Killer Score (The Irish Garda Files Book 2)

by Melinda Colt

  Blowing out a breath, Evan tried to think of a plan to discover the identity of the men. He only had some photos that might or might not be genuine, and some names that might or might not be bogus.

  “Frigging piece of cake.”

  He decided to get a sandwich or something to serve as fuel through the next hours when a folder landed on his desk. Glancing up, he saw Nóirín. The candy bar she was munching made his mouth water.

  “Tell me you have some ground-breaking lead in there,” Evan pleaded. “Siobhan said she found faux leather fibers on Shannon’s throat. Not sure what that means, but have you any clue, any brand?”

  Nóirín made a scoffing sound. “It’s a fancy way to say fake leather. I can only tell you the killer wore gloves, but the fibers are so common I can’t give you a brand. It’s a cheap, common material you can buy in any low-priced shop, probably all over the world. Other than that, I’ve got nothing. Sorry, Yank.”

  Evan plowed his fingers through his hair. Working on the computer for so long, combined with the cold, cloudy weather, had placed him in a trance-like state.

  “Don’t apologize, you can’t create evidence that’s not there.” He pushed his chair away, stood, and stretched his numb muscles, then looked at Nóirín.

  “Where can I get one of those?” He nodded at her candy bar. “I need a break and a meal.”

  “I suggest ye get a real meal, a hot one. There’s a pub a couple of blocks from here. I can give you the address if you want. They make a savage spicy chicken soup. Amazing, very good,” she translated, laughing at his weary expression.

  “Oh. I’m behind with my study of Irish slang.” He smiled, grabbing his jacket. “Give me the name of the place. Savage soup sounds too good to resist.”

  It didn’t take him long to find the pub. It was located on one of the main streets, and because it was nearly four, he quickly found a parking spot. People had had lunch hours ago, and it was way too early for dinner.

  The pub was small and cozy, sporting less than a dozen wooden tables covered by green tablecloths, all crammed into the traditional Irish setting. The light from shamrock-shaped lamps was dim, the pints were large, and the music cheerful, as though to defy the moody weather. Evan thanked Providence that he found a free table, flashing a genuinely grateful smile to the young redheaded waitress waiting to take his order. He asked for the soup Nóirín had praised, and since he was very hungry he also ordered bacon and potatoes, with butter and garlic bread.

  While he waited for the food, he looked around at the faces surrounding him. Not for the first time since arriving in Ireland, he felt a twinge of loneliness. He wasn't a social guy, had never had many friends back in the States, but at least he knew whom to call if he was in the mood to have a beer with a buddy. Here, he didn’t know anyone other than his colleagues at the Garda.

  His thoughts flew to Chelsea, and he realized she was the person with whom he’d had the longest conversation since arriving here. He liked her. She was scary smart, not to mention hot as hell. He had to admit her mind both intimidated and fascinated him. He wondered if he should invite her out for a drink one of these days, but waved away the thought. He didn’t really know her, and it wasn’t a good idea the get involved with someone at work. Hell, he wasn’t sure it was a good idea to get involved with any woman right now. It was painful to accept he was having troubles trusting his own judgment again when it came to women. He had his hands full with this case anyway.

  The soup was indeed savage, so spicy it made him sweat, and the delicious golden crispy potatoes were served next to crusty bacon covered in paprika. The aroma of garlic and spices almost made him dizzy. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had such an amazing meal.

  As he finished his dinner, he decided to make a detour since he was going to put in some overtime anyway. He drove to a nearby shopping center. After some hustle and bustle he bought a black, clean cut, rainproof jacket, with a hood and thick lining. While he was there he also bought a couple of sweaters, since his California wardrobe didn't include many of those. To make it a day, he did a quick run into the supermarket to stock up on groceries and cat food. Even though it felt foolish, he also bought something that looked like a mutant textile mouse for Kieran. The line between domestic and ridiculous could be so thin.

