St. Patrick's Day Murder (22 page)

As I left Jean’s house, I remembered Carol Hanrahan’s father. Pulling over to the curb, I checked my map of Brooklyn, then worked my way to the area where old Mrs. Kennedy had said St. Andrew’s Home for the Aged was located. A drugstore with a phone book gave me the exact address, and the pharmacist assured me the home was close enough to walk to, so I left the car and took off. When I reached it, I didn’t need to check the number or the street. It was easily recognizable as Catholic and institutional, a very old building made of large, square rust-colored stones, a patch of concrete in front which may once have been grass that was too much trouble to maintain, and a hideous chain-link fence around the perimeter, whether to keep outsiders out or insiders in I did not want to consider.

The front door was locked. After I had rung the bell twice, it was opened by a young woman who was probably a nurse’s aide. I told her I was looking for Charles Hanrahan.

“He’s probably in the community room,” she said, locking the door behind me. “Are you a relative?”

“A friend.”

She started to direct me, but I asked her to show me the way. “It’s been a long time,” I said. “I’m not sure I’ll recognize him.”

She gave me a skeptical look but started walking. The community room was in the back of the building and was filled with old men and women, many in wheelchairs, others with canes and walkers at arm’s reach. There were a few card games going on, some knitting, some rocking, some talking, some television watching. The aide walked to a man holding cards and said something in his ear. He looked over
at me and shook his head. They conferred again and he put his cards down and got up from the table. He was fairly tall and very thin, and he hadn’t shaved for several days, which made him look dirty, although he wasn’t. He was wearing a jacket over a tieless sportshirt and his clothes looked very clean.

“Do I know you?” he asked as he reached me.

“No, you don’t. My name is Christine Bennett. May we speak privately?”

“Did I win the lottery?” he said, with a grin.

“It’s not about money. It’s about family.”

The aide was still standing there. “Everything OK, Charlie?” she asked.

“Everything’s fine. We’ll just sit in the foyer if you don’t mind.”

She smiled and waved and left the room. We walked back to the entrance area and sat in a corner, each of our chairs on a different wall. Although it was a large area, we were completely alone.

“What family are you here about?” he said.

“Your daughter Carol and her son Scott.”

He said, “Ah,” and looked down at his hands. “That was a long time ago. A whole lifetime ago.”

“I know.”

“Carol’s been gone over thirty years and the boy just died a few weeks ago.”

“I know. I knew him.”

“You his wife?”

“No. My fiancé is on the police force. He was one of Scotty’s best friends.” It was a milestone in my life. I had referred to Jack as my fiancé.

“So what are you here for?”

“Scotty never told his wife that your daughter was his natural mother. I’m sure he meant to, but he didn’t. She wants to know about his family—for the sake of her children.”

“It’s a good family,” he said. “My wife was a good woman. Carol was just unlucky. It happens.”

“She had a baby before she married.”

“He wouldn’t marry her. He had big plans for himself and my Carol didn’t fit in. He gave her a little money.” He said
it as though it had been a very meager contribution to her welfare.

“Do you know who he was?”

“Oh, I know. Carol made me swear—made us both swear—we’d never tell and I can’t break my promise. He got what he wanted, a big career. Married another girl a few years later.”

“What does he do?” I asked.

“He’s a big man in the military, lots of gold braid on the uniform, lots of medals. He would have been proud of the boy, but he never kept up with him. Nothing.”

“And your daughter?”

“Suicide,” he said curtly, and my heart jumped.

“I’m so sorry.”

“She just couldn’t take it, I guess, his leaving her like that with a little baby. Doris already had cancer and we knew the end was coming for her. I couldn’t raise a little fella like that and hang on to a job. We put him up for adoption.”

“Did you know the McVeighs?”

“I saw them now and then. They let me see the boy. They were nice enough people.” His offhandedness was probably more of an indication of what a wonderful parent his daughter would have been rather than any fault on the McVeighs’ part.

“So you got to see him. That’s nice. Did you know he was married?”

“Oh, sure. He used to drop in here once in a while. Good-looking fella in his uniform.”

“Did you tell him who his father was?” I asked.

