Vengeance in Death (20 page)

There were parts of Dublin that weren’t so cheerful, where the alleys carried that universal smell of garbage gone over and thin cats slunk in shadows. Here she saw the underbelly of any city, men walking quickly, shoulders hunched, eyes shifting right and left. She heard harsh laughter with desperate undertones and the wail of a hungry baby.

She saw a group of boys, the oldest of them no more than ten. They walked casually, but Eve caught the cool. calculating gleam in their eyes. If she’d had her weapon, her hand would have been on it.

The street was their turf, and they knew it.

One bumped lightly into Roarke as they passed. “Beg pardon,” he began, then cursed ripely when Roarke grabbed him by the scruff of the neck.

“Mind the hands, boyo. I don’t care for any but my own in my pockets.”

“Turn me loose.” He swung, comically missed in a roundhouse as Roarke held him at arm’s length. “Bloody bastard, I never pinched nothing.”

“Only because you’ve thick hands. Christ, I was better than you when I was six.” He gave the boy a quick shake, more in exasperation of his clumsiness than in annoyance with the act itself. “A drunk tourist from the west counties would have felt that grope. And you were obvious as well.” He looked down into the boy’s furious face and shook his head. “You’d do better as the pass-off man than the pincher.”

“That’s great, Roarke, why don’t you give him a few lessons on thievery while you’re at it.”

At Eve’s words the boy’s eyes flickered and narrowed. He stopped struggling. “They tell tales of a Roarke who used to work these streets. Lived in the shanties and made himself a right fortune off quick fingers and nerves.”

“You’ve got the nerves, but you don’t have the fingers.”

“They work well enough on most.” Relaxed now, the boy flashed Roarke a quick and charming grin. “And if they don’t I can outrun any cop on two legs.”

Roarke leaned down, lowered his voice. “This is my wife, you bonehead, and she’s a cop.”

“Jay-sus.”

“Exactly.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a handful of coins. “I’d keep these for myself if I were you. Your associates scattered like rats. They didn’t stand with you and don’t deserve a share.”

“I won’t be after dividing it.” The coins disappeared into his pocket. “It’s been a pleasure making your acquaintance.” He slid his gaze to Eve, nodded with surprisingly dignity. “Missus,” he murmured, then ran like a rabbit into the dark.

“How much did you give him?” Eve asked.

“Enough to tickle his humor and not disturb his pride.” He slid his arm around her waist and began to walk again.

“Remind you of someone?”

“No indeed,” Roarke said with a cheer he hadn’t expected to feel. “I’d never have been caught so handily.”

“I don’t see that it’s anything to brag about. Besides, your fingers wouldn’t be so light these days.”

“I’m sure you’re right. A man loses his touch with age.” Smiling, he held out the badge he’d lifted out of her pocket. “I think this is yours. Lieutenant.”

She snatched it back and struggled to be neither amused nor impressed. “Show-off.”

“I could hardly let you disparage my reputation. And here we are.” He stopped again, studying the pub. “The Penny Pig. Hasn’t changed much. A bit cleaner maybe.”

“It could be readying for competition for the tidy village award.”

It was unimposing from the outside. The grilled window boasted a painting of a sly-eyed white pig. No flowers bloomed here, but the glass was free of smears, the sidewalk free of litter.

The minute Roarke opened the door she felt the rush of heat, the jittery flow of voices and music, the cloud of beer fumes and smoke.

It was one long, narrow room. Men were lined at the old wooden bar. Others, including women and young children, were packed onto chairs around low tables where glasses crowded the space. At the far end at a tiny booth sat two men. One played a fiddle, the other a small box that squeezed out a jumpy tune.

High on the wall was a mini view screen with the sound turned off. On it a man struggled to ride a bicycle down a pitted lane and continued to take tumbles. No one appeared to be watching the show.

Behind the bar two men worked, pulling drafts, pouring liquor. Several people glanced over as they entered, but the conversations never lagged.

Roarke moved to the end of the bar. He recognized the older of the bartenders, a man of his own age who’d once been thin as a rail and filled with wicked humor.

