Dublin is magnificent at night. I will say that.
Mickey gets back to Saint Stephen’s Green by eleven fifty. With the day’s activities running through his mind like a cheap Hollywood production, he doesn’t fall asleep until after 1 AM.
CHAPTER 33
“A blow that is not struck is not actionable at law.”
Irish Proverb
Mickey had set his alarm for eight o’clock, but he was awake much earlier than that. By six he had already counted the cracks in the pale-blue popcorn ceiling of his bedroom four times while pondering the Greek’s next move. In Philadelphia in 1991, as Chief Inspector, Odysseus the Greek used the fear of a jihadist attack on the city and a bogus assassination attempt on the president at Independence Hall to expose his real targets, the police department’s incompetence, and the mayor’s blatant use of racial politics to advance his “it’s our turn” agenda.
In 1991, it was then-Sergeant Mickey Devlin who managed to unravel Odysseus’ ultimate plot and bring him and his band of marginalized cops, “We the People,” to justice. When Odysseus “walked out of prison unchallenged,” it opened up old wounds. Since then, Mickey tracked down leads and intel from local, state, and federal sources in an effort to recapture Odysseus, the Greek. But all have proven fruitless and with little or no merit.
Mickey finally gives up and swings his legs out of bed and onto the original oak hardwood floor. A nice pleasant breeze is coming through the opened fourth-floor window. He looks at the suit ruined by the explosion at the Drum ranch laying across the back of an old green wingchair in the corner. He remembers what Katherine McBride jokingly said over the phone. “The world is better off without it.” He laughs aloud. Katherine! She’s a piece of work.
Mickey stands up gingerly. Man. I didn’t hurt this bad yesterday. Guess it’s like my Da used to say when I’d see him after one of my Catholic League football games. “Ya think ya hurt now, lad. Wait ‘til tomorrow.”
Mickey looks at his damaged Timex sitting next to the GE clock radio on the night table. Gotta get that fixed as soon as I get back home. What day is this? My days are starting to run together.
Mickey takes a hot shower, gets dressed, and walks the two now-very-familiar blocks up Grafton Street to Bewley’s for a traditional Irish breakfast. Mickey’s been to Bewley’s so often in the last three days the waitresses all recognize him and know his propensity for a window seat.
“Right this way, sir. Got a window for ya.”
Mickey places his order and spends a few minutes taking in the hustle and bustle of old Dublin City. While he waits for his breakfast to arrive, he picks up a hand-me-down Irish Times left by another early riser. First thing he notices is the date at the top of the paper, Friday, 24-5-1996.
The twenty-fourth. According to media reports, Air Force One is supposed to land at Dublin Airport later tonight.
On the front page there’s a color photo of the Irish coastline. Mickey starts to think about his flight over. With all that Mickey’s been through, it seems like a long time ago. He remembers coming in over the Irish Sea and Dublin Bay. And how peaceful the water looked from overhead and how green the land was. As his plane got closer to the airport, he could see the sailboats with their huge white sails decorated with colorful Celtic symbols and traditional Irish clovers and harps. The memory of his flight started Mickey thinking about where all those sailboats where anchored. He wished he had brought the map of Dublin the car rental agency gave him. It not only showed the streets of Dublin pointing out points of interest, but it also showed the coastline stretching a good distance south and north of Dublin Bay.
This is gonna bug me till…
Then Mickey remembers the large color map of Ireland hanging on the wall in the adjoining room. Just as he starts to get up and look at the map, his breakfast arrives.
“Here ya go, then. Would there be anything else I can get for you, sir?”
Mickey looks over the condiments lined up in the middle of the table.
“Don’t think so. Thank you.”
Mickey can barely restrain himself. He pours himself a cup of hot tea, adds his customary milk and two scoops, then it’s off to the other room and the wall map. Luckily no one is sitting at the table directly under the huge map. He moves one of the chairs aside, so he can get a closer look. He finds Dublin Bay, then scans north and south of the city. Other than a few of the larger towns, most of the map is in Gaelic. One of the obviously Irish hostesses sees Mickey looking at the map.
