Black Irish

by Stephan Talty

  The Reverend, she believed, had known about these whispered conversations. But he never asked about them, never spoke about her mother at all. She was sure he’d asked around, too, and his inquiries rippled far further than her own. If the Reverend didn’t know you, you weren’t worth knowing. But he’d never come to her pulling along a newly minted cousin, saying, “This is someone you have to meet.” He’d done everything but that.

  Now she was back to ask about Gerald Decatur.

  She pulled the Crown Vic up to the converted hotel on Hertel, parked in front, and climbed the cement stairs covered with chipped green paint. The door was locked. The Reverend was probably on one of his many errands in the neighborhood, but he was never gone for long. She sat on the stoop to wait.

  A little black girl with braided hair flying behind her came riding along on a bike, even though it was about two degrees above zero. She stopped to stare at Abbie.

  “Hi there,” Abbie said.

  “Hello,” the girl said in a somber voice.

  “Do you happen to know when the Reverend will be back?”

  The girl tilted her head. “You talk funny.”

  “Yeah, I get that a lot. What about the Reverend?”

  “He’s at the corner store gettin’ some milk, but the mister there wanted to talk to him ’bout some problem with the power company.”

  “Ah. Did he buy you that bike?”

  “Yup.”

  They spoke for a few more moments, and Abbie learned that the girl’s name was Rashida Jackson and she was eight and smart as a thin whip. After Abbie had given her a card with her name on it—proof that she was a real live policewoman—Rashida bicycled off furiously to show it to her friends. Abbie watched her go, then turned to see the Reverend striding up the street, a plastic shopping bags in each hand. She rose.

  His face, set hard as he approached, broke into a smile.

  “Absalom Kearney, I’ll be damned.”

  He swept in for a hug, smelling of Old Spice. He stood back to look at her up and down, shaking his head.

  “Grew up fine. I knew it, I always said so.”

  “You always said I’d be knock-kneed and looking for a boyfriend till I was forty.”

  “You got a boyfriend?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then.”

  He unlocked the door and led her to the right to his office, which fronted his small and neat apartment. As she walked in, the smell of a fastidious bachelor—shoe polish, tobacco, and aftershave—brought her back twenty years.

  “What about you, Reverend? No girlfriend, I see.”

  “I’m married to the Lord’s work, you know that,” he said. His smile grew until his white teeth parted to allow a peal of explosive laughter to fill the apartment. The Reverend looked good, Abbie decided. And she was relieved.

  “Sit down, sit down.”

  They sat and he slapped both hands against his muscular legs.

  “It’s good to see you, Absalom.”

  “It’s good to see you, too. I was afraid the city had worn you down.”

  He shrugged. “God never gives a man burdens he can’t carry,” he said. “But you’ve probably learned that yourself.”

  “I’m still learning it, I guess.”

  He smiled but there was concern in his eyes, a fatherly worry.

  “You still searching, Absalom?”

  “I think I’ll always be searching, Reverend. For one thing or another.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I’m gainfully employed. I’m damned good at what I do. I’m kind to animals and small children. And I think you’re gonna have to settle for that, Reverend.”

  He laughed. “No one can defeat a woman who is strong in faith, whatever faith that may be. Now, what did you come here to talk about?”

  “Gerald Decatur.”

  “Ah.”

  He turned away sharply, as if she’d slapped him.

  “We lost him.”

  “I know. What can you tell me about him—towards the end, I mean.”

  “They say he was back dealing drugs.” The ever-present “they,” meaning the cops, the Buffalo News, the justice system.

  “You don’t buy it?”

  The Reverend swung his muscled face back and forth slowly, his eyes never leaving her face.

  “No, I don’t buy it. He hadn’t gone near the drug boys since he got out of prison. I’m telling you this from my heart. Six months before he was murdered, he was right here in this office and I had him going out to Dow Chemical up off the highway, for a job. He got that job and he was excited about it. Had a little apartment over on Genesee and a young girl he was getting serious about.”