While he waited for service, he lifted a hand to Eve’s shoulder and rubbed absently. He was grateful to have her beside him when he took this short trip into the past.

“Guinness, a pint and a glass please.”

“On the way.”

“What am I going to be drinking?” Eve demanded.

“The heart of the realm,” Roarke murmured, and watched his old friend build the drinks with an admirable expertise. “It’s an acquired taste. If you don’t care for it, we’ll get you a Harp.”

Eve narrowed her eyes against the smoke. “Don’t they know tobacco’s been banned in public places?”

“Not in Ireland it hasn’t, not in the pubs.”

The bartender came back with the drinks. Eve lifted hers to sip while Roarke dug more coins from his pocket. Her brows drew together at the first sip, then she shook her head with the second. “Tastes like something I should chew.”

Roarke chuckled and the bartender beamed. “You’re a Yank then. Your first Guinness?”

“Yeah.” Eve frowned at the glass, turning it slowly while examining the dark brown liquid with its foamy white head.

“And your last as well?”

She sipped again, holding the beer in her mouth for a moment, then swallowing. “No. I think I like it.”

“That’s fine then.” The bartender grinned widely, and neatly nudged Roarke’s coins back. “You’ll have the first on me.”

“That’s kind of you, Brian.” Roarke watched Brian turn from admiring Eve to study him.

“Do I know you? There’s a familiar look about you that I’m not quite placing.”

“It’s been fifteen years, more or less, so your memory might be dim even after all the times we had. I recognized you right enough, Brian Kelly, though you’ve added a stone or two. Perhaps three.” Roarke flashed a grin, and it was the grin that did it.

“Well, bloody hell, lock up your women. It’s Roarke himself.” Brian’s lips stretched in a mile-wide grin as he rammed a fist into Roarke’s face.

“Christ Jesus” was the best Roarke could do as his head snapped back. He kept his balance, shook his head to clear it.

“Sucker punch,” Eve commented, and took another sip of stout. “Nice pals you’ve got, Roarke.”

“I owed you that.” Brian shook a finger. “You never did come back with the hundred pounds that was my fair share of the cargo money.”

Philosophically Roarke swiped the back of his hand over his cut lip to blot the blood. After the briefest of pauses, both the music and the hum of conversation continued. “It would have cost me more than a hundred pounds to come back at that point with the guarda on the prowl.” Roarke picked up his pint, sipped to soothe his mouth. “I thought I sent it to you.”

“Hell you did. But what’s a hundred pounds between friends.” With a roaring laugh, Brian grabbed Roarke’s shoulders, yanked him over the bar, and kissed him dead on his bleeding mouth. “Welcome home, you bloody bastard. You there!” He shouted to the musicians. “Play ‘The Wild Rover’ for me old friend here, for that’s what he ever was. And I’ve heard he’s got gold in great store all right, enough to buy a round for the house.”

The patrons cheered and the music turned lively.

“I’ll stand the house for a round, Bri, if you’ll give me and my wife a few minutes of your time back in the snug.”

“Wife, is it?” He roared again and pulled Eve forward for a hearty kiss. “Blessed Mary save us all. I’ll give you a few minutes and more, for I own the place now. Michael O’Toole, you come on back and give Johnny a hand with the bar. I’ve got some catching up to do.”

He pressed a button beneath the bar and had a narrow door at the far end swinging open.

The snug, Eve discovered, was a tiny private room fitted out with a single table and a scattering of chairs. The light was dim, but the floor gleamed like a mirror. Through the closed door, the music piped.

“You married this reprobate,” Brian said, sighing as he lowered himself onto a chair that creaked beneath his weight.

“Yeah, well, he begged.”

“You’ve got yourself a pretty one here, boyo. A long one with eyes the color of the best Irish.”

“She’ll do me.” Roarke took out his cigarettes, offered one to Brian.

“American.” He closed his eyes in pleasure as Roarke lighted it for him. “We still have a hard time getting these here.”

“I’ll send you a case to make up for the hundred.”

