“How’re you doing, Ro?” he asked. Solly’s tone, uncharacteristically soft and almost wistful, threw Rosaria off balance for a moment. Perhaps he was feeling some late night loneliness.
“Better if you were with me,” she ventured. “It could be like a holiday for you to come over. Pretty over here.”
“Honey, I’m sure it is, but you know I just can’t take off in the middle of this case and everything else.”
“I know. I know. Anything new?”
“Not much. Asking questions at the bars down at the waterfront and by Faneuil Hall. At The Point and the Purple Shamrock and all those to see if anyone remembers the kid from that night.”
“Any luck?”
“Nada. Not yet. Coming up dry. If he was in any of them that night, he wasn’t very memorable.”
“Well, lots of young people in those places and they’re always so packed.”
“Yeah. And, oh, we’re checking out Eduardo Mendez, a guy at the shelter who’s Joyce’s right-hand man. He and Joyce are each other’s alibis the night of the murder. They were still working together upstairs. Best I can figure, they never stop working. Anyway, we’re just checking them both out with the security cameras there and all that.”
“I don’t understand. I suppose there is some connection between Joyce and Patrick, but why in the world would Eduardo want to kill Patrick?”
“Beats me. Maybe for whatever got his boss so upset the day the kid visited him.”
“Could make sense. I guess,” Rosaria replied, sounding unconvinced.
“Mendez could have a little edge to him. Something about him for me—not just the tats—says he could be capable.”
Rosaria knew that the word capable meant capable of killing someone, of doing a hit, an execution. “Why would you think that?”
“He’s got paper—a few months at Middlesex for assault. Looks like he was in some kind of street fight. Said he was protecting someone. Could have been. Court must have sympathized. Let him off light. He started at Saint Martin’s as a client and moved up the ladder.”
“Well, I’d hate to think that he’s involved after being a solid employee at the House.”
“Yeah,” Solly replied. “And I like the guy. He’s tough, but I don’t think he’s the type. I have to check him out anyway.” Solly stopped for a moment. “Of course, none of this is appropriate to share with the family yet.”
“I understand.”
“Miss you,” Solly said. Me too.
“Makes more sense for you to come home as soon as you can than for me to go over there now, anyway.”
“You’re probably right, but you never know—I might find something helpful over here.”
She heard a deep sigh over the line. “Right. Yeah, okay. Just remember you’re not a cop and this is not your case. I’ll let you know what’s happening when it’s appropriate for the sake of the family—but you are not to take the lead on anything. Anything.”
“I know, I know. I really do.”
“Do you? I’m not sure.”
“Yes, I do.”
She was about to sign off when Solly said, “Rosie, honey?”
“What, Solly?”
“You really don’t know at all that you are not to take the lead. I’m pissed that you went to talk with Twomey yesterday. He called this morning to complain.”
“Oh.”
“Nearly took my head off. He’s absolutely right. Cool it. Seriously, cool it. You’re not making my job any easier by screwing around.”
“Right, Solly. Sorry. Got it. I really do.”
She heard him sigh at the other end of the line. “Night, Rosie. Behave yourself.”
CHAPTER 16
Saint Joseph’s church in Clifden was filled with students and Patrick’s friends. The young women clung to each other, arms intertwined. The young men—vulnerable with their brave, stunned, self-conscious faces, stood a little closer than normal together—shoulders touching. All still in a cocoon of shock—that one of their own should go so young and in such a violent manner.
Rosaria sat toward the back of the church some distance from the statue of Saint Theresa. Damp breezes carrying the sweet scent of bogs and water waited through the open rear doors. Another soft day, as they called it here, a light mist and a moist, refreshing feel to the air in the lungs. She heard movement at the rear of the church as Patrick’s parents, his girlfriend Sarah Glynn, and his Aunt Brigid gathered in the church’s entryway—white-faced, moving slowly. Bridie supported her sister Nora, Patrick’s mother, on one side. On the other, Patrick’s father, Francis, heartbreakingly ramrod straight and stolid, stood with his chin up and eyes red, arm around his wife’s waist.
