Still, she wondered if it wouldn’t be worthwhile for her to visit Twomey herself before she left for Ireland. Through Bridie, Patrick’s family had asked her to see what she could find out that might help them understand Patrick’s last few days. That was the rationale of the visit she’d explained to Twomey’s admin, and that’s how she had gotten this meeting. It was worth a shot. Too, perhaps Twomey might shed some background on Liam’s reaction to Patrick’s visit. He hadn’t given Solly that, but maybe she might pick something up.
Rosaria gathered that Bridie had given the Keenan family details about Rosaria’s work on a high profile murder last year—probably with a good deal of dramatic embellishment. She hoped the Keenans didn’t think she was a superwoman on these types of things.
That had been an unusual situation. God knows she now felt like a shadow of her former self—the woman who’d leapt, at great personal risk, into a high profile murder investigation. Besides, the Boston Police Department in the person of the very competent Detective Solly Belkin was running the Patrick Keenan case.
This visit to Twomey, Rosaria had to admit, was as much to satisfy her own curiosity as to find out information that might help the Keenans understand how their precious only son lived his last days before being attacked and left to die in Boston Harbor. She was also intrigued about the look on Declan Twomey’s face in the photos Justine had shown her. He said he was just angry at Joyce’s reluctance to ask for help, but Rosaria didn’t see concern in that look. She saw something darker. It might have been rage.
Rosaria left a message with Solly that she was going to talk to Declan Twomey for the Keenan family. She knew Solly would be angry—she was interfering with an investigation—but she also knew that he wouldn’t stop her. Besides, he was already angry. How much more angry could he get?
She only had that morning before she was to leave for Ireland. She’d called Twomey’s office and explained that she was representing Patrick Keenan’s family—could she please have a few minutes of Mr. Twomey’s time? Twomey ‘s admin checked with her boss and came back to tell Rosaria she could see Mr. Twomey if she was over to his offices within the hour. Fair enough. She’d immediately picked up her keys and cellphone and headed over to Twomey’s offices off of Melina Cass Boulevard, near the Southeast Expressway.
As she drove down Route 93, Rosaria reviewed in her mind the few things she knew about Declan Twomey. He’d made his considerable fortune on the Boston skyline. He was unfailingly generous over the years to Saint Martin’s Shelter and other Boston philanthropies. He and his wife Carmella, childless, still lived in a modest home in the Dorchester section of Boston. He drove a ten-year old dark green Dodge Ram to work, and had a tuna on wheat sandwich with pickles and chips for lunch every day—either at his desk in the company offices near the expressway or with his workers at one of the construction sites.
She was not surprised then to see the character of his company headquarters. She arrived at an unadorned two-story red brick building at the end of a large gravel parking lot surrounded by a chain-link fence and a small Twomey Construction sign on the gate.
No receptionist staffed the entrance and Rosaria found nothing approximating a lobby when she entered. The hard-hatted worker she stopped on his way out the door looked vaguely familiar, with an appealing, crooked grin. But then, it was an Irish face and this was Boston. “Declan Twomey’s office?” she asked.
He hesitated in his stride for a moment, gave her a curious, bemused glance and gestured with his thumb “Upstairs” over his shoulder as he hurried on.
Walking up a short flight of stairs, Rosaria entered a wide open area of metal desks covered with laptops, schematics and Dunkin Donuts Styrofoam cups. Jackets and vests were thrown on the backs of chairs. At the rear corner of the large room sat another metal desk, wider and more battered than the others.
An imposing heavyset man, mostly bald but for a scruff of gray hair with a tinge of red, and startling bushy eyebrows flecked with gray, was sitting there, intently studying a set of blueprints laid flat on the desk. His chin rested in his right palm and a big calloused hand covered half his face. Declan Twomey.
Twomey looked up to see Rosaria when she blocked the sunlight from the window beside his desk. He reached out a big hand. “Ms. O’Reilly.” No question; he seemed to know who she was although she couldn’t recall they’d ever met. But, thought Rosaria, I’m probably the only stranger in the building and he was expecting me.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Twomey. I won’t be very long.”