“I can sell off a case of Yanks for ten times that.” Brian grinned. “So I’ll take it. What brings you to the Penny Pig? I hear you come to Dublin now and again on your rich man’s business, but you don’t wander our way.”

“No, I haven’t.” Roarke met his eyes. “Ghosts.”

“Aye.” Brian nodded, understanding perfectly. “They’re thick in the streets and alleys. But you’ve come now, with your pretty wife.”

“I have. You’d have heard about Tommy Brennen and the others.”

“Murdered.” Brian poured from the bottle of whiskey he’d taken from beneath the bar. “Tommy would come in now and again over the years. Not often, but now and again, and we’d have a song out of him. I saw him and his wife once, and his children, strolling on Grafton Street. He saw me as well, but it wasn’t the time to speak to the likes of me. Tommy, well, he preferred keeping certain parts of what had been from his family.”

He lifted his glass more in resignation than toast. “Shawn now, he was a rare one. He’d send word back from New York, always claiming he was making a fortune, and when he’d finished counting all his money, back he’d be. A fine liar was Shawn,” he said and drank to him.

“I’ve brought Jennie’s body back with me.”

“Have you?” His wide and ruddy face sober, Brian nodded. “That’s the right thing. She’d have wanted that. She had a sweet heart, did Jennie. I hope they catch the bloody bastard who did her.”

“That’s one of the reasons we’re here, hoping you can help.”

“Now how could I do that, being an ocean away from where the deed was done?”

“Because it all started here, with Marlena.” Roarke took Eve’s hand. “I didn’t properly introduce you to my wife, Brian. This is Eve. Lieutenant Eve Dallas, New York City Police and Security.”

Brian choked on his whiskey, thumped his chest to help the air into his lungs. His eyes watered. “A cop? You married a bloody cop?”

“I married a bloody criminal,” Eve muttered, “but nobody ever thinks of that.”

“I do, darling.” Amused, Roarke kissed her hand. “Constantly.”

Brian let go another of his rollicking laughs and poured another shot. “Here’s to the pair of you. And to the icicles that are forming in Hell.”

He’d have to postpone the next.

He prayed for patience. After all, he’d waited so long already. But it was a sign from God, he understood that. He had veered from the path, acted on his own desires, when he had planted the bomb in her car.

He had sinned, and so prayed for forgiveness as well as patience. He had only to listen to the guiding force. He knew that, and was repentant. Tears blurred his vision as he knelt, accepting his penance, his punishment for his conceit and arrogance.

Like Moses, he had faltered in his mission and tested God.

The rosaries clinked musically in his hands as he moved from bead to bead, from decade to decade with a practiced ease and a deep devotion.

Hail Mary, full of grace.

He used no cushion for his knees, for he’d been taught that forgiveness demanded pain. Without it, he would have felt himself uncleansed. Votive candles, white for purity, flickered and carried the faint smell of wax pooling on wax.

Between them, the image of the Virgin watched him silently. Forgivingly.

His face was shadowed by the candlelight, and aglow with the visions of his own salvation.

Blessed art thou among women.

The anthem to the Virgin Mother was his favorite prayer, and no penance at all. It was comfort. As he completed the fifth of the nine rosaries he’d been given as penance, he pondered the Sorrowful Mysteries. He cleared his mind of worldly cares and carnal thoughts.

Like Mary, he was a virgin. He had been taught that his innocence and his purity were the paths to glory. Whenever lust crept its stealthy way into his heart, heating his blood, slickening his skin, he fought that whispering demon with all his might. Both his body, well trained, and his mind, well honed, were dedicated to his faith.

And the seeds of his faith were sown in blood, rooted in vengeance, and bloomed with death.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Eve could hear the low murmur of an international news report from the parlor screen when she awoke. Her body clock was a mass of confusion. She figured it was still the middle of the night according to her system, and a nice, rainy dawn where her body happened to be.

She didn’t think Roarke had slept long, but accepted that he needed less sleep than anyone she’d ever known. He hadn’t been talkative when they’d gotten back from the Penny Pig the night before, but he had been… hungry.

He’d made love like a man desperate to find something, or to lose it, and she had little choice but to grab hold and join the ride.

