Those Who Trespass: A Novel of Television and Murder

by Bill O'Reilly

  Ashley climaxed twice before the two got up from the couch and climbed the stairs to the master bedroom. Shannon ignited the logs in the fireplace as Ashley nestled in, under the down comforter. She could see Shannon outlined against the fire, still partially erect. When he joined her on the king-size bed, Ashley made a move toward his waist. He stopped her. Putting his large hands on both sides of her waist, he gently lifted her up.

  She followed his lead and assumed the dominant position while he lay on his back. Ashley moved slowly, savoring the friction inside her. Shannon caressed her body all over, and after a few minutes, she came once again, leaning forward to heighten the sensation. Her body shuddered. I need this release, she thought. I’ve waited so long.

  Shannon Michaels felt energized. He had accomplished his goal—giving Ashley Van Buren a night she would long remember. His physical pleasure was secondary. His primary euphoria came from knowing that Ashley was enjoying every bit of his expertise. He knew it was somewhat clinical, but he was good at disguising his detachment. He was getting off on controlling the situation. He would delay his physical gratification as long as possible.

  Shannon lifted Ashley off of him and quickly knelt behind her. His presence was forceful but not demanding. It felt so good that Ashley thought she would lose control. He was speaking in hushed tones, telling her how much he enjoyed her body, using words that in polite conversation would have been vulgar, but in this context were extremely erotic. His hands firmly gripped her buttocks. Ashley could feel his rhythm. First quick, then slow, then quick again. He brought her right up to orgasm, then pulled back. Without warning, he would quicken the pace again. When Ashley climaxed, Shannon finally let himself go. Ashley’s knees were shaking. She dropped onto her stomach, completely spent. She silently marveled at Shannon’