  By the time he returned to work, most of his colleagues where checking out. But Evan wanted to put in a couple more hours. He had no idea if his hunch regarding Black Dawn was worth pursuing, but eventually he was going to follow his gut and do it. It was a lead worth following; however, his immediate priority was to track down the men from the dating website. He might have a better chance with one of them. Reaching for the can of cola he’d picked up on the way, he got to work.

  Chapter Seven

  Chelsea sat quietly, listening to her last patient of the evening and trying to ignore the ache clawing at her lower back. Since it was Friday, she’d had a full day at her practice. Although she was curious to know if there had been a breakthrough in Shannon Brody’s case, she hadn’t had a chance to call either Evan or John to ask. When she was in her office, all of her focus was on her patients.

  Jack Dunhill was a difficult man, the kind of guy who was handsome and knew it, so he was puzzled if a woman didn’t fall immediately into his lap when he snapped his fingers. This attitude had resulted in two failed marriages for the forty-year-old-man who was currently sitting on the sofa in Chelsea’s office. This was his second session with a psychologist, and he’d made it clear from the beginning he was here only because his current girlfriend had “made him” come.

  Chelsea was not supposed to express her opinions, but she made a mental note about his childish attitude. If her professionalism hadn’t forbidden any judgment, this man would have gotten on her nerves. But her job was to make the man see his own flaws and find a way to fix them.

  “I just don’t get it. Each woman I’ve had a relationship with complained about different things. Surely that means there was something wrong with them, not me. Women can’t agree on anything,” Jack was saying, his green eyes wandering over the walls, not stopping for a moment on the soothing impressionist paintings of landscapes.

  Although in her home Chelsea preferred the bold colors and styles of modern painters like Leonid Afremov, for her office she’d chosen replicas of Monet and Cézanne, which sent subliminal feelings of peace and balance. She needed the fix of calmness to deal with this man, who had a misogynist side he was blatantly unaware of. That would explain some of the relationship issues he had with women, but Chelsea was not going to approach the subject yet. Digging into a person’s psyche, earning their trust was a very delicate thing to do. In order to help her patients, these two things were mandatory for her.

  “What did your first wife complain about, Jack?” she asked, her voice soft and perfectly modulated to inspire confidence. “Tell me about her. How did you meet, how was your marriage? Just talk about whatever you feel comfortable.”

  “Tracy was a mistake,” he said on a long breath, focusing his gaze on Chelsea. “We were both very young, twenty or so. I suppose we got married just to spite our parents since neither agreed with our relationship. We were both immature, so living together was a challenge neither of us was ready for. The marriage lasted for less than a year.”

  Chelsea listened to him, knowing that talking and having someone listening was a great step in forming this doctor-patient relationship. As she’d suspected, Jack Dunhill was a self-centered man, coming from a wealthy family, a spoiled rich kid who’d grown up believing he was entitled to anything he wanted. When he’d met a girl who seemed off limits, he’d immediately wanted to have her, the more so since he was told he couldn’t.

  “I can’t say we parted on amicable terms,” Jack went on. “But we are not enemies either. Tracy said I was immature, selfish, and unable to make a commitment, which I suppose was true. Back then,” he added, pointing his gaze toward Chelsea.

  The eye contact lasted for s
everal moments. There was a glint of mischief in his eyes that made Chelsea uncomfortable. Putting aside false modesty, she was used to men's looks and knew she was physically attractive, although she did nothing to enhance that feature during business hours. There had been times when she’d considered beauty a curse rather than a blessing.

  Over the years, several of her male patients had developed crushes on her, and she’d handled those situations in a professional manner. Sometimes the men had learned to accept the professional distance between doctor and the patient. At other times she had referred them to another colleague, preferably male if she evaluated the situation and decided it was in the patient’s best interest.

  She didn't know exactly why Jack Dunhill’s gaze made her uneasy, because it wasn't suggestive or seductive. It was very direct, assessing, as though he was seeing her as a woman instead of a doctor he hadn’t wanted to see in the first place. The moment passed so quickly Chelsea wondered later if she had imagined it.