Now he’d already been up and working, she imagined. Scanning the news reports, the stock reports, making calls, pushing buttons. She decided it was best to leave him to it until her mind cleared.

She eyed the bathroom shower dubiously. It was a three-sided affair of white tile that left the user’s butt exposed to the room. Search as she might, she found no mechanism that would close her in and protect her privacy.

It was nearly six feet in length, with ceiling heads angled down to soak or spray. She went for spray, hot, and struggled to ignore the opening behind her as she soaped and rinsed.

Brian had been little help, she mused, though he had promised to put out the word, discreetly, and try to gather any information on the families of the men who’d killed Marlena. A few of them he knew personally and had laughed off the idea of any of them having the skill, the brains, or the nerve to choreograph a series of murders in New York.

Eve preferred to look at police records and solicit the opinion of a professional colleague. All she had to do was nudge Roarke in a different direction so that she would have the morning free to brainstorm with Inspector Farrell.

Confident that would only take a bit of maneuvering, she ordered the spray off, turned to step out of the shower, then yelped as if scalded.

Roarke was standing behind her, leaning back against the wall, hands dipped casually in his pockets.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Getting you a towel.” Smiling, he reached for one on the warming rack. Then held it out of reach. “Sleep well?”

“Yeah, well enough.”

“I ordered breakfast when I heard the shower running. Full Irish. You’ll like it.”

She dragged her dripping hair out of her eyes. “Okay. Are you going to give me that towel?”

“I’m thinking about it. What time is your appointment with the guarda?”

She’d started to make a grab for the towel, then pulled back, wary. “Who?”

“The police, darling Eve. The Dublin cops. This morning, I imagine. Early. By, what, nine?”

She shifted, crossed her arms over her breasts, but it didn’t help. “I never said I was meeting anyone.” When he only lifted a brow, she swore. “Know-it-alls are very irritating to mortals. Give me that damn towel.”

“I don’t know it all, but I know you. Are you meeting someone in particular?”

“Listen, I can’t have this conversation naked.”

“I like having conversations when you’re naked.”

“That’s because you’re a sick man, Roarke. Give me that towel.”

He held it up by two fingers, and his eyes gleamed. “Come and get it.”

“You’re just going to try to get me back into bed.”

Now his smile spread and he moved toward her. “I wasn’t thinking of the bed.”

“Step back.” She held up a hand, feinted to the right. “I’ll hurt you.”

“God, I love when you threaten me. It excites me.”

“I’ll give you excitement,” she promised. She’d just judged her chances of getting past him and out the door, found them passable, when he tossed the towel in her direction. When she grabbed for it, he caught her around the waist and had her pinned against the wall before she could decide whether to laugh or swear.

“I’m not fighting with you in here.” She blew at her wet hair. “Everybody knows the majority of home accidents involving personal injuries happen in the bathroom. It’s a death trap.”

“We’ll have to risk it.” Slowly he lifted her hands over her head then scraped his teeth along her throat. “You’re wet, and you’re warm, and you’re tasty.”

Her blood fired, her muscles went lax. What the hell, she thought, she had at least two hours to spare. She turned her head and caught his mouth with hers. “You’re dressed,” she murmured. In a lightning move she tipped her weight, shifted, and reversed their positions. Hers eyes laughed into his. “Just let me fix that for you.”

Wild vertical sex was a pretty good way to start the day, Eve decided, and when it was followed by what the Irish called breakfast, it was nirvana.

Eggs creamily scrambled, potatoes fried with onions, sausage and bacon and thick slabs of bread smothered with fresh butter, all topped off with coffee by the gallon.

“Um,” she managed, plowing her way through. “Can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

“Can’t eat like this every day. Whole country’d waddle to their death.”

It continually satisfied him to watch her eat, to see her stoke up that slim body that burned off fuel with nerves and energy. “It’s a now-and-again sort of thing. A weekend indulgence.”

“Good. Mmm. What’s in this meat stuff here?”

Roarke eyed the blood pudding she shoveled in and shook his head. “You’ll thank me for not telling you. Just enjoy it.”

