Night Of The Blackbird (29 page)

When they returned, the household was up. Siobhan was putting coats on the kids. “We're going down to pick out some flowers for Seamus. Brian thinks that we should choose a very special wreath for him.”

Shannon walked to Moira, who bent down and hugged her. “Molly thinks that we should put a few chocolates in the box with Seamus, so he can look down from his place with Jesus and think of us and remember that we loved him. Do you think it would be okay for us to put a few chocolates in with him?”

“I think it would be lovely,” Moira said, squeezing her niece.

“Brian says they'll melt and get yucky,” Molly said, coming up.

Moira looked at Brian, who looked very mature and serious in his winter coat. “Brian, I don't think that it will matter too much. I had a friend who buried a few cigars with her dad. Since it's your granddad who has the final say in everything, I'm pretty sure it's going to be okay to bury Seamus with a few chocolates. I think it will make you feel good. That's what matters.”

Siobhan gave her a grateful smile, taking the little girls by the hands. “We're off.”

“Where's Patrick?” Moira asked.

“Still in the shower. He can catch up with us—if he chooses to,” Siobhan said briefly.

“Hey, I'll come with you,” Moira said. Siobhan frowned at her but made no protest. When they had gotten down to the street, her sister-in-law stared at her. “Were you just trying to get out of the house without your father swearing that you might need an armed escort?”

“No,” Moira protested. But Siobhan was still staring at her. “All right, maybe. But not really on purpose…okay, I guess it was Freudian or something. I'll really come to the flower shop. Then I do have a few errands.”

As they walked, Siobhan allowed the kids to move a few feet ahead. “It's got to be hard for you right now. Even before this accident with Seamus, your dad was all worried about the murders. Frankly, I don't see the danger. Not that I'm saying anyone deserves to be murdered, but if there is a new serial killer out there, he's targeting prostitutes.”

“I know. And I'm sure Dad knows. Have you tried to leave the house alone at night?”

“Yeah, the night you came in. I was only going to a dinner my folks were giving. Your father drove me. My parents aren't a mile from here. But don't feel bad—it's not just your father. My father drove me back.”

“I guess we should be thankful we have them,” Moira said.

“Yes, I know. Something like this happening to Seamus makes you realize how delicate life can be.”

“It does,” Moira murmured.

Siobhan was watching her curiously. “Have you met Andrew McGahey?”

“Yes. Just yesterday.”

“And…?”

“And what?”

Siobhan shrugged. “I find him…smarmy.”

“Smarmy?”

“I don't trust him.”

“Really?”

“Oh, he gave us a tape about the kids in Ireland…but he's rich himself, grew up in the Hamptons, and I haven't heard about any of his own contributions. He's been in Ireland often enough. But I haven't figured out what he does for a living, except spend his parents' money.”

“I really didn't see him long enough to make a judgment,” Moira said.

Siobhan shrugged. “Maybe I'm wrong. But I think smarmy fits him perfectly. I don't know, maybe if I actually see him do something I'll change my mind. So far, it seems he's at his most passionate when he talks about fishing. He likes Patrick's boat.”

“I agree about one thing—we'll have to see what the man does,” Moira murmured. Siobhan's words disturbed her. Siobhan and Patrick were definitely having their differences. She loved her sister-in-law, and she was very sorry to see it.

And she was mistrusting her brother herself.

“Maybe we're just getting older and more like our dads than we want to be—paranoid about everything,” Moira murmured.

They reached the flower shop. Siobhan was a great mother, keeping patiently sane and quiet while the children all explained just what they wanted for Seamus. Moira picked out a bouquet for the funeral. Seamus was the kind of fellow who would want donations to a good charity given in his memory rather than too many flowers. But they were his family, as her father had said, and some flowers were necessary.

When they finished, Moira glanced at her watch. Nearly noon.

“Where are you off to?” Siobhan asked.

“I—” She hesitated briefly.
The police station, because I don't trust people living in our own home.

She couldn't say that. And she sure as hell didn't mean to implicate her brother in anything. She just wanted to voice her concerns.

“I have a few things to check on for the show,” she lied.

“Well, I'm glad I got you out of the house without a lot of grief,” Siobhan said. “I won't be back for a while myself. There's a subway station right up the street. I'm going to take the kids to see my folks.”

“Great. Tell them hello and best wishes for me,” Moira said.

“Will do.”

They parted and went in opposite directions. As Moira walked, she wondered if she was doing the right thing. She was going to the police with rumors they'd already heard about. And what was she going to tell them? That Seamus might have had a few things to tell them, but Seamus was dead? She loved her brother, but he couldn't really be doing anything wrong. She simply couldn't believe it. Then there was the fact that they had a guest staying with them who had real cause to be a gun-toting radical….

She wasn't at all sure. And ridiculously, she found herself looking over her shoulder as she approached the station. What did she think? That there were eyes following her everywhere?

She saw a man outside the station, leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette. When he saw her, he tossed the cigarette away and walked toward her. He was in a very basic suit and overcoat this time. It was Kyle Browne. He made his way to her as she approached the door.

“You probably don't want to go in there,” he told her.

“Why?”

