of rain and smoke. People had turned on their heating systems.

  They had parked the two police vehicles nearby, and the two Gardaí he’d chosen followed them closely, weapons at the ready. The four-story building had no elevator, so they took the stairs to the second floor. To the right, a wooden door sported a name plate that spelled ‘P. O’Leary.’ Evan signaled Chelsea to step aside. The two Gardaí nodded, a sign they were alert and ready for any potential danger, although his gut didn’t peg this situation as dangerous. The whole thing smelled fishy. A criminal who left behind so much evidence to incriminate himself had to be an idiot. Or innocent.

  He knocked loudly at the door, surprised when it opened after a few short moments.

  “Patrick O’Leary?” Evan asked.

  The man dressed in green flannel pajamas was much younger than Evan had expected, somewhere in his mid to late twenties. He stared at the four guards blocking his doorway, green eyes wide, black hair disheveled.

  “Who are ye?”

  Evan showed the man his badge. “Detective Evan Gallagher from An Garda Síochána. Are you Patrick O’Leary?”

  “Aye, I am. What’s this about?”

  “Do you know a woman named Shannon Brody?”

  “Yes, she’s my girlfriend.” The young man stared at Evan, then at the uniforms behind him. “Is she in some kind of trouble?”

  “Shannon Brody was murdered last night.” Evan waited for a beat, studying the man’s reaction.

  Either the shock and the pain in his eyes were genuine, or he was an excellent actor.

  “What? How?— Are you sure?” Patrick O’Leary pressed his fist against his mouth, eyes darting from face to face. “Are you sure it’s my Shannon?”

  “We are sure.”

  “But… What happened?”

  “We’re hoping you’ll tell us.”

  O’Leary looked completely disoriented. He darted a glance behind him, then back at Evan. “What are ye talking about?”

  “The breadcrumb messages, Patrick.” Evan was starting to lose patience. “The ones you used to lure Shannon to the club. With this probable cause, we have the right to take you into custody, search your house and confiscate any potential evidence.”

  The young man looked dumbstruck. “Are ye arresting me? Do ye think I hurt Shannon?” A vein bulged in his temple, and his pale face went red.

  “You are being detained and will be transported to the Garda station to be questioned regarding the death of Shannon Brody,” Evan said, reaching out and turning the young man around to cuff him. “You are not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so, but whatever you say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence.”

  “You’re making a big mistake. I would never hurt Shannon. I love her.” Despite his verbal protests, O’Leary didn’t pose any physical resistance as Evan guided him toward the two Gardaí standing by.

  “Take him to the station and put him in an interview room,” Evan instructed.

  He’d come armed with a warrant he’d obtained in record time and showed it to Patrick.

  “Doctor Campbell and I will search your apartment. You are entitled to consult a solicitor and to not
ify another person that you are in custody. I’ll be at the Garda shortly to question you.”

  After the Gardaí left with the suspect, Evan glanced at Chelsea, who had remained silent, observing from aside.

  “What’s your take on him?”

  Chelsea shrugged slightly. “Text book reaction. He plays the role of the innocent very well, but we’ll know more when you question him.”

  “Yeah. Let’s see what we find here,” he said, making his way through the flat.

  It was a typical bachelor apartment, consisting of a roomy living area, a small kitchen that looked rarely used, a surprisingly tidy bathroom, and one bedroom. The bed was unmade, the air heavy with the smell of boozy sleep.

  “It looks like Paddy had a couple of pints before he got to sleep,” Chelsea remarked, breathing through her mouth.

  “We need to find his phone,” Evan said, handing her a pair of gloves. “And be on the lookout for anything that might hint murder—gloves, blood stains, anything.”

  Chelsea nodded. They found O’Leary’s phone immediately, sitting haphazardly on a nightstand. Evan checked to see if it was switched on.

  “Shit. It has a password.” He sealed the phone into an evidence bag. “I’ll deal with it at the station. Let’s see what else we find.”

  In such a small place, the search was quick and mostly unproductive. They found O’Leary’s wallet, his ID and driver’s license inside, along with an insignificant sum of money and a few other items.

  “The guy is twenty-six,” Evan remarked, analyzing Patrick’s ID. “Apparently digs older women.”

  Chelsea made a scoffing sound. “Six years isn’t that big a difference. But it’s an interesting fact to add to his profile. What else does he have in there?”

  “Nothing much. He has a photo of him and Shannon, but that hardly counts as suspicious since they were officially a couple,” Evan said absently, digging through a nightstand. “Condoms, tissues, aspirin, batteries… Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  That could be said for the rest of the apartment. They found nothing incriminating. There was some dirty laundry in the hamper, unwashed coffee cups in the kitchen sink, overflowing ashtrays in the living room, a pink lipstick in the bathroom. Evan took it into evidence, as well as the flowery scarf he found on the coat hanger next to the front door. He assumed they belonged to Shannon, but had to check. He also took the laptop and tablet he found in the living room, knowing in this day and age these objects told more about a person’s life than anyone could.

  A couple of hours later, he and Chelsea drove back to the station. He let Chelsea drive while he mentally reviewed what he knew so far about Patrick O’Leary. The man didn’t have any prior arrests, no criminal record and no history of violence. Other than a couple of parking tickets and a speeding ticket, all of which had been paid, there was nothing to separate him from any other law-abiding citizen. At least not in his recorded background. Evan hoped that questioning the man would reveal more about him and his relationship with Shannon.

  Patrick O’Leary was waiting in an interview room, head in his hands, his green pajamas wrinkled, his dark hair disheveled. His head snapped up when Evan entered the room, holding two evidence bags. One contained Shannon’s phone, the other Patrick O’Leary’s.