“Okay.” She paused for breath, flicked a glance at him. Sighed. “I’m meeting Inspector Farrell at nine. I guess I should have told you.”

“You’re telling me now,” he pointed out and glanced at his wrist unit for the time. “That’ll give me enough time to clean up a few details before we go.”

“We?” Eve set down her fork before she ate another bite and did permanent damage. “Farrell is meeting with me — as in me — as a professional courtesy. And you know what? I bet she doesn’t bring her husband along.”

He had his datebook out, checking appointments, and glanced up with an easy smile. “Was that an attempt to put me in my place?”

“Figure it out.”

“All right, and you figure this.” Taking his time, he topped off both their coffee cups. “You can pursue this investigation your way.” His gaze flicked up to hers, glimmered there. “And I can pursue my interests in the matter in my way. Are you willing to risk my finding him first?”

He could be hard, she knew. And ruthless. He was undeniably clever. “You’ve got twenty minutes to handle your details before we leave.”

“I’ll be ready.”

Inspector Katherine Farrell was a striking woman. Perhaps forty-five, she had hair of blazing red neatly coiled at the nape of a long, slim neck. Her eyes were moss green, her skin the color of Irish cream. She wore a trim and tailored gray suit military in style that showcased lovely legs. She offered both Eve and Roarke her hand and a cup of tea.

“This would be your first trip to Ireland then, Lieutenant Dallas?”

“Yes.”

Though her tidy office was equipped with an AutoChef, Farrell poured the tea out of a white china pot. It was one of her small pleasures. And it gave her time to measure and judge the Yank cop and the man known only as Roarke. “I hope you’ll have time to see some of the country while you’re here.”

“Not on this trip.”

“Pity.” She turned, teacups in hand, a smile on her lips. She found Eve both less and more than she’d expected. Less brittle than she chose to think of American police. And more tough than she expected to find a woman who had married a man with Roarke’s reputation. “And you’re from Dublin originally,” she said to Roarke.

He recognized the speculation in her eyes, and the knowledge. He might not have a criminal record — officially — but he did have a reputation. And memories were long. “I grew up in the shanties in South Dublin.”

“A difficult area, even now.” She sat, crossed her spectacular legs. “And you have businesses — ah, enterprises so to speak, here still.”

“Several.”

“It’s good for the economy. You’ve brought the body of Jennie O’Leary back to be waked and buried.”

“I have. We’ll wake her tonight.”

Farrell nodded, sipped delicately at her tea. “I’ve a cousin who once stayed at the B and B she ran in Wexford. I’m told it was a lovely place. Have you been there?”

“No.” He inclined his head, understanding the question between the questions. “I hadn’t seen Jennie in over twelve years.”

“But you did contact her just before she went to New York and was killed.”

Eve set her cup aside with a click of china on wood. “Inspector Farrell, this homicide and the others are under my jurisdiction. You don’t have the authority to interview Roarke in this matter.”

Tough, Farrell thought again. And territorial. Well, so am I. “All three of your dead were Irish citizens. We have an interest, a keen one, in your investigation.”

“It’s simple enough to answer,” Roarke put in before Eve could fire up again. “I contacted Jenny after Shawn Conroy was murdered. I was concerned for her safety.”

“Hers in particular?”

“Hers, and several others I’d been close to when I lived in Dublin.”

“Let’s just put this on the table.” Eve drew Farrell’s attention back to her, where she wanted to keep it. “I received a transmission, expertly jammed and so far untraceable, from an individual who claimed his game was vengeance sanctioned by God, and he’d chosen me for his opponent. He gave me a Bible quote, and a riddle, and upon following them I discovered the mutilated body of Thomas Brennen in his New York residence. Subsequently I learned that Roarke had known Thomas Brennen when they had both lived in Dublin.”

“I’ve spoken with his widow myself,” Farrell put in. “She said you were kind to her.”

Eve lifted her brows. “We hardly ever kick widows around in the morgue anymore. It’s bad for public relations.”

