Night Of The Blackbird (19 page)

The restaurant was right around the corner.

“Sure,” Moira called.

Michael thought that she was agreeing with him, as well, and he smiled. Taking her hand, he hurried toward Patrick, who was waiting impatiently at the corner as if, after all these years, Moira just might forget where Sal's family's restaurant was situated.

 

“Kids, Granny Jon, I've got one quick stop to make, if you'll allow me. I want to pick up some of those cannoli Katy likes so much,” Dan told his passengers. He was driving Eamon Kelly's minivan. The kids were wearing their seat belts; they were well-trained. Even little Molly immediately buckled up the minute she got into a car.

Granny Jon, next to him, nodded. “Pick up a few of those Italian cookies, too, please, Danny. The ones with vanilla, not anise.”

“Got ya. Kids?”

“Chocolate!” Shannon said. And with a sigh way older than her years, she added, “You can just buy a stick of butter for Molly.”

“Butter cookies,” Brian said.

“Chocolate-covered butter cookies.” Molly giggled. “Candy.”

“No candy. It's an Italian bakery, silly girl,” Dan teased.

The first parking space he could squeeze into was about a block from the restaurant. Perfect. He left the car running, the heat on.

“No driving,” he warned Brian.

Brian grinned.

“I'll hurry,” Dan said.

“We're just fine here. I'll keep the kids amused,” Granny Jon said.

Dan nodded, closed the driver's door and started down the street at a brisk walk. He knew the exact shop he wanted and slipped in quickly. He smiled at the dark-haired girl behind the counter. Elena. He'd bought pastries here before.

“A box of cannoli, some sugar cookies…biscotti with vanilla, not anise, and…have you got anything with chocolate?”

“Frosted butter cookies?” Elena suggested.

“Perfect. I'll be making a phone call.”

The phone was right inside the doorway. He dropped coins into the slot and dialed the number he needed. A soft female voice answered with a simple hello.

“Liz, it's Dan.”

“Where are you?”

“Public phone. Have you got anything for me?”

“Well, I've checked out your man.”

“And?”

“Born in Ohio, actually, Irish-American parents. Good schools, good jobs. Film major, degree from UCLA. He's worked as a production assistant, cameraman, sound tech—anything and everything behind the camera. Never acted. He won some film school prizes for production and direction. Left California, worked in Florida, Vancouver and, last year, made the move to New York.”

Idly staring out the window, Dan tensed. Patrick and Siobhan Kelly were ambling past the shop. Josh was walking alone, catching up with the two of them. Dan stepped back against the support beam that would allow him to look out but keep passersby from noticing him.

“So he came to New York—and took his first job with Moira Kelly's show?”

“That's what I've got here. And you know I know how to trace people.”

“You're sure? There's nothing on him at all? No political activities, no protests against cruelty to animals, nothing? No protests against American military action?”

“Dan, the guy doesn't have his own Web page. I haven't managed to get any warm, fuzzy photos of him with his old teddy bear. But from everything I can find, the guy is clean. I can tell you he has no arrest record, no known political affiliations—his voter's registration even has him as an independent. He's never even been late paying a parking ticket, as far as I can make out.”

“He seems suspicious to me anyway. And there's word on the street about something going down.”

“Well, if there's anything dirty about him, it's well-hidden, that much I can tell you.”

Frustrated, Dan kept looking out the window. The object of his inquiry was walking by, an arm tightly wrapped around Moira's shoulder.
Slime bucket.
Moira was smiling at him, laughing. Oh, yeah, the guy was picture-perfect. Dan narrowed his eyes. Tall, in damned good shape, probably lifted weights, kick boxed and had a black belt in karate.

All the better to be…

Fucking picture-perfect.

And, on paper at least, he was as pure as the driven snow.

“Keep looking,” Dan said. The pair had stopped outside the Revere house. They didn't seem to notice the tourists streaming by them.

Together, they were definitely picture-perfect. Moira, absolutely stunning, red-tinged hair streaming down her back as she lifted her classically beautiful face to his ever so tender kiss. McLean, tall, seeming to tower over her in masculine protection, though Moira was tall herself.

“Dan, you there?”

“Keep looking,” Dan insisted.

“For what?” Liz asked.

“I don't know. But something isn't right.”

“You're obsessed, Dan O'Hara.”

“It's my job to be wary.”

“It's your job to do a hell of a lot more than that,” Liz reminded him.

“Has he ever been to Ireland?”

“Yes—his first semester of college.”

“Hmm. There. There's something.”

“Oh, yeah, there's something. Something done by countless college kids with money. He toured Ireland, England, Scotland and the Continent. Spent most of his time in Florence and Rome. Dan, I've checked him out with a fine-tooth comb.”

“Keep looking,” Dan insisted. There they went, down the street, Moira still in his arms.

“Dan—”

“Keep looking.”

“Just in case you're interested,” Liz said dryly, “Patrick Kelly has gotten pretty deeply involved with a group called Americans for Children.”

“It's a legitimate charity, right?”

“It's new, but it appears so. Still, some of the founders are old IRA guys, émigrés to the States. May be Patrick Kelly has his eye on your movements.”

“Right.”

“Then there's Jeff Dolan.”

“Dolan has a rap sheet that would put the toughest inner-city kid to shame,” Dan said impatiently. “But he's burned out.”

“He could still be keeping his eyes on you. He could be the one.”

“Lizzie, like I said, I'm wary. By nature.
I'm
watching him, and I'm sure he's keeping tabs on me, as well. Have you talked to The Man?”

