“You want some coffee?” Gemma asked. “Or something stronger?” she added, waving a hand toward the assortment of bottles on the counter. “My brother left behind quite a collection.”
“Coffee’s fine.”
“My brother was quite the whiskey drinker,” she said, handing him a mug of cinnamon-scented coffee. “He took the whole Irish heritage thing to heart. Did he drink with you when you came over?”
“Yeah, he did.”
She took a seat across from him and smiled sadly. “Silly question—of course he did. He’d drink with anyone who would drink with him.” She flushed, frowning. “I didn’t mean that the way it came out.”
“It’s okay—I know what you mean. I have some personal experience with heavy drinkers.”
“You do?” She sounded relieved.
Misery loves company, he thought.
“Yeah. I’m Scottish. Or, at least, my family is.”
“I see. Say no more,” she said in an exaggerated Cockney accent.
“Nudge, nudge, wink, wink,” he murmured, taking a sip of coffee. It was good—strong and rich, though he could have done without the cinnamon.
“You a Monty Python fan too?” she said.
“Isn’t everyone?”
“Brian and I used to watch them when we were kids. We memorized all their sketches. Used to drive our parents crazy on car trips—we’d run their routines over and over, until they ordered us to stop.”
The corners of her mouth trembled and wavered, but she took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I promised myself I wasn’t going to go to pieces until after the funeral,” she said firmly.
He couldn’t help admiring that—his family put such stock in stoicism. Old habits die hard, he thought, reflecting on his own tendency to bottle up his grief and rage.
“Anyway, let me tell you why I wanted to see you,” she said.
“Please.”
She leaned forward, her voice low, as though someone might overhear her.
“I don’t believe my brother killed himself. I think he was murdered.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
It took a moment for her words to sink in. It was a sentence he had heard uttered dozens of times in movies and on television but never in real life—until now. It occurred to him that she might be testing him, or attempting to lighten the mood with dark humor.
But one look at her face, and he knew she wasn’t kidding.
“What makes you say that?” he asked.
“Brian was a Catholic. He hated God sometimes, and he was depressed, but he believed it was a mortal sin to take your own life. And as a cop, he’d seen what suicides did to families. He never would have done that to me.”
Looking into her green eyes with their tawny lashes, he could believe that. How could a man desert a woman like her, even if she was only his sister?
“Look, Ms. O’Reilly—”
“It’s Mrs. Hancock, actually, but call me Gemma.”
His stomach did a little flip-flop of disappointment at hearing her married name.
“Uh—Gemma, what evidence do you have that he didn’t die by his own hand?”
She extracted an eight-by-ten glossy from a manila envelope and slid it across the table. It was a photograph of her brother’s body lying on the living room floor. His head had nearly been blown away, and a semiautomatic lay at his side. It was a Glock 26, a standard-issue off-duty gun for a member of the NYPD. He looked at her to see if her face registered grief or disgust, but all he saw was determination. Her square chin was set, her mouth firm. No trembling of those perfect lips now—she looked like she wanted to slug someone.
“How did you get this?”
“I’m a journalist—and a cop’s sister. I have more friends at the precinct than I do in my book club.”
My book club. He knew she was married, but he couldn’t resist sizing her up as a potential mate. There was just something about her.
“Okay,” he said. “What is it about this picture—”
“Just look at it.”
“But I’m not a detective. Why not go to one of his friends on the force?”
She leaned her long arms on the table, pressing her breasts together. He tried not to look at the shape they made under the black sweater.
“Look at the picture.”
He did. Brian O’Reilly lay on his back, what was left of his head surrounded by a pool of dark blood. The gun lay next to the body, on the right side. The shell casing was a few feet away.
“Where was the point of entry?” he asked.
“His right temple.”
“That’s a little odd. Most people would—”
“Yeah—most people would put the gun in their mouth. But not always.”
“Then I don’t see the—”
“My brother was left-handed,” she said. “Whoever killed him didn’t know that.”
“This is how you found him?”
“I didn’t touch anything, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Did you tell the investigating officers?”
She looked away. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t know who I can trust.”
“What do you mean?”
She got up and poured them both more coffee, the green pants clinging to her hips as she moved. He leaned back to admire the view. She sank back down into the chair and slid his mug to him.
“What did my brother tell you?”
“Not much. We did a lot of drinking.”
“That was Brian, especially in the last few years. He always liked his booze, but after Des’s death . . . he kind of fell apart.”
“Who was Des?”
“His partner for twenty years. They worked hundreds of cases together. He didn’t mention Des Maguire?”
“Des? Nope.”
“Short for Desmond.”
“How did he die?”
“His house burned down with him in it.”
“Arson?”
“They never found any evidence of it. But I always thought there was something fishy about it. Brian wouldn’t talk about it, but I think he did too.”