“Good. I don’t have very long,” he said flatly and got right to the point. “You’ll be wanting to talk about that poor young Irish student.”
“Yes, Patrick Keenan.” Rosaria wanted to put a name to Patrick. Not just that poor young Irish student.
Twomey looked annoyed. “I can’t tell you anything about that, you know. I didn’t really know the young man. And aren’t the police investigating this? I just spoke to Detective Belkin yesterday.” He stopped and looked at Rosaria. “You’re not a reporter now or one of those parasites doing a book on someone else’s troubles, are you? I think you’re likely too good for that.” A hint, a twitch of a smile. How would he know I’m too good for that?
“No, no. I’m not asking questions for publication. And the police are investigating. I’m just asking a few questions for the family.”
Twomey’s face eased slightly, though a shadow of suspicion remained in his eyes. “Well, my condolences to them. Horrible thing to lose a boy. I can give you a little time. We’ll go to the conference room.” Rosaria noticed his home accent was getting a little stronger as he talked.
Twomey started for a glass-walled conference room to the side of the larger room and gestured for Rosaria to follow him. He talked as he worked his way around the metal desks. “We don’t have offices here. Hate offices. People start measuring whose is bigger. They put up pictures like they’re in a family room. Jesus, sometimes rugs on the floor and sofas and easy chairs. Don’t believe in that. Don’t even like cubicles.” He closed the door behind them after they entered a barren room with a wood veneer conference table and chairs. Over a chipped sideboard hung a print of a Cape Cod beach—a print that might be found at the Christmas Tree Shop. This one was apparently found at least a decade ago, judging by its worn and faded appearance.
“These guys are supposed to be out on the sites anyway, not in here,” Twomey continued. “If anybody needs a private conversation or a meeting, they can go to Dunkie’s. This room hardly ever gets used.” He gave the dust on the sideboard an ineffectual swipe. They sat and he folded his hands on the table, waiting for her to get down to business—so she did.
“I was curious to know about Patrick’s visit to Saint Martin’s a few days before he died.”
“I can’t help you with that. I didn’t know about his visit until Detective Belkin told me.” Rosaria felt the impact of Twomey’s flat tonality and the impassive, bored, withholding expression on his face. So that’s the way it’s going to be, she thought.
“You might even have seen him on his way out. One of the staff said you were coming in to see Liam Joyce just as Patrick was leaving.”
“Well, there’s a staff member without enough to do,” he replied curtly. “Anyway, I wouldn’t have known who it was, would I?”
“Of course not.” Rosaria paused. “I heard Mr. Joyce was quite upset after Patrick’s visit. You must have seen that as you were in his office just after Patrick left.”
Twomey, too big for his chair, shifted in his seat impatiently. “You are asking the same questions the police did. I don’t know why you don’t just let them do their jobs. I’m sorry for the family, but this is not going to give them anything useful.” Then, he relented, “Like I told Detective Belkin, Liam had other things on his mind than the boy when I went to his office. I don’t know what this staff person saw, but they got it all wrong.” Defiant eyes, purposeful and direct. Rosaria’s instincts told her that she had
just been told an aggressive lie. Well. Well.
Taking a risk, she pushed a little further. “Mister Joyce remained quite upset later as well. He was delayed for the training program graduation. There is a photo with you both in the background showing an animated conversation in which Mr. Joyce looks distressed and in one you look quite angry.”
“I’ve already explained that. I often look angry, Ms. O’Reilly. That’s how I get things done, don’t I? I get angry with things that don’t go well, like fights in the breakfast line. But, I get angrier with people who waste my time asking questions I’ve already answered—questions from the authorities. I’ve spoken to Detective Belkin about all this. You, Ms. O’Reilly, nice as you are, are just wasting my time.”