“Of course. I'm in constant communication.”

“And we're still on? For sure?”

“Yes.”

“Damn.”

“What's the matter? You're supposed to be good.”

“Oh, Lizzie,” he teased back. “You don't know just how good. It's what's at stake that chills my blood.”

“Keep your eyes open. He can't be swayed. And he'll contact you in his own way, in his own time.”

“Yeah. And you keep checking on Michael McLean.”

“Don't you go letting your heart—or your dick—get in your way,” Liz said bluntly.

“You know me, Lizzie,” he said lightly. “I never let anything get in my way. Never.”

He hung up the phone. Elena had finished his order. He paid her, hurried out of the shop and down to the car.

 

Dinner was going beautifully—and then Danny arrived.

“Hey, where are my kids?” Siobhan asked, seeing him come in the door. He was not to be missed. The restaurant was small and intimate, as were many of the restaurants in Boston, especially in Little Italy, and he was a big man.

Danny strode over, shedding his wool coat as he did so and hanging it on the rack. Moira hadn't thought to worry that she was at the edge of the semicircular booth, Michael beside her, Siobhan beside him, Patrick next and Josh in the chair drawn up to the free edge of the table.

Bad choice, she realized, as Danny slid in beside her. “The kids? Oh, I dropped them in traffic, naturally.”

“Seriously…” Siobhan began.

Patrick let out an impatient snort. “Seriously, he dropped them in traffic.”

“Seriously,” Danny said, smiling at Siobhan, “your mother was delighted to have some time alone with them. What's good, huh? Everything, right? Hey, I see that Sal is working his own restaurant for a change.”

“We're having the house special,” Patrick said. “A pasta sampler with ziti, lasagna, spaghetti, and an antipasto.”

“I'm not sure what it all is, but it's great,” Siobhan added, looking at the large platter filled with Italian delicacies in the middle of the table.

Sal had reached the table, taking Danny's hand, shaking it. “Hey, it's my Italian amico,” he said. “Benvenuto.”

“Grazie, Salvatore,” Danny said. “Hey, this looks wonderful. What is everything?”

“I don't want to tell you, not in front of Siobhan.”

“Ah, now, Siobhan managed to eat haggis when Katy made it for that Scottish convention a few years back,” Danny said, smiling at Siobhan. He made a face. “Sheep's stomach or bladder or some such filled with entrails. Thank the Lord the Scots came up with it or we Irish would be to blame again.”

“Well, there's nothing more evil than octopus on that tray,” Sal said, “so I guess the Italians are off the hook for the moment, too.”

“I don't know, Sal. You all fool around with squid ink an awful lot,” Danny said warily.

“It makes good pasta,” Sal said. “Excuse me, I'll add another order of the special special for the table.”

Sal left, and Danny helped himself to wine from the bottle already at the table. “So, what did I miss?”

“Earth-shattering events,” Moira said sharply.

“A lovely time,” Siobhan said. “We've been getting to know Michael. He does great imitations. You know, Michael, you should be in front of the camera. You're not just gorgeous, you're talented.”

“Are you now?” Danny said, looking past Moira to Michael.

“He can do your accent to perfection,” Siobhan said, and Moira wanted to kick her for the innocent remark. Michael had been great, surprising even her with his mastery of a Boston accent, a Bronx intonation, a deep South drawl and, a moment ago, Danny's light brogue.

“I was a film major,” Michael said with a shrug. “I never wanted to be in front of the camera, but…thanks,” he told Siobhan. “We had to take speech and dialect classes to get through school.”

“I'd love to hear you do me,” Danny told Michael.

“Can't do it when I'm put on the spot,” Michael said.

“Just do a quick Granny Jon, then,” Siobhan urged.

Moira moved closer to Michael, distancing herself from Danny. Michael sighed. “Now I'll mess it all up,” he said. “All right. ‘I'd like me tea strong enough to pick itself up and walk itself right across the table,”' he mimicked, his brogue heavy, but missing here and there, as it had not been before. “See why I can't be in front of the camera?” he asked Siobhan. “I fold under pressure.”

“No, no,” Danny said. “That was excellent. Why, I would have believed you were from the Old Country meself.”

Michael smiled along with the others, but Moira didn't think he was particularly amused.

“Look, here comes dinner,” Patrick said, breaking the tension.

Sal assisted the waiter, serving them all quickly. “Delicious,” Danny said, digging in. “And safe—no black pasta on the plate, Siobhan.”

“Black pasta?”

“Flavored with squid ink,” Sal told her, winking. “It's safe, entirely safe. Unless you've gone vegetarian?”

“No, I'm afraid I still chow down on cows.”

“Cows have those big brown eyes,” Patrick teased her. “So much better to eat them then some creepy-looking squid.”

Siobhan smiled at him and looked at Sal. “Whatever it is, it's wonderful. My husband hasn't left the table once to say a quick hello to a business associate. I think I may just turn in the Irish flag and become Italian, Sal.”

Sal took her hand. “Cara mia, you may become Italian anytime.”

“Sal, let go of my wife and behave, before your own very Italian wife comes out of the kitchen and hits you with a frying pan.”

Sal grinned. “Okay, maybe I'll become a Mormon. How about you, Danny?”

“I'm afraid for some of us, Sal, there's just no way out of being Irish,” Danny said. “But thank the Lord, even in Ireland, we have lots of Italian restaurants.” He looked at Michael, smiling. “Good imitation there, Mikey. Damn good. You're better than you think.”

“Oh, I know what I'm good at,” Michael told him.