  Then Jack resumed his story, his eyes wandering back toward the ceiling. “For a while after, I dated a lot of women, thinking it was the best way to understand your species and become more mature,” he said with a crooked smile, using his fingers to form quotation marks around the last word. “It worked for a while, until I was about thirty-five. Suddenly I realized all my friends were married and had settled down. I had no one to go clubbing or drink a bloody pint with. So I told myself ‘What the hell, maybe I should give it another lash’. You know, find someone more compatible. This time I chose a woman my age, mature, classy, educated, life savvy. Marian was the opposite of Tracy, a career woman who had her own advertising agency, was wild about being independent, a successful businesswoman. I felt she was the feminine version of myself. As soon as we got married though, she started nagging me to have children.”

  “You didn’t want children?” Chelsea asked, after he fell into introspective silence.

  He shrugged in a defensive gesture. “Not really. I don't know why, but the thought of having a child freaked me out. It still does. All my friends’ stories about diapers, crying, lactation, hormones, and dealing with the wife’s mood swings were a major turn off. Imagining my sexy slender wife as nothing more than a milk factory and having zero sex life was horrifying. I didn’t tell her this, but she must have sensed it, because after I kept ignoring her hints about her biological clock for a couple of years, she asked me for a divorce. So here I am now.”

  He stood restlessly and began to pace. As he moved to the window and drew aside the cream-colored drapes, Chelsea noticed it was dark outside. Jack must have noticed it too, because he glanced at his watch at the same time Chelsea looked at the wall clock. His time was up.

  He turned to her, charming smile back. “Well, Doc, I guess I’ve bored you enough with my dramatic life story for now. Should we leave enough for next time?”

  Chelsea returned his smile, standing up as well.

  “You haven't bored me in the least, Mr. Dunhill.

  “Call me Jack.”

  “Alright, Jack. I chose this profession because I’m interested in people, in their stories, in their individuality. I’m here to listen and help. I’m glad your girlfriend convinced you to make an appointment with me. Maybe next time we will delve more into that subject.”

  Jack approached her, his hand outstretched. “I’m glad I came, too. This is still a new experience for me, and I can’t say I hate it so far.”

  His handshake was brief enough, but again Chelsea had the feeling his touch lingered somehow on her skin. She couldn’t pinpoint what exactly it was about Jack Dunhill that made her feel he was flirting with her, but she was going to do her best to keep him at a professional distance.

  “I’ll see you next Friday. Enjoy your weekend,” she said.

  After he left, she turned off her computer, stuffed her things into her bag, and pulled on her coat. She had allowed her receptionist to leave earlier, so she checked the windows herself, checked the alarm system, switched off the lights, and locked the door behind her.

  She shivered in the cold night air. Getting into her car, she started the engine and drove away, eager to get home. It had been a long week. She contemplated buying something to eat or ordering in, then decided against it. She liked cooking. It relaxed her almost as much as painting. The thought of a hot bowl of chicken soup made her mouth water. It was a perfect night for cooking. Maybe she would bake some cookies, too.

  As soon as she arrived home, she turned up the thermostat. After she washed her hands in hot water, she kept them over the radiator for a few minutes. Her father used to say she had dinosaur blood because she was always cold. A wave of nostalgia washed over her as she realized how much she missed him. After her mother’s death, her father had sold his shares to his other partners at the law firm, and the apartment they’d lived in. Only later did Chelsea realize how hard he’d taken his wife’s suicide, and how much he blamed himself for it, for not taking her condition seriously, for being too busy chasing money over spending more time with his family. He’d bought a small house in Dalkey, a village in south County Dublin. Chelsea had to go to a new school there, but she didn’t mind that. Secretly, she’d dreaded going back to her school, facing the curious glances and whispers about the girl whose mother had killed herself. Life in the country was soothing, a good start toward her and her father’s healing. They had a large yard covered in green grass. She loved to lie in it and bask in the sunlight during summer, in the rare moments the sun blessed them with its warmth. The Irish always said they learned to appreciate the sun more because they didn’t see enough of it.