Farrell drew a breath and watched two tourist trams, bright in their green and white paint, pass her windows. “Point taken, Lieutenant.”

“Good. The following day I received another transmission, another set of clues, and found the body of Shawn Conroy. This pattern, and the fact that the second murder took place in one of Roarke’s empty rental units, indicated that there was a connection to Roarke.”

“And following that you followed the path from yet another transmission and discovered the body of Jennie O’Leary in a hotel which Roarke also owns.”

“That’s correct. A detective from our electronics division subsequently followed the transmission bounce, covering several points, one of which initially indicated that the transmission originated in our home. However, there was an echo which proved this to be false. At this time we are analyzing the echo and are confident that we will pinpoint the exact origin.”

“And at this time your prime suspect is a man in Roarke’s employ, a man who also lived in Dublin at one time. Summerset,” she continued, smiling thinly at Roarke. “We’ve been able to access very little background information on him.”

“You’re a bit behind, Inspector,” Eve said dryly. “Upon further investigation and personality testing, Summerset is no longer prime. Indications are that he was being used to mislead the investigation.”

“Yet the direction of all points back to Dublin, which is why you’re here.”

“I received the cooperation of Roarke and Summerset. I believe that the motives for these crimes have their roots in the rape/murder of Summerset’s minor daughter, Marlena, nearly twenty years ago. She was abducted and held by a group of men who threatened to harm her if Roarke didn’t agree to their demands. However, his agreement was ignored and her body was dumped at the front door of the residence where Roarke, Summerset, and Marlena lived.”

“This happened here, in Dublin?”

“Blood was and is shed,” Roarke said coolly, “even in your tidy streets, Inspector.”

Farrell’s eyes hardened as she swiveled to her computer. “When?”

It was Roarke who gave her the year, the month, the day, and then the hour.

“Marlena Summerset.”

“No. Kolchek. Her name was Marlena Kolchek.” As Summerset’s had been during that period, Roarke thought, but no records of Basil Kolchek exist. Not any longer. Summerset had come into existence only weeks after Marlena’s death. “Not all children use their father’s last name.”

Farrell sent him one quiet look, then called for the file.

“This matter was investigated and ruled death by misadventure. Investigating officer…” She trailed off, sighed. “Inspector Maguire. You knew him?” she asked Roarke.

“Yes, I knew him.”

“I did not, not personally. But his reputation is not one this department has pride in. You knew the men who murdered this girl.”

“I knew them. They’re dead.”

“I see.” Her gaze flickered. “Their names, please.”

As Roarke listed each, Farrell pulled files, scanned them.

“They were not sterling citizens of our city,” she murmured. “And they died badly. One could say… vengefully.”

“One could,” Roarke agreed.

“Men who choose that lifestyle often die badly,” Eve put in. “It’s my belief that due to the link to Marlena’s murder, this killer has set out to avenge one or more of their deaths in the mistaken belief that Roarke was responsible. Those who died in New York also knew Marlena and the true circumstances of her death. Summerset was her father and maintains a close personal relationship with Roarke. I’ve distracted him for the moment, but we have another day or two at best before he kills the next.”

“Do you have any idea who will be next?”

“Nineteen years, Inspector,” Roarke said. “I’ve contacted everyone I can think of who might be a target. But even that didn’t help Jennie.”

“I can access official data on the families of these men,” Eve began, “but it’s not enough. I need a personal take from a professional eye. I need a cop’s view, a cop who knows them, their styles, their minds. I need a workable list of suspects.”

“Do you have a profile on your man?”

“I do.”

Farrell nodded. “Then let’s get to work.”

“Career criminals,” Farrell commented, tapping a slim black pointer against her palm. They’d moved into a small, windowless conference room with a trio of wall screens. She gestured toward the first image. “Ryan here, a bad one, I put him in the nick myself five years back on armed robbery and assault. He’s vicious, but more a bully than a leader. He’s been out for six months — but it’s doubtful he’ll stay that way. He doesn’t fit your profile.” Across the room Eve had tacked stills to a wide board, victims on one side, possible suspects on the other. Taking Farrell’s word, she removed Ryan.