“Can I help you find something?”
“Oh. Hi. I’m trying to figure out the names of some of the coastal towns along Dublin Bay. Can you read Gaelic?”
“Just a little. But I’m sure I can translate some of the names for you. Which ones are you interested in?”
Mickey starts to point to one or two south of Dublin.
“How about this one?”
“Cill Inion Léinin. That’s Killiney.”
“And this one?”
“Deilginis. That’s Dalkey.”
The hostess points a little further out in the bay.
“And that right there is Dalkey Island. Anywhere else you interested in?”
Mickey points to the very tip of Dublin Bay where a small sliver of land jets out and looks to be almost completely surrounded by water. “How ‘bout this?”
“Binn Éadair. That’s Howth. That’s a very beautiful place in the warmer weather. Lots of Dubliners take their holiday up there in the summer months. Dalkey is the same way. Both are really easy to get to. Best way to visit them is on the DART. Pearse Station is just a short walk from here. The train leaves every thirty minutes and takes about thirty minutes to get up there. Not much to look at on the way, but once you arrive there’re great places to eat and lots of pretty sailboats. Howth is my favorite. Dalkey is more upmarket. Lots of mansions overlooking the sea.”
Mickey keys in on the girl’s mention of sailboats.
“Just before my plane landed at the airport, I saw a bunch of sailboats out on the water.”
“Yes! That would be Howth. Most all the planes fly right over Howth coming into Dublin Airport. A pretty sight. Looks like a postcard, right?”
“Yeah, it did. Do you know if they rent out sailboats up in Howth?”
“I’m not sure. I think most of them are privately owned. But there are two or three that take people out to see the dolphins though. They leave Howth twice a day.”
“Sounds like something I would enjoy. My wife and I like watching the dolphins off the New Jersey beach. And our daughter, Michelle, loves dolphin jewelry.”
“New Jersey? I’ve been there. Wildwood, New Jersey. Worked at a restaurant on Pacific Avenue one summer between semesters. I love the Wildwood boardwalk.”
“Me too. I have friends who live in Wildwood during the summer, then go to Florida for the winter.”
“Nice!”
“Well, thanks for your help. And maybe I’ll take the DART up to Howth.”
“Looks like a good day for it. Hear it’s gonna be twenty-two today.”
Mickey looks at the girl inquisitively.
“That’s over seventy Fahrenheit. And no rain either.”
“Perfect!”
Mickey goes back to his window seat and finishes his breakfast. All he can think about is what Deforrest told him about Collins and one of his students going up to Howth to check on a boat.
Why would Collins need to go to Howth and check on a boat?
Mickey remembers what Tex Deforrest said about Collins might be sailing while on vacation. He also remembers Collins telling his class that he intends to be at Merrion Square on Saturday to hear the president.
Which is it, Collins, or whoever you are, plan A: sailing in Howth or plan B: listening to the president in Merrion Square? Or plan C: neither. And if he is going sailing, where’s he going? Or what’s he doing? That’s way too many plans. Gotta narrow it down.
CHAPTER 34
“Every man has his own
little bad luck awaiting him.”
Irish Proverb
Mickey walks around the corner to the Westbury Hotel. He and his wife stayed there last time they were in Ireland. The Westbury is an upscale “boutique” hotel with fine handmade Irish furniture in all the rooms. Mickey finds the line of pay phones outside the lounge. Out of habit he picks 4, his lucky number. He speaks to the operator and has her connect him with Saint James Hospital’s ICU.
“ICU, Nurse Hennessy.”
“Good morning, Nurse Hennessy. Can you connect me to Superintendent O’Clooney’s room?”
“Are you on the super’s visitors’ list?”
“I think so. My name is Devlin. Mickey Devlin.”
“Oh yes. You’re the copper from America. Hold on, please.”
“Hi, Mick. You just caught me. I’ve been cleared to go home. I’m waiting for my doctor to give me post-hospital instructions and then I’ll be checking out. How’s things going with you?”
“Slowly but surely. I’m starting to second-guess myself though. Look! Did Matt ever get back to you with an address for Deforrest?”