“Jesus. Who—?”
“Des was dirty, taking bribes and drug money—you name it, Desmond Maguire did it.”
“And Brian knew?”
“He always suspected. And then when Des was killed, there wasn’t much doubt.”
“So the crime was never solved?”
She shook her head. “They didn’t try very hard.”
“Why not?”
“Either because Des was a dirty cop and they didn’t much care—or because someone on the force was responsible for his death. Brian knew that, and it’s one of the things that kept him on the bottle.”
“So you think all of this hindered the investigation into my sister’s disappearance?”
“It didn’t help.”
“Why are you telling me all this?”
“Because I want your help in solving my brother’s death.”
“I don’t know—”
“My mother’s a good Catholic. If she hears Brian committed suicide, she’ll—”
“Where is your mom?”
“Ireland. She moved back years ago, during the economic boom there, and now she’s too old to do much traveling.”
“Does she know yet?”
Gemma looked down at her nails, which showed evidence of recent chewing. “I haven’t called her yet. Isn’t that terrible? I just can’t tell her Brian killed himself, when I know he didn’t.”
“How are you going to prove it?”
“I’m an investigative journalist. It’s what I do. And it might bring us closer to finding out what happened to your sister.”
Lee looked out the window at the soft light filtering through the white curtains. These waters were deeper than he’d imagined. He looked at the woman across from him with the hazel eyes and green stretch pants.
“Okay,” he said. “I’ll help you.�
��
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Edmund had realized early in life that no one really cared about him. Even as a child, he’d known this was wrong—everyone should have someone who loved them, and yet he didn’t. He was alone and abandoned, drifting in the soup of humanity, uncared for and uncaring. He knew his father blamed him for his mother’s desertion. Even worse was the fact that his mother had found it so easy to leave. Edmund’s loneliness was an abyss waiting to swallow him. He had two choices: to feel sad or very, very angry. But the sadness was unbearable, with its groaning heaviness. Anger was easier.
He discovered that if he could make another creature suffer, to feel something of his own gnawing emptiness, he didn’t feel so helpless. At first it was neighborhood cats and dogs—whatever he could get his hands on—but after a while that wasn’t enough. One day while wandering down the country lane they lived on, Edmund found a neighbor’s child playing out in front of their cottage. He had an idea. He would kidnap the boy, take him home and keep him in the toolshed, where his father kept him for punishment. He would become like his father!
For days he watched the boy and his family, memorizing their routine, following their movements. He learned that the family liked to go to the local pub on Saturdays and church every Sunday. The wife took her aerobics class on Monday and Wednesday afternoons, and her feckless younger sister came to look after the child. The husband’s drive from work was about twenty minutes, so the sister would be alone with the boy for almost two hours.
He decided that that was when he would do it. The sister lived in the next town and was less likely to recognize him—and since she was younger and less experienced, she would be more prone to panic and waste time when she saw that the boy was missing. It was just a question of how and when—of being ready when the time was right.
That time came on a windy Monday afternoon in late March. The trees were just beginning to bud, and the light was softening—spring was in the air. He was only ten, but he was big and strong for his age, and the neighbor’s child, whose name was Sam, was only six. Sam was in front of the house, riding his tricycle up and down the sloping driveway leading to the carport. It wasn’t much of a hill, but Sam would ride to the top and coast down to the garage, over and over.
Edmund crept out of his house and hid behind an azalea bush. The sister was inside; he could see through the picture window in the kitchen that she was at the stove. The phone inside the house rang, and he watched her pick up the receiver. He waited until she turned her back; then he darted across the street toward Sam, who had just finished riding up the small hill.
The sudden rush of movement must have startled him, because Sam let out a yelp before Edmund could get his hands on the boy. The sound alerted the sister, who was out of the house in seconds, the door banging behind her.
“What is it, Sam?” she yelled, her face tight. “Is that boy bothering you?”
Sam didn’t answer; fat tears spurted from his eyes, and his lower lip trembled. Edmund turned away in disgust; the boy was nothing but a crybaby.
“Didn’t your parents teach you not to bully children half your age?” the sister hissed, but Edmund ignored her. He walked away without answering, disappointed with himself for crafting such a clumsy plan.
He vowed that the next time he would be more careful. He would be prepared.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Gemma O’Reilly Hancock drained the last of her coffee and set the mug on the table.
“I’m starving. Do you mind if we get something to eat?”
“Sure.”
“Irish bar food okay? I’m buying.”
“You don’t have to—”
“It’s the least I can do, after you came all the way up here to see me. And if you don’t mind my saying so, you look like you could use some stodgy Irish food.”
“Okay, thanks.” She was a handful, this one—willful and determined, and now she wanted to buy him lunch. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, but so far he liked her.