Mrs. Keenan stood tall, mute and frozen in the center of the small group, a light quiver to her angry, set jaw. The fierce blue eyes told it all. Nora Keenan’s eyes were fixed accusingly up the long aisle, not on the coffin, but on the altar and the crucifix. How could He let this happen to her boy?
Sarah Glynn stood to the side—tall, willowy, with long dark hair—very still and dense with sadness, a dazed, confused expression on her face. Just before the family pulled itself together to walk up to where the coffin waited at the altar, Mrs. Keenan reached her hand out to the girl.
Bridie dropped back and followed the trio, Sarah in the center of the Keenans. They walked toward Patrick’s coffin and the altar, joining an extended family of cousins, other aunts and uncles standing at the front of the church, and sat in the first pew. A cluster of palpable grief, the ancient mother’s rage of Mrs. Nora Keenan burning at the center.
The Mass was familiar to Rosaria in many ways, unfamiliar in others. While the older people stood at the lectern to read their liturgical passages in English, the young people, slim and stylish, read theirs in fluent school Gaelic. The priest, Father Roche, spoke of the strangeness, pain, confusion—and yes, anger, he said, glancing at Mrs. Keenan—in a world where a loved one is lost so young to violence. He had a low, soft voice and the gift of giving solace.
After Mass, six young men in dark suits lifted and carried the coffin down the aisle and into the church parking lot. Looking at them, Rosaria was reminded of the faces of the boy-men who carried their fallen comrades lost in Afghanistan and Iraq. So young, so very, very young.
The coffin and its bearers led the procession of family and friends from the parking lot down Bridge Street. All processing toward the cemetery where a dark mouth in the earth awaited young Patrick Keenan, the boy who thought his trip to America would be the making of him.
◆◆◆
The Keenan’s house in Ballyconnelly was too small for the crowd after services. The mourners joined together instead at Manion’s Pub, closed for the day for Patrick’s funeral. With hushed, contained movements fitting the occasion, servers laid out the funeral meal of seafood chowder with brown bread, a good ham and salmon on long tables beside an open bar. A handle of Jameson sat at the end. Beside the bar, a fiddler played a soft tune.
The crowd was subdued. The Keenans stood near the stone fireplace, greeting the mourners and accepting condolences. Rosaria thought about these grieving parents of a dead child, meeting a line of young people. Young people who would most likely live out healthy lives, be a source of pride, comfort and support to their parents, maybe have children of their own, come to Sunday dinner now and then, return home for the holidays and other visits. How could that not be passing through the Keenans’ minds, causing wave after wave of new pain as each young person approached them?
Rosaria joined the line behind a crowd of students, silently inching forward. She was almost startled when she reached Mrs. Keenan. Before Rosaria could murmur her sympathies, Nora Keenan grasped her hand tightly in her own two.
“Ms. O’Reilly, so good of you to come with Bridie to bring Patrick home.” There was a catch in Mrs. Keenan’s voice at the end of the sentence. She paused to take a deep breath. Rosaria could feel a crackle of energy and an urgency in her eyes. “Would you ever stay
for a few minutes after the line goes down? I have something I need to discuss with you.”
“Of course, of course, Mrs. Keenan. I’ll stay ’til you’re done. As long as you like.”
Nora Keenan nodded and whispered “Thank you.” She held Rosaria’s eye, nodding again even as another mourner approached.
◆◆◆
Later, sitting at a side table with a cup of tea and an untouched plate of food someone had placed before her, Nora Keenan asked for Rosaria’s help.
“Ms. O’Reilly...” she started.
“Please, Rosaria, or Ro. Or even Rosie, if you like.”
“Rosaria—a lovely name. I went to school with a Rosaria.” The first, tentative smile Rosaria had seen on Nora Keenan’s face since she arrived in Ireland. “I’m sure you’re a much nicer person than that Rosaria. She was a wild one.”
Rosaria returned the smile. “Maybe I am, maybe I’m not.”