“He did. I was hoping you’d call. Your John Deforrest has a studio loft at Trinity’s Student Accommodations Building. It’s right on campus.”
“Right! I remember seeing it on the big map at the end of Parliament Square. Got a room number?”
“721B. Top floor.”
“I’m at the Westbury. I’m gonna head over there now.”
“Oh and Mick. Hold on. I got a couple of other things for ya. The crime-scene team got three prints off the brim of the white cowboy hat. No record found. So I had them check with customs. The prints belong to Mr. John Paul Deforrest from Dallas, Texas, USA.”
“Outstanding. Gives me some leverage. But he did say he misplaced the hat. Maybe Collins is a kleptomaniac, too.”
“Or Deforrest was at Drum’s and in that Volvo.”
“That’s the angle I’m gonna go with.”
“I also heard back from my Intel Unit and customs about your president’s travel companions.”
“That was fast. Who’s all coming?”
“The whole gang. Air Force One and the VP’s Air Force 2 will be loaded to the brink with Washington movers and shakers. I’m told the president will be leaving Saturday for two still-undisclosed European locations. But here’s who’s coming for sure: The First Lady, Speaker of the House, President Pro Tempore of the Senate, Secretary of State, and whole lots of staffers.”
“Sounds like a list of anybody who is anybody. The bad thing is one shot will wipe out the government.”
“For sure. So to answer your other question about the president’s motorcade, it will be the twenty-seven vehicle configuration.”
“All we gotta do now is figure out if somebody, whoever that somebody maybe, is dropping little crumbs to be discovered to occupy law enforcement while they go about their dirty business. We’re gonna need a little luck on this, I’m afraid.”
“What is it you Americans say, ‘I’d rather be lucky than good’?”
“That’s what they say all right. Personally, I’d rather be good at what I do than depend on lady luck.”
“Somehow I knew you’d feel that way.”
“Okay! I’m off. Rest up, Kev. I’ll let you know what happens.”
“I’ll try. But I’d rather be out there when you talk to Deforrest. Could be interesting.”
“I just hope he’s not MIA, like his boss. Talk to ya, Kev.”
“Oh, Mick…”
Mickey never heard Kevin’s last exchange. He had already hung up. He walks the three blocks to the end of Grafton Street, through the main gate of Trinity College, and on to the Student Accommodations Building. He tries the ground floor door but it’s locked.
Man! A push-button combination door lock. Mickey scans the keypad with his fingertip and notices the black finish on buttons 2-4-9 is worn off. He starts by pushing them in sequence. The aluminum-framed glass door buzzes. He quickly opens it and steps inside.
So much for campus security.
Mickey walks down a narrow hallway past a wall of bulletin boards jammed with used-textbooks-for-sale offers, apartment availabilities, and a photograph of a sky-blue 1984 Vespa scooter, with low mileage, for sale for “Best Offer.” Other than a couple of what looked like broom closets and one large black trash can labeled “Property of Trinity College,” the hall was empty. Mickey makes it to the two lifts at the end of the hall, unchallenged.
At Temple U. I would have already been stopped three times by security. Or mugged. But then again the Director of Security there is a retired cop. We suspect everybody.
Mickey snickers to himself.
Guess Kevin is right. Ireland is a “wee bit more laid back.” Must be why they have that whole anti-gun thing.
Ping! The doors of one of the lifts slides open. A young man with a German accent with his arm around an equally young black girl step off so awestruck with each other neither pay any attention to Mickey. Once inside the lift, Mickey presses 8, the top button on the panel next to the door.
Hope this is an express.
Ping! The number 8 on the panel lights up and the double pocket doors open. Mickey steps off and follows the signage to 721B. He looks up and down the dark hallway, then presses his right ear against the door. He can hear a radio announcer giving the weekend weather report. He hears the phone ring twice, and when it stops he can hear a male voice say, “I got it covered. Somebody’s outside my door. Gotta go.”
Just then, three coeds come out of 721A and see Mickey standing in the hall outside their neighbor’s door.