“I think we should walk, maybe get some coffee, talk. But you don't want to be seen in the police station.”

She hesitated, then stepped around him. “I think I should go in.”

“Suit yourself.”

She kept walking; he didn't stop her. She got all the way to the door, and he still made no move to stop her. She turned and headed toward him.

“I'm not sure what good this does. As if people don't know you're a cop.”

“I'm not exactly a cop.”

“What exactly are you, then?”

“Different agency,” he said. He let out an impatient sound. “This is an international situation, surely you realize that.”

“Are you FBI?” she inquired.

He was already moving ahead of her. “You go into that station,” he told her, “and the name badges you'll read will be O'Leary, Shaunnessy, O'Casey, and maybe you'll find a Lorenzo, a Giovanni or an Astrella. Sure, the local cops are on guard duty.”

“I had wanted to see somebody about Seamus,” she murmured.

“The autopsy report just came in. Broken neck. Kowalski died of a heart attack. Just like the cops read it at the scene.”

“So it was…natural?”

“If you want to call a broken neck natural.”

“I'm telling you, my father—”

“Your father is probably pure as the driven snow,” Kyle said impatiently.

“Then what—”

“There's a coffee shop right up here. Let's slip in.”

They did so. The place was narrow, with tables stretching far back. Kyle headed for the farthest corner. They sat and ordered two coffees from a disinterested waitress.

He didn't talk again until their coffee had been served. “So, what do you know?” he demanded.

“I'm sure I know a lot less than you do. I wanted to go in and talk to someone to make sure that what happened to Seamus really was an accident.”

“Why? What was Seamus doing?”

“Doing? Nothing. But he was talking.”

“Saying?”

“That there were whispers in the pub. Rumors about a conspiracy or something. A plan to attack Brolin when he was in the city. And apparently the code word
was
supposed to be blackbird. You ordered a blackbird.”

“I thought I'd see what feathers rustled when the word came up.”

“It is a drink and also the name of the house band.”

“Yes, of course. And not a bad code name. Innocent enough. All you have to do is use it in conversation and see what response you get. So who's in on it?”

“You're acting as if I know.”

“You must know something. Your brother has been involved in a lot of anti-Union politics lately.”

“He wants to educate orphans. That's hardly anti anything,” she murmured protectively. “And actually, isn't the whole thing absurd? Any nut could pull out a gun at a parade—”

“But any nut would have to get close enough. And I'm assuming the trigger man doesn't want to get the death penalty.”

“There is no death penalty in Massachusetts—”

“There can still be a death penalty for a federal crime,” Kyle said impatiently. “But I'm assuming our man wants to get away with murder.”

“Get away with murder as in make it appear like an accident? Like someone breaking his neck falling downstairs?”

Kyle shrugged.

“Then why would you need a ‘piece'?”

“A piece? Who was talking about a piece?”

“I…I don't know. It was just something I overheard.”

“You've got to think. Who?”

“I don't know. It was outside the pub. People whispering. I never saw their faces. They were in shadow.”

“Think. What about the voices?”

“Just whispers.”

“Come on, now, you must have recognized something.”

“I didn't.”

“Did they see you?”

“I…yes, I guess so. I think one of them brushed past me, pushing me down on the ice.”

“And you didn't see anything, think anything, feel anything, hear anything more?”

“Yeah—I felt pain when I landed on the ice.”

“Then what?”

“Then a friend was picking me up.”

“A friend? What friend?”

“Dan O'Hara.”

“And you saw him come out from the pub to help you?”

“No, I…” She'd had no idea where Danny had come from that night.

Browne kept studying her. “You know, your friend has a shady past.”

“I know that….”

“You know his father was shot and killed?”

“Are you after my brother or Danny? Or someone else in the pub?”

“Your band man deserves a lot of watching, as well.”

“Well, that's what you've been doing, right? Watching.”

“Miss Kelly, you don't seem to understand. You may be in personal danger. It's important that you come to me with anything you learn, anything at all.”

Kyle was staring at the door. She felt at a disadvantage; she couldn't see what he did. She twisted. Two uniformed officers had come into the coffee shop. As she turned to face Kyle, he lifted a hand as if waving to them.

She lowered her head, feeling her stomach turn. There was too much that she hadn't known about Danny.

And she'd slept with him. Fallen into her pattern of physical and mental familiarity and longing.

“You've got to protect yourself,” Kyle said. “Stay near those you know from other walks of life. Your partner, your New York lover.”

“What about my family?” she asked dully.

“Your family will be occupied with the death of your friend.”

“They are, but…the pub is open. After the wake tomorrow night, it will be crawling with people.”

“I'll be there. You'll be safe.”

“The way Seamus was safe?”

“Look, this is all you have to do. Keep your mouth shut. Pretend you don't know a damned thing. For God's sake, don't snoop. Keep out of it completely. But if you hear anything, anything at all, come to me. Don't let people see you looking for the police. You'd be waving a red flag, just like a matador teasing a bull.”

“What do you suggest I do? Lock myself in my room?”

“Live your life normally. Keep out of it. And tell me everything.”

“I've told you what I know.”

“No, you haven't.”