“Fair play.” The smile lingered for a moment before it faded and she got down to what she wanted to talk about. “Anyway, Rosaria. I’d like you to stay here a little longer, to do some work for us. Maybe even a few weeks. We could find you a place to stay. Could you ever manage that?”
“I’m scheduled to fly home day after tomorrow. Why would you want me to stay, Nora? What would you have me do?”
Mrs. Keenan leaned forward, forearms on the table. Her straight gray hair, cut in what used to be called a bob, swung forward to frame her face. Rosaria sensed her energy again. This was a formidable woman. Patrick had had that energy, but young, unformed, not careful.
“I just have this feeling, Rosaria. It’s only a feeling, mind you, that whatever Patrick was working on, that independent study project or whatever it was, had something to do with what happened to him.”
Rosaria didn’t respond directly but her eyes met Nora Keenan’s in tacit agreement. “And why would you think that?”
“Whatever it was, I think it started over here. It finished over there, but I think it started over here. Something he found out here made him fly over to Boston.” She sat back in her chair, straightening her shoulders and neck, chewing her lower lip. “Now, I know the police in Boston are investigating and all, but I don’t know if they’d really look closely from this angle.”
Right you are, thought Rosaria.
“They might think it too...fanciful.”
Indeed.
“We’d be willing to pay you for your time—”
Before Mrs. Keenan finished with her sentence about payment, Rosaria had held up her hand, palm out, “No, no. Forget that. Don’t talk about that.”
She took a deep breath and looked around Manion’s, noticing that the crowd was more relaxed now, and that the fiddler was starting to play livelier tunes. She heard the first low laughs from clutches of young people, reminiscing about times with Patrick. Children darted in and out like small birds among the mourners. A full Irish wake in progress.
“Let me think about it, Nora.”
Mrs. Keenan continued as if Rosaria had not spoken. “The Garda—the police here—wouldn’t have the time to look into things—all the budget cuts, you know—unless there was something concrete—like to work on a request from Boston. And I don’t think that will be coming soon.”
“No, I don’t think it will.”
“So, if you could stay, just talk to a few people here—like you did in Boston about that poor old nun...”
Almost on cue, a tall young man in a guard uniform approached. Straight brown hair, the moss green eyes and handsome features of many of the local Connemara families. He nodded at Rosaria and touched Nora Keenan’s arm.
“I’m so sorry I missed the service, Mrs. Keenan. A bad accident up in Letterfrack.”
“Oh, but you’re here now, Gerard. Thank you.”
The young man lifted his chin toward Rosaria. “I don’t want to be disturbing you. I just wanted to give you my sympathies. Patrick was a fine young man.”
“He was, he was, Gerard.” Nora Keenan was lost for a moment in thought and then brought her mind back to the table. “Where are my manners? Gerard Conneely, this is Rosaria O’Reilly from Boston—a friend of my sister Bridie. She helped Bridie bring Patrick home.”
Nora put her hand on the young man’s arm, looking at Rosaria. “Gerard is a local boy, in the guards now, a sergeant, mind you. He keeps us all safe and in line.” She smiled.
“Well, that’s a comfort,” Rosaria said. “Good to know you, Gerard.”
“And Rosaria,” Nora continued, “is going to help us figure some things out about what happened to Patrick.”
Good gravy, thought Rosaria. Just what a cop wants to hear. Off to a dicey start.
“Oh, is she now?” Rosaria felt a chill in Sergeant Conneely’s response. “Are you a private detective, Ms. O’Reilly?”
“No, no. Just a friend of the family helping out. Nothing formal. The investigation’s in good hands with the Boston Police Department.”
“I expect it is,” he replied, giving her a glance she couldn’t interpret.
“Well, I’d better leave you to it, Mrs. Keenan.” He knelt down to be at eye level with her. “You know I’m here to help you in any way I can.”
“That’s a comfort in itself, Gerard.”
He stood. “Pleasure to meet you, Ms. O’Reilly. I’d be happy to be of assistance to you as well.”
“Good to know, Sergeant Conneely.”