  On warm evenings, she and her father would sit on the porch, talking, reading, or just staring at the horizon. Sometimes her father would play the guitar, a skill he’d learned in his youth, a lifetime ago, when he’d been young and carefree, and dreamed of becoming a rock star like one of The Beatles. He did his best to take care of his teenage daughter, which hadn’t been an easy job.

  Chelsea hadn’t been a demanding child. She’d learned to do house chores and had become a proficient cook. Quiet and attentive, she loved to read, and by the time she was eighteen she’d almost devoured the two floor-to-ceiling bookshelves her father had gathered over the years. He was proud of his girl, although he hadn’t always known how to show it.

  Chelsea blinked back a tear. It had been months since she’d visited her dad, who still lived in Dalkey. It upset her terribly that he wouldn’t accept any help from her. She’d offered to hire a cleaning lady, a nurse, someone for him to talk to. She even urged him to remarry, knowing how unhealthy it was for a person to be alone all the time, but he wouldn’t hear of it. At seventy, he was still in good health, but far from being the strong, vital man from her childhood memories. She only wished he were happy, and knew he wasn’t. It was as if he wouldn’t let himself be happy with another woman again. Chelsea thought he was still punishing himself for her mother’s death, and always would, no matter what she said or did to convince him otherwise.

  Sighing, she drew away from the radiator and went to the bedroom to change into her comfortable pink pajamas, the ones with the thick fluffy lining that kept her warm. An ironic smile tugged at her lips. Who was she to criticize her father for remaining single, when it had been years since she’d had a warm body in bed next to her? It was her own choice, or maybe a consequence of being too demanding, but she preferred staying single until she found a man who gave as good as he got.

  Back in the kitchen, she took a chicken breast out of the freezer and set it in a pot of hot water. While it defrosted, she took out vegetables and started peeling, then chopping. Less than half an hour later, she set the soup on the stove to boil. She sat on one of the four chairs surrounding the square oak table. Subconsciously, she’d furnished this house as a family home, but so far there was no sign that her children would ever crawl on the spotless red tiles, or accidentally break any of the earthy-green appliances. She couldn’t envision a husband who would co
ok breakfast for them on a winter weekend, or share a steamy cup of coffee with her while they discussed their future.

  Although most days she busied herself with work, exercise, and creative activities, in the back of her mind there was a constant struggle not to give into depression. She was only human, even if her patients sometimes looked at her as if she had never known a day of sadness and pain. Her diary helped a lot, it was a place where she could release the negative emotions, and at the same time store them for reference, for encouragement, for the purpose of studying her psychological evolution over the years.

  She went into the bedroom to get her laptop and set it on the kitchen table. After stirring the boiling soup, she sat cross-legged on a chair and opened her e-diary. The scent of vegetables and spices tickled her nostrils. The steam rising from the pot filled the air, making Chelsea feel warm and cozy. She was lucky to have this beautiful home, even though there was no one to share it with. Not yet anyway. But if life had taught her anything, it was that one never knew what tomorrow would bring. She chose to take that in an optimistic way.

  She added a new entry to the diary, then wrote the date and started typing.

  Today was my second session with a new patient, Jack Dunhill. It’s quite a typical case of handsome man with huge ego gets dumped repeatedly by women and doesn’t know why. It’s unusual for this type of man to seek counseling, but Mr. Dunhill said his girlfriend urged him to make an appointment with me. I hope I can help him, although a couple of sessions have shed only superficial light upon his life and personality. I hope he will continue the therapy and that we’ll make progress together. On the other hand, there’s something about him that made me uneasy. He hasn’t come on to me, not in any direct way, but he gives off a strange vibe. Flirty is too flimsy a word to describe it.

  She paused, fingers over the keyboard, measuring her words. In the end, she shook her head and smiled to herself.