  “I understand you didn’t request a solicitor at this time,” Evan said, sitting on a chair, facing the young man across the square table.

  Chelsea and John were observing the interview, unseen behind the mirrored wall.

  “I don’t need a solicitor,” O’Leary said wearily. “I haven’t done anything wrong. Why have ye brought me here like I’m a criminal? No one would tell me anything. What happened to Shannon?”

  Evan watched him steadily. His ex-colleagues from the Federal Bureau used to tease him sometimes about the menacing glare that scared the shit out of suspects. They used to say the look could make anyone feel guilty, even if they were as innocent as a newborn. While agents were trained in these visual techniques, it came naturally to Evan.

  “Come on, Patrick, you mean to tell me you don’t know? You sent her all those messages to guide her just where you wanted her, in that dark alley at the Páirtí club.”

  The younger man gaped at him, hands lying in his lap. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I told you, I haven’t messaged Shannon in a few days. We prefer speaking on the phone rather than texting.”

  Evan picked up O’Leary’s phone, still in the transparent evidence bag. “Is this yours?”

  “Yes.”

  Evan switched it on, then waited until the screen lighted. He stared up at O’Leary. “What’s the password?”

  The younger man told him. Not showing his surprise at the unexpected cooperation, Evan inserted the code, and the phone unlocked. He accessed the text messages, and clicked on the Sent texts. The last message was dated two days ago and said, “See you at lunch. Love you.”

  He glanced up at his suspect, not sure what to make of this. Was O’Leary smart enough to delete the messages from his own phone, but dumb enough to leave Shannon’s phone at the crime scene? Something didn’t jibe. Evan searched the Trash folder, but didn’t find anything resembling the messages from Shannon’s phone. With a bit of time and the right equipment, he would dig deeper and see if those messages had been indeed deleted. But right now he had to take into account all possibilities.

  “Where were you last night between seven and ten?” Evan asked.

  O’Leary blinked, as though he didn’t understand the question. Finally, he seemed to find his voice. “I was at the pub with some mates, having a pint. We met there at about eight, and I got home around eleven, I think.”

  By now, Evan half-expected an alibi. Patrick O’Leary was connected to the murder somehow. What he had to find out was if it was intentional or not.

  “I’m going to need the names of your friends.”

  O’Leary gave him the information, and Evan signaled the Garda standing by, asking him to check the data and verify Patrick O’Leary’s supposed alibies. He would talk to the two men himself, but now he had more important things to deal with. After the officer left, Evan propped his chin on his fists, gazing at the young man. He looked grief-stricken, exhausted, but not guilty.

  He didn’t fidget in his chair, just looked right back into Evan’s eyes. “Will ye tell me what happened to Shannon? Please.”

  It was the quiet tone that made Evan rethink his approach. Sighing, he took Shannon’s phone and switched it on.

  “I’m afraid she was murdered last night, Patrick. The reason we suspect you is because these messages were sent to her from your phone number, luring her to the place where she was killed.”

  He turned Shannon’s phone around and let Patrick read the messages. By the time he finished, his eyes were swimming in tears, his face pale as wax.

  He stared up at Evan, voice trembling. “I didn’t send any of these messages. I have no idea how this was possible, but I never sent any messages. You saw, you checked… Jesus, I would never do anything to hurt Shannon—”

  Evan believed him, which left him with a bigger dilemma. Now he had to find out what had really happened.

  “Is this your phone number? Read it carefully,” Evan said, indicating the number used to send the texts.

  Patrick read it twice, then nodded. “It’s my number, aye, but I didn’t send those messages, I swear. You checked. You can check all you want to, I swear I didn’t do it.”

  “Could anyone else have sent them? Did anyone have access to your phone last night?”

  The young man shook his head, looking dazed. “No. I mean, my friends, I suppose, but none of them would ever… God, none of them is a murderer!” He buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with sobs. “Who did this to her? Why? How?”

  “I can’t answer those questions yet, but I can promise you I’ll do everything I can to find Shannon’s killer and make sure he pays for what he did. Patrick, would you be willing to take a truth test?”


  Patrick looked up, eyes damp and wide. “Aye, I will. Anything so you can believe me and move on to finding the bastard who did this.”

  “Okay.”

  The Garda didn’t have a polygraph or trained examiners because they rarely used that method of examination. The results were not valid in court, neither were they very reliable. However, Evan felt it was an important step in Patrick O’Leary’s exoneration.

  “I’ll set it up. In the meantime, tell me more about you and Shannon. How long had you been dating?”

  “A couple of months, almost three.”

  “How did you meet?”

  For the first time, the young man blushed. “Um… On a dating website.”

  “What site?”

  Patrick gave him the name of the website.

  Evan noted it down. “Shannon was older than you, wasn’t she?”

  “She was six years older, yes.”

  Seeing Evan’s arched eyebrows, Patrick felt compelled to elaborate. “We didn’t tell each other our age at first. Then, as we chatted and I got to know her better, I didn’t care. The age difference wasn’t big, and when I first met her in person, it stopped mattering. She was so beautiful, she took my breath away. She was smart, funny… perfect.” He wiped his eyes again, pressing his lips together in a tight struggle for control.

  “Why did you choose to use an online dating website?” Evan asked.

  Patrick shrugged. “I don’t know. It seemed an easy way to meet women. I work in a betting shop, ten to twelve hours a day. In my job one doesn’t really have the opportunity to meet women. Not good girls anyway,” he added, mouth twisting humorlessly.

  “Have you dated other women you’ve met on the dating website? Do you know if Shannon dated other men she’d met there?”

  Patrick shook his head. “Shannon was my first, and I don’t know if she’d been involved with other guys she’d met online. We didn’t talk about previous relationships. What would be the point? We just enjoyed our time together.”