He stalled, looking pained. “I told him,” he said finally.

“What about the McVeighs?”

“Oh, they’ve passed on. They were an older couple when they adopted the boy. Been waiting a long time for one of their own.”

“Mr. Hanrahan, do you know why Scotty never told his wife about you?”

He shook his head slowly and rubbed a hand over the stubble on his face. “That’s how he wanted it,” he said. “I think it shamed him, his father leaving like that, his mother
a suicide. My Carol, she was a beautiful girl, a good girl. There was nothing to be ashamed of.”

I wondered if he had been as accepting three decades ago, if his daughter’s suicide had been at least partly the result of a tough father’s disapproval. It was all moot now and none of my business. “Would you want to meet Scotty’s wife? There are two little children, your great-grandchildren.”

“I know what they are to me,” he said, letting me know he had all his faculties. “I would see them. Why not?”

I took his lack of enthusiasm as a sign of the wall he had built up over all the years when he was privy to his grandson’s life only at the pleasure of other people.

I smiled at him. “I’ll call before we come,” I promised.

“Thanks for coming,” he called as I walked across the stone floor to the big door.

On the way to Jack’s apartment I heard a news report that Jerry McMahon’s car had been found in the water not far from where his body had been dumped. It had been hauled out this morning and identified positively as belonging to him. Besides bloodstains on the front seat, there was a bullet hole in the back of the seat, the one bullet that had missed its mark. The bullet that had been dug out was a .22, the same size that had killed McMahon.

Jack was home at six-thirty, and I had dinner ready to go when he walked in. He was carrying a bottle of wine, which he put on the table before we hugged.

“Hear about McMahon’s car?”

“On the way here. How’d they find it?”

“It must have been pushed into the water and gotten stuck on something. Someone saw it and called 911. It’s been pretty dry lately and the water level was down. Just plain luck that it turned up.”

“It sounds like he was shot in the car.”

“Looks that way. A .22 doesn’t make much noise. I’d guess they followed him, got into his car, and held the gun against his chest. Just sounds like a couple of pops inside a closed car.”

It wasn’t a conversation I wanted to pursue. I had rice cooking and all the makings of the stir-fry I had cooked for Joseph on Tuesday. I got it started as he put his gun and holster away and started to change into more casual clothes. “I think I’m getting somewhere, Jack. I talked to Betsy this afternoon.”

“I’m listening.”

As I followed Melanie’s directions, I told him about the
retirement party the Hansens and McVeighs had attended on Labor Day. Jack hadn’t been there, but he knew the man who had retired, a lieutenant named Connelly who was probably as old as Donner. I told him Betsy’s story right down to the man who came out of a bedroom while she was standing on the stairs waiting for Ray.

“Everyone was there, Jack: Scotty; Ray; and Jerry McMahon. I have a feeling something happened that day, somebody said something or did something that got Scotty killed.”

“Six months later?”

“Maybe St. Patrick’s Day was the first opportunity. Maybe what happened at that party was just a beginning. I know I sound vague, but that’s because I can’t put my finger on it yet. Can we find this Lieutenant Connelly? I’d like to get hold of their guest list.”

“They sold their house and moved to Ireland. The pension goes further there. Even if I could find him, I doubt whether his wife took along a list of people she invited to a party. What are you cooking?”

“Melanie Gross’s fail-safe stir-fry.”

“Beef,” he said. “What a woman.”

I added the last two ingredients and poured some light soy sauce into the pan, then some dry sherry. “We’re almost there.” I peeked into the pot of rice, then fluffed it up. I could smell success.

“Smells terrific,” Jack said, reading my mind.

“What would I do without Mel?”

“Probably start with chicken like the rest of us.”

He told me it was great so many times that my ego was soaring. We were dishing out seconds when I remembered what I’d asked him at lunch.

“The arrest last Friday night,” I said. “Did you have a chance—?”

“It’s in the works. I asked someone I know in Manhattan to check it out. He’s working nights. We ought to hear from him soon.” He poured some more wine, a Beaujolais his sister had recommended. “Like it?”

“It’s nice. You know I have underdeveloped taste buds. It’ll take time before I can really make a judgment. I’m glad your sister has taste.”