The blondest in the group asks Mickey, “You looking for somebody, mister?”
Mickey moves away from Deforrest’s door toward the coeds.
“Oh! Hi! Yes. I’m looking for my son’s room. Gerald Thomas. He’s supposed to have a two-room apartment on this floor. All I know is he lives with two other guys from America.”
“Thomas? I know all the people on this floor. Don’t know any Thomas from America. Besides, all the rooms up here are studio lofts. Maybe…”
Suddenly the door of 721B swings open and John Tex Deforrest, toting a red backpack, dashes down the hall to the stairwell. The three coeds scramble back into their room and lock the door behind them. Mickey starts after Deforrest. As he passes 721B, he takes a quick look inside. Empty! Then he’s in hot pursuit down the hall after Deforrest.
When Mickey gets to the stairs he looks over the center rail and can see Deforrest two floors below him. Taking two steps at a time, by the third floor Mickey had gained a little on Deforrest. He secures his Glock against his hip and starts skipping the bottom four steps of each of the next two landings. Mickey looks over the railing and sees Deforrest, still wearing his red bag, jump the last few steps on the ground floor and make the left turn up the hall toward the front door.
Man! This guy’s a rabbit.
Mickey hits the ground floor on the run and turns for the door. A few yards from the front door Mickey hears a thump and a loud groan outside. Mickey pushes open the door and is met by two uniformed Garda cuffing a screaming John Deforrest, lying face down on the concrete walkway.
“What are you doing? I’m an American citizen. I have rights.”
Mickey approaches the trio. He immediately recognizes the Garda as the two who let him park on Tara Street the other day. The tallest Garda addresses Mickey.
“Hello again, Captain Devlin.” Both Garda salute. “Superintendent O’Clooney called our supervisor who told us to keep an eye out for you. He said you were heading to Trinity to talk to a John Deforrest.”
The other Garda adds, “We were stationed across the street in front of the Bank of Ireland. We saw you enter Trinity. We yelled to you, but with all the traffic you didn’t hear us. So we followed you to this building. Not having the combination for the door we decided to wait for you out here.
“Next thing we know, this guy”—the Garda points to the ground—�
�came running out the door and almost knocked my partner over. Jimmy here played professional rugby so that wasn’t going to happen. When we asked him his name, he took off running again. So my partner took him down. Is this your Mr. Deforrest, sir?”
Mickey still trying to catch his breath confirms that the man cuffed behind his back on the ground is indeed John Deforrest.
“God bless the superintendent. And you two fine gentlemen too.”
“Glad we could help, Captain.”
Still lying face down on the ground, Deforrest strains to turn his head and look at Mickey.
“Captain Devlin? You said your name was Ernie Evans. You said you were a friend of…”
Deforrest stops short of naming names.
“Right! And you said you never heard of Patrick Drum.”
“I still want a lawyer. I know my rights.”
Mickey looks down at Deforrest and asks the Garda, “Where’s his red backpack? He had a small red backpack when he bolted from his room on the top floor.”
The Garda look at each other and agree the man had no backpack when they stopped him.
The Garda pick up Deforrest by his arms. Mickey looks him in the eyes and asks, “Where’s the Greek? And what’s so important about Howth and boats?”
Deforrest has no response.
Mickey tells the Garda. “He’s all yours.”
“Okay then. Come along. We’re gonna have Mister Deforrest driven to the O’Connell Station. So…”
“I know exactly where the O’Connell Station is. I’ll meet you up there shortly. First, I want to find Deforrest’s backpack. He must have ditched it somewhere on the ground floor.”
“All right then, Mister Deforrest. We want no trouble from you. Ya hear?”
“I want a lawyer.”
“All in good time, Deforrest. All in good time.”
Mickey’s two new favorite Garda beat cops walk Deforrest across campus and back through the main gate. They raise a few eyebrows escorting the handcuffed young man in his green Trinity College T-shirt, who keeps yelling “police brutality.”
Mickey punches 2-4-9 on the aluminum-housed combination lock on the door and lets himself back into the Student Accommodations Building.
Dublin Odyssey Page 22