Hanahan’s was a local joint with a steam table, like the Hell’s Kitchen places in the old days. Wizened Irishmen with whiskey beards and shoe-leather breath sat hunched over pints of Killian’s Red, their fingers as gnarled as a leprechaun’s walking stick. Presiding over the scene was a bartender straight out of Butch Cassidy —muttonchop whiskers, crisply starched shirt with red and white stripes. He looked like a baritone from a barbershop quartet. Lee half expected him to break out into a chorus of “Goodnight, Irene.” He nodded and smiled when he saw Gemma.
“You’re a regular here?” said Lee.
“My brother is—was,” she replied. “I can’t remember the number of times I trudged over here to find him and take him home.” She looked at the steam table and rubbed her hands. “I hope you don’t think it’s insensitive of me to have an appetite when I just lost my brother.”
“Why would I think that?” he said as they settled into a red leatherette booth with cracked upholstery.
“Some people would prefer me to be pining away, refusing all food and drink, like a Gothic heroine in mourning.”
“Well, I wouldn’t be one of those people.”
“But I never lose my appetite—almost never, anyway.”
“Yeah?” He wanted to ask what did make her lose it.
“It’s embarrassing, but I am who I am. Come on—the corned beef here is really good.”
She was right. They piled it onto thick dinner rolls smeared with mustard and ate like stevedores. Her appetite was contagious—he joined her in a second helping, washed down with pints of Killian’s Red.
“That’s better,” she said, wiping a spot of mustard from her sweater, yellow on black.
“So what do you know about my sister’s case?”
“Mostly what I heard from my brother. And sometimes at the station I overheard things. At one point I actually started keeping notes.”
“Why were you so interested?”
“Something just didn’t smell right. I had a weird feeling about it—and then I kept overhearing things.”
“What kind of things?”
“Arguments, whispered comments—that kind of thing. Sometimes when Brian was on the phone and I’d come into the room, he’d hang up or pretend to be ordering Chinese food.”
“How could you tell?”
She smiled. “I’m a journalist. I have built-in bullshit radar. I know when someone is trying to hide something.”
“That must be hard on your husband.”
She blushed and looked away. “We, uh—we’re not together right now.”
“Join the club.”
“You too? Separated or divorced?”
“I’m not married. Let’s just say that we’ve hit some rocks.”
“You’ll work it out.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
She looked at him with those Emerald Isle eyes of hers, and that was when he knew that at some point they were going to end up in bed together.
He ran his index finger idly over the condensation on the beat-up wooden table and asked the question both of them had been avoiding.
“Do you think your brother’s death is somehow related to my sister’s disappearance?”
Gemma glanced around the bar, but the only customers within hearing distance were a couple of middle-aged barflies flirting over a game of darts. The woman giggled every time she made a throw, and the man eyed her spandex-clad rear end hungrily as she wobbled up to the board to retrieve her darts.
“It does seem like a strange coincidence if they’re not connected, doesn’t it?” Gemma said.
“But what are we talking about here? Conspiracy theories?”
“I only know that there was something fishy about the investigation of your sister’s disappearance, and there’s definitely something odd about my brother’s death.”
“Was there a suicide note?”
“Yes—but it was typed. Who types a suicide note? And it doesn’t even sound like
him, for Christ’s sake.”
“Can you get a copy of it?”
“Sure—why?”
“I’m working with a forensic linguist on a case. If you can get me a copy of the note along with a sample of your brother’s writing, I can show them both to her.”
“You’d do that for me?”
That and a lot more, he thought, but he just nodded.
“Sure.”
“The funeral is tomorrow night, if you want to come, at St. Barnabas Church. It’s on East 241st Street.”
“I’ll be there. Was that your brother’s church?”
“When he was still attending church. Our parents went there. We’re actually related to the first pastor, Reverend Michael Reilly. His family dropped the O when they came over because they thought it sounded less Irish.”
“But your family kept it.”
She gave a wry smile. “We’ve always been stubborn. It made my father angry that people could be made to feel ashamed of their heritage.”
“Good for him. Hey,” he said, “doesn’t the Catholic Church deny funerals to people who commit suicide?”
“Not anymore. Those old buzzards in the Vatican have actually loosened up some of their restrictions.”
“Is it too personal to ask if you’re—”
“A believer? No, I’m not, and no, it’s not too personal,” she added with a smile.
“Then why—?”
“I’m doing it out of respect for my parents and the people in the old neighborhood—most of them still believe.” She took a last swallow of beer and leaned back against the wooden booth. He tried not to gaze at her breasts, but the sweater made it a challenge. “You’re working the Alleyway Strangler, aren’t you?”
“How did you—”
“Brian mentioned it before he . . .” She looked down, tightening her grip on her empty beer mug.
“I’m part of the team, yes.”
She shook her head. “That’s a whole other kind of weird. Do you think your sister was taken by that kind of . . . person?”
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