  The Reverend rubbed his knuckles in his other hand, massaging them as if he were wringing out a cloth.

  “It perturbs me. After he died, I called out to Dow and spoke to his supervisor. Gerald hadn’t missed a single day in weeks. The man had nothing but good things to say about him. He even asked me if I had another like him.”

  Abbie frowned.

  “That was a callous thing to say, considering.”

  “I agree with you on that. Like I was sending them damn mules or something.”

  “What’s the girlfriend’s name?”

  “Monica. Monica Merriweather. Funny name. She’s gone south now, like everybody else. Couldn’t even go back to his apartment to clean out his things. I had to do that for her. I packed up what she wanted and sent it down to her in Texas, UPS. Got the address if you want it.”

  She shook her head. “Reverend, how can you be sure he wasn’t back to dealing? Maybe he wanted to buy this Monica a nice birthday gift. Maybe he wanted to put a down payment on a car.”

  “Because I know everyone he would have called to get the stuff, Absalom. And I asked them, believe me. They were as surprised as anyone else. Somebody would have known. And there wasn’t a whisper.”

  She nodded. “Anything else I should know about him?”

  “Nothing. He’s forgotten already. Nobody gives a damn …”

  He looked at her, his wide-set brown eyes considering.

  “I care,” she said, and meant it.

  “I’m going to choose to believe you. But you working for the police …”

  He looked down at the scuffed hardwood floor, a patch of light glimmering on his bald pate, and shook his head slowly.

  His eyes came back to hers. “It gives me pause, Absalom.”

  “For them or for me?”

  “For you, child. But I’m happy to see you. You know what I mean. It’s good to see you like this.”

  He spread his hands out toward her, as if she were some kind of homecoming queen or the favorite candidate for mayor.

  Abbie suddenly felt close to tears. She nodded and looked down quickly, pretending to study her notes. So many of the Reverend’s “projects” came back to him pregnant, addicted, or homeless. She guessed she qualified as a success story, and that’s what the Reverend lived for: the rare girl or boy who returned employed and bright-eyed. She couldn’t let him down.

  I wish I could tell you how lost I feel, she thought. I wish I could tell you I found my place in the world, but I can’t.

  “It’s good to see you again, Reverend.” They stood up and he gave her a hug that was fiercer than she anticipated.

  “I’m proud of you, Absalom.”

  Leaving, Abbie turned so that he wouldn’t see her face.

  When she got home, her father was in his room with his door closed. She did a load of whites in the washer and dryer in the basement laundry room, and tried to read a novel that the owner at the Talking Leaves bookstore down the street had recommended highly. But her mind kept drifting and, after she’d added the fabric softener, she put the book down and sat Indian-style on top of the dryer and let herself concentrate on the two thoughts that kept edging into her brain.

  Gerald Decatur was not back into dealing drugs.

  And: The Reverend was worried about her working fo
r the Buffalo PD.

  Two thoughts that troubled her equally.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  WHEN THE PHONE RANG THE NEXT MORNING DURING BREAKFAST, SHE snapped it up.

  “It’s Mills. Niagara Falls PD. You called?”

  “I did. Can I tell you that your partner is an unprofessional asshole?”

  “You could but I’d have to tell you that I already knew that. What’d he do?”

  “Refused to put me in touch with you. Called me a Buffalo bitch, actually.”

  Mills sighed on the other end of the line.

  “I’ll call him on it but don’t expect an apology.”

  “What I expect is basic professional competence.”

  “Yeah, okay. What were you calling about?”

  “I found something at the motel.”

  “Yeah? What?”

  “A plastic toy, a monkey. The same kind as one that was hung around my doorknob two days ago. And, between you and me, the same as was found in our Jimmy Ryan murder.”

  She heard what sounded like the feet of a chair hit a hardwood floor.

  “Say that again?”

  “After I started investigating the Jimmy Ryan case, someone came by my apartment, tried the doorknob, then left a calling card. A brown plastic monkey. The same as was found forcibly inserted into Ryan’s mouth. I found a near-identical one at the Lucky Clover.”

  “Where at the Lucky Clover?”

  “Taped to the underside of the chair.”

  “The desk chair?”

  “There was only one chair in the entire room, Mills.”

  Silence.

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Impossible? How can you say—”

  “I checked the chair, Kearney. It was flipped over when I entered the hotel room. I remember staring directly at the bottom of the seat when I walked in.”

  Abbie froze.

  “I’m coming up there,” she said.

  “Bring the monkey.”

  When she got to Niagara Falls PD, Mills came out to meet her. He was slim, wearing a nicely cut blue suit, was a hair taller than her, with light brown hair, penetrating green eyes, and a nose that looked like it had been broken on several occasions. He wasn’t exactly handsome, but he looked like someone you hoped would pull over when you were stuck on the side of the road with a flat tire. He stopped when he saw her.

  “Kearney?”

  “Yes?”

  “I, uh …”

  She lowered her head as he stuttered, his eyes growing wider.

  “Not what you were expecting?”

  “Buffalo cops named Kearney usually look like they’re on their third heart bypass. Even the female ones.”

  “Glad I could surprise you.”

  He nodded, seemingly lost for words.

  “Let’s go,” he finally got out.

  “Where to?”

  “Tim Hortons.”

  They got into Mills’s Chevy Impala and drove for five minutes before pulling into the parking lot of the doughnut shop. Inside, Mills ordered coffee and a French cruller, Abbie just hot chocolate. The place was emptying out after the morning rush, and they grabbed a table by one of the plate glass windows that looked out onto Ontario Avenue.

  “Did you bring it?”

  Abbie pulled the baggie out of her pocket and laid it on the table. Mills took a sip of his coffee, winced.

  “Why do they keep coffee at two hundred degrees in this place?”

  Abbie pushed the baggie closer to him. “You’re sure you couldn’t have missed it?”

  “No way. The underside of that chair is a light tan color, right?”

  Abbie nodded.

  “It would have stood out. I’d have been staring right at it.”

  “Who else was in that room?”

  “The tech, Johnson. He’s been with us two years, solid record, no reason to suspect him but I’ll see what I can find out. My partner—” He made a face. “Who I read the riot act to about one hour ago.”

  Abbie smiled.

  “Least I could do,” Mills said. “As far as the crime scene, that’s about it. The motel owner came by but we kept him out of the room until we’d cleared the scene. He was too cheap to hire one of those crime scene cleanup outfits.”

  Abbie blew thoughtfully on her hot chocolate.

  “Could the killer really have come back to leave the toy? And why?”

  “Who knows? But if I were you, I’d put an extra deadbolt on your door.”

  She nodded. “I did that this morning.” She’d gone to the local hardware store, bought a solid York that weighed about eight pounds and installed it herself.

  Mills frowned and looked over her shoulder. “Let’s assume that Decatur was his first. He kills him, doesn’t leave his signature, then moves on to Jimmy Ryan. Leaves the toy on the victim. Then he tracks you to your apartment, leaves a memento, then doubles back and places one at the Lucky Clover. It’s bizarre.”

  Abbie looked at him. “He wants the cases connected.”

  “Or he’s focused in on you for some reason. He’s leading you along.”

  Their eyes met.

  “What about checking cameras on the street outside where Ryan was found? Maybe he was lurking outside, saw you go in, got excited that such a—”

  “A what?”

  “A hot-looking detective had been assigned to his case.”

  Mills smiled crookedly, a little abashed. Abbie gave him a dubious look. He was cute, but she had no time for a boyfriend at the moment.

  “I checked the tapes. Nobody stood out. All locals. And besides, my name was on the newswire five minutes after I got there.”

  “The newswire?”

  “That’s what we call the gossip mill in the County. It’s world class.”

  Mills shook his head. “I hate those police geeks. If you want to talk to a cop, don’t murder someone to get our attention, y’know?”

  Abbie nodded. “He may not have been watching me at the church. But we do know he was back in that motel room. He couldn’t have been stupid enough to rent the room, but he got in there somehow. Video?”

  Mills took a long pull on his coffee, then set it down. “Let’s go.”

  Ten minutes later they were in the motel’s back office.

  The Lucky Clover owner had repaired the camera that looked down the long part of the L-shaped motel. Abbie told the desk clerk to start with Wednesday afternoon, after she’d been seen walking into St. Teresa’s. They ran the tape, the time signature in the corner flicking by so fast you could hardly read it.

  Business at the Lucky Clover was clearly slow. The camera looked down a row of six doors, with a corner of the parking lot visible in the upper right of the picture and a portion of the side street next to the motel. Occasionally the lower half of a passing car flashed by, but there were no pedestrians walking this part of Niagara Falls. Number 15 was second from the end, but there were so few human figures in the videos that mostly what they watched was the light grow and fade until dark descended and the fluorescents in the canopy flickered on. It was like some kind of art film on desolation, Abbie thought.

  They were on to Thursday night when Abbie saw it.

  “Stop,” she said.

  The clerk hit the mouse and the tape slowed.

  “Go back.”

  He rewound and a human figure flicked into the screen in backward motion, disappearing into number 15.

  “Now run it.”

  The clerk hit Play and the tape showed an empty row. Then a figure slid into the frame, hugging the wall of the motel. He had on jeans, white sneakers, and a green-and-black-checked jacket. He wore black gloves and on his face was a dark ski mask.

  “Smart,” Mills said.

  “He knew we’d be watching.”

  The man turned to face the door on number 15 and squeezed up against it, like he was inserting a key.

  “He’s slipping a credit card or something into the door crack,” Mills said.

  “Ho
w good are the locks in this hotel?” Abbie asked the clerk.

  “Are you kidding me? The owner barely pays for soap, you think he’s going to shell out for a good lock? A retard could get in there.”

  Abbie marked the time he entered: 8:42 p.m. The door closed and the seconds swept by on the clock in the corner of the screen.

  Two minutes thirteen seconds later he was out. He closed the door behind him, with his back to the camera.

  “Not a big guy,” Mills said.

  “I’d say about five foot nine. And he’s right-handed.”

  The killer stood in the flicker of the fluorescent lights, hands by his side, his back to the camera. Abbie brought her face closer to the screen.

  “What’s he doing?”

  The suspect began to turn, almost robot-like, until he was facing toward the office and the camera mounted in the ceiling at the corner of the L.

  “See how he’s moving?” Mills said. “He looks drugged. Downers?”

  Suddenly, the killer lifted his head until he was staring straight into the camera. The steam from the killer’s breath funneled out from the hole in the ski mask. The man stood there, arms straight down by his side. He seemed to be leaning toward the camera. Then he raised his right arm and gave a little wave.

  Abbie stood up suddenly. A chill had run from her feet up through her spine. She folded her arms over her chest to stop it before her body shook.

  Something had spooked her, something almost familiar in the way the killer moved. Do I know him? Was he at the Ryan scene or am I imagining things?

  When she looked away from the screen, she found Mills staring at her. “Run it again,” he said to the clerk, never taking his eyes off Abbie.

  They watched the tape three more times, always pausing on the killer staring at the camera, seemingly hypnotized.

  “It’s like he’s trying to send you a message, like he knows you,” the clerk said, looking up at Abbie.

  “Thanks for the analysis,” Abbie said.

  Mills followed her out of the office.

  “Where are you going now?” he asked her in the parking lot of Niagara PD, where her Saab sat waiting under a light coat of snow.