“Does she get to cater our wedding?”

“I hadn’t even …” A catered wedding. In my imagination, I saw us kneeling at the altar at St. Stephen’s. There was nothing before or after, just a lot of black and white and two gold rings. We were totally disengaged from anything else. Were there people behind us in the pews? Was there a meal waiting to be served in another building on the convent’s grounds? Were there children with rice and rose petals waiting breathlessly for us to leave the church so we could be showered? I had no idea. I had no sense of the down-to-earth realism of getting married.

“Something wrong? If you don’t want her—”

I put my hand over his. “I think I ought to talk to Melanie’s mother. Something tells me she knows a lot of things that I don’t.”

“You know enough for me,” he said. “It’s a great stir-fry.”

On that sweet note, the phone rang. From the half of the conversation I could hear, I could tell it was Jack’s friend from Manhattan, reporting on my question. Whatever the answer was, it surprised Jack. He said, “Interesting,” twice and “You sure about that?” once. When he hung up, he just stood by the phone, looking as though he were trying to puzzle something out.

“It wasn’t someone from that precinct, was it?” I said.

“I’m starting to feel a cold chill go through me. The arrest was made by a Brooklyn cop who just happened to be in the city that night and just happened to see a suspect in Gavin Moore’s murder commit a felony.”

“On the night Jerry McMahon may have been murdered.”

“How did you know, Chris?”

“I didn’t. I just didn’t like where everything was leading me. I was really hoping you’d tell me something else, that the arresting officer was on duty in his own precinct.”

“I have to make a call.” He picked up the phone and dialed, asked for someone, then asked for someone else. Then he asked for some phone numbers and wrote them down, hung up, and started again. “Al, Jack Brooks. Got a quick question. The name Tom Macklin mean anything to you?” He listened and made agreeing sounds. Then he said, “What about before that?”

When he got off the phone there was no remnant of the warm, cozy man I had been sharing dinner with. “It’s not good, Chris. This guy Macklin who made the arrest is part of an undercover group that works on busting drug gangs, intensive surveillance, linking, heavy investigation, interagency cooperation, the works. He’s been at it for a couple of years. Before that he was part of the team that Gavin Moore was on.”

“Sounds like he was following that guy last Friday, waiting for him to do something that could get him arrested.”

“And take the attention away from Jerry McMahon’s disappearance. I really hate this. I really, really hate this.”

“I have to talk to Jean,” I said. “Maybe she remembers something about that retirement party that Betsy didn’t tell me. And maybe something happened the morning of St. Patrick’s Day. There has to be a missing piece somewhere.”

“I’ll give her a call. I don’t want you going over there yourself.”

While he telephoned, I cleared the table, leaving the two glasses of wine behind. I sipped mine and let it go down slowly. I certainly liked wine a lot better than hard liquor.

“She’s home, let’s go,” Jack said, hanging up. “Leave the dishes. We’ll do them in the morning.”

“You can’t be there when I question her. It’s pretty sensitive stuff.”

“I’ll drop you off and wait outside. Maybe I’ll take a ride. I’ll figure something out.” He went to the closet and got his ankle holster, the one he wore when he didn’t have a jacket on, and smoothed the Velcro flaps around the leather and padding. He also put a pouch of extra bullets on his belt, quickly, efficiently. “Let’s go,” he said, fitting his off-duty gun into the holster. I could see he was in no mood to wait.

The lights were on in the McVeigh house and the streets were empty of little children and old men with canes. Jean opened the door on the first ring.

“Where’s Jack?”

“He’ll come back later. I just want to talk.”

“Talk.” She sat on the sofa in front of a stack of sealed envelopes that lay on the coffee table. She had been writing
notes to thank people for their comfort in her time of bereavement. It couldn’t have been a very uplifting task.

“You said you saw Jerry McMahon at a party. Could that have been on Labor Day?”

There’s a certain look people give you when they realize you’ve been checking up on what they’ve told you. That’s the way Jean looked at me at that moment, as though she knew she had to watch herself, that there were other sources of information that could confirm or cast doubt on what she said. “It was Labor Day,” she said.