After Sergeant Conneely left the table and joined the group at the fireplace, Rosaria thought about Nora’s request. Conneely’s reaction to her was a minor version of Solly’s. Amateurs getting involved in police business, nothing but trouble and complication.
Solly would be more than aggravated at knowing that she’d be staying to help the Keenan family out a little bit. Just as he’d predicted. She’d get involved here, get in his business, and complicate things for him in his new job. Rosaria felt a sudden wave of anger run through her. Well, too bad for Solly and Sergeant Conneely too. Who do they think they are? It’s not just their call. It’s the Keenans’ call too.
“I’d be glad to help, Nora.”
◆◆◆
The wake was in full swing while Nora Keenan and Rosaria talked quietly in the corner.
“I hope I can deliver something for you, Nora. I wouldn’t know where to start in finding out the details of Patrick’s project. He must have talked about it when he came home on visits.”
“Yes, yes, but only very general-like, you know. Something about American support for the IRA in the ’70s up Nordie—up North. Now, I hate to think what happened to him had to do with digging around that old bad business— but you never know.” She closed her eyes. “Jaysus.”
She shook herself out of her thoughts and turned to the bar to call for her husband. “Get Sean to pull me a pint of Bridewell, would you, Francis? Find Sarah and bring her over here now? We want to talk to her.”
Mr. Keenan nodded.
“Anyway,” she continued with Rosaria, “I think it would be better for you to talk to Sarah about what he was working on. They were always together. Two peas in a pod, they were, always yammering at each other about this, that, and the other thing.” After a sad clip of silence, Nora looked up at Rosaria and then at her husband. “You know, if he’d just cry or rage or something, it would be better. He doesn’t really talk. Just sits there, maybe walks down to the bay with the dog. And even the dog makes him sad. Reminds him of the boy.” She shook her head. “I’m afraid he’s going to break if he doesn’t get it out.”
Rosaria watched Francis Keenan wade through the crowd to where Sarah was standing beside a group, a fixed smile on her face, holding a glass of wine she wasn’t drinking. She started when Francis Keenan took her arm, looked over to where Nora and Rosaria were seated and came toward them across the floor. Rosaria had expected Francis Keenan to join them, but he resumed his position near a group of equally taciturn older countrymen at the far end of the bar. They greeted Francis’s re-entry with wor
dless nods as he was absorbed into the silent comfort of his own ones.
Nora pulled a chair out for the young woman. When she was seated, Nora put a hand on her arm. “Sarah, I’m only after wondering if you’d take some time to talk to Ms. O’Reilly here about Patrick’s project at the university?”
A flicker of panic ran over the girl’s face.
“Oh, not now, not now, dear, but maybe this coming week? Ms. O’Reilly’s going to help us out a little in finding some answers that might help the police with the investigation.”
“Sure, sure. But I have to go back to Galway in the morning to see about my classes and my new apartment.” Sara looked at Nora with anxious, distracted eyes, lost to grief.
“That’s good, Sarah.” Nora placed her hand on Sarah’s. “I’m glad you’re moving places. It would be so hard to move back into the Corrib Village where you and Patrick were.”
“Right.” The three women sat together in silence for a moment.
“Anyway, I have a ride back. So, I’m not sure when...”
“Not a problem, Sarah. I have business in Galway City. I could rearrange it to meet your schedule,” Rosaria said. A white lie, but she was sure she could find something to do in the city. “If you have time, we could meet for coffee or a lunch and talk then.”
CHAPTER 17
A meeting of the Board at Saint Martin House had apparently just finished when Solly entered the lobby for a follow-up visit with Liam Joyce. He recognized some of the board members coming off the elevator from the meeting—well-known lawyers, bankers and business people who gave time and money, clergy and social workers who gave expertise. All doing their best to alleviate the long-running chronic problem of urban homelessness. No complaints about these do-gooders, and Liam Joyce was probably indeed un santo, as Eduardo insisted. Solly only wished he was un santo who was more forthcoming about his meeting with Patrick Keenan just before the young student was murdered.
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