Twomey moved to get up from the table, but apparently thought better of it and dropped heavily back in the chair. “What else?” he growled. Rosaria could almost see the steam coming out of the man’s ears. Lowered black bushy brows, red face, hard green eyes with an unusual yellowish tint and a scowling mouth—yes, angry indeed. “I’m only doing this for the boy’s family back home. But, Jesus, they are going to hear from me what a hash you’re making of this...”
Time for another tack.
“How long have you been in the US, Mr. Twomey?”
“Is this part of the investigation? What’s that got to do with anything?”
“No, just curious.”
She could see Twomey’s face and shoulders relax. “Oh, I’d visited often enough, but I came to stay about thirty years ago. Worked in construction— under the table, of course, totally illegal—just like all those immigrants today that everybody is hollering about, God bless them.” Rosaria was relieved to see the big man smile. Almost smile—not quite, but almost. “But it all ended up okay. The American Dream. And here we are.” He waved his hand in the direction of his kingdom in the squat red brick building and the Boston skyline.
“And you’ve been generous in the city. We’re lucky to have you.”
The big man warmed. “I try. I’ve had my day when I needed a wee bit of help. I don’t forget. No, I never forget. Sometimes people need a hand. I give to a lot of causes, but Saint Martin’s is closest to my heart.”
“Liam Joyce does great work. You’re very good to him.”
Now, Twomey smiled a real smile. “Oh, the man does wonderful work. He does. Saint Liam, everyone calls him.” He laughed again before turning serious. He leaned forward, hands clasped, arms flat on the table and looked directly into her face. “And I have his back. He’s soft. He’s like Saint Francis himself. The man needs watching out for, and that’s what I do.” Was there a threat in there?
“And what would he need watching out for, Mr. Twomey?”
He pulled back. “The world is a complicated place, Ms. O’Reilly. Let’s just say that saints can get hurt.”
She could feel him starting to close down now. “Where in Ireland are you from Mr. Twomey?”
“Oh, up north.” A brief, telling pause. “Derry. Belfast”.
Rosaria paused a moment herself. “West Belfast? I thought I recognized the accent. Must have been tough days when you left.”
“Been tough days for hundreds of years in Derry.”
She nodded and then took a risk. “Were you active?”
A cold look. “Everyone was active.” Twomey’s mind was somewhere else— perhaps in West Belfast for a few moments. “They did what they thought had to be done, didn’t they?” he said. “And we did what we thought had to be done. It was war.” He turned to face her. “But it’s all over now except for some and they’re crazed. For most people it’s over. Still tension, not a walk in the park, but people aren’t killing each other anymore.”
It had started to rain. Rosaria could hear the summer rain beating on the window of the conference room now, and see the puddles forming on the far side of the parking lot. She thought the old man was talking more to himself than to her as he continued in a low voice. She was mesmerized.
“There are those who say that people have amnesia about some people involved in the struggle that went on to take positions of power in the government—both in the North and the South. Not pretty, but that’s the way liberation usually plays out. That’s the way the Republic’s struggle for independence was too. Hard things were done.”
Here, Rosaria knew he was talking not about his adopted Republic of the United States, but about the Republic of Ireland in the South. The Republic broke away from Britain in 1922, but was unable to make the northern six counties part of the deal.
Twomey turned to gaze out the window, now looking his age—the looseness of the jowls, the deeply creased cheeks, and the puffiness under the eyes. “And then the Republic left us behind when they broke free. Left the North behind. With the Brits. Maybe they didn’t really have a choice, but still...they left us behind. And some say they didn’t look back.” He turned to her, his jaw set. “So, we had to fend for ourselves as best we could. But we’ll be under the Irish flag again, mark my words.” He nodded to himself. “No question. And it might not be too long before it happens.”
A light knock on the door. An admin opened the door a crack and leaned in. “Just wanted to remind you that you’re expected over in Allston in twenty, Mr. Twomey.”
“Right, thank you, Anne Marie.”
She left the door open when she walked back down the hall.
A prearranged interruption after the allotted time was up? Rosaria thought. Apparently her allotted time was thrifty—just half an hour. Maybe he’s wanted over in Allston in twenty minutes, maybe he’s not.
Twomey turned back to Rosaria. “Nothing more to tell, Ms. O’Reilly. I’m not a good source on this. Again, my condolences to the family. I think you know your way out.” He rose and walked to the door.
Rosaria got up from her chair and followed him. Then he paused in the doorway, swinging his broad shoulders and body so smoothly, so quickly to face her that she almost bumped into him. She was only inches from his face when he spoke. The words came out silken and amiable, his mouth in a slow, joyless smile on a heavily lined face with its marks and scars of a hardworking life, and his eyes—yellow-green, wolfish eyes, almost loving. Rosaria found the effect terrifying. She was conscious of his big, callused hand poised on the door frame.
“O’Reilly’s the last name now, is it? From Malford, by any chance?”
Rosaria nodded cautiously. “How did you know that?”
“Oh, I used to know an O’Reilly from Malford. Jimmy O’Reilly.”
On alert in some strange way, she frowned and cocked her head. “Well, that would have been my late father.”
“Worked in a big shoe factory, did he?”
“Yes, that’s right. How did you know him?” Rosaria tried to respond casually, but felt an odd tingling in her chest.
“Oh, he used to be active on some projects with us.” Twomey lingered on the word active. “Helped us with packaging and some logistics, transportation. He was good at that. A good man, a solid man, and good company, too. Could always count on Jimmy O’Reilly.”
Rosaria was too stunned to respond.
“Good day to you, Ms. O’Reilly. Mind yourself out there.”
Twomey turned and left, pulling all the air in the room after him.
CHAPTER 15
Rosaria and Bridie left for Shannon on the 7:20 PM Aer Lingus flight from Terminal C at Logan Airport the next day on an aircraft named the Saint Columba. Rosaria dimly remembered a 6th century monk and patron saint of Cork who might have been astonished at having his name on this silver machine flying over the great Western Sea back to Ireland—but then saints probably anticipate all kinds of miracles.
The flight was uneventful, though both women were keenly aware that young Patrick Keenan’s body lay in a mahogany coffin with the cargo below them. O’Gorman’s Funeral Home in South Boston had done the arrangement, long being the go-to funeral service for transporting bodies to Ireland.
Bridie told Rosaria that th
e owner of the funeral home referred to himself as the Lord Mayor—fashioned after the Lord Mayor of Dublin. She wasn’t sure what Mr. O’Gorman was Lord Mayor of, perhaps of South Boston. In any case, Bridie said Mr. O’Gorman and his staff were very accommodating.
There were some that said O’Gorman’s transported other things with the bodies in the old days—guns that found their way to the IRA. Perhaps a legend from back in the day. A joke suggested over drinks—” Who’s going to check a coffin at customs, I ask you?”—that just persisted as fact. Then again, some of those improbable stories from past and more complicated times turned out later to be true. Hard to tell fact from colorful fiction.
A hearse from Clifden met the flight at the airport. While paperwork was exchanged and the sad cargo loaded into the hearse, Rosaria picked up a rental car so that she and Bridie could follow the hearse back to Clifden, a drive of a good three hours with a stop for coffee and perhaps a breakfast on the way. Rosaria took an odd comfort in noticing the same craggy, cranky man at the car rental return booth who’d given her such a hard time about a dented wheel rim on another visit she’d made to Connemara—home of many rocky roads and dented wheel rims.
Though she didn’t feel confident of her own left-side of the road driving skills, given Bridie’s state of nerves, Rosaria took the wheel.
Along the way, they and the funeral home staff stopped for coffee and a breakfast at a place improbably called Mother Hubbard’s. Rosaria got a takeout coffee and stood near the car, checking the messages on her cell. She saw one from Solly and, although it was the middle of the night in Boston, she expected he’d still be awake, maybe working. Sure enough, he answered her return call on first ring.
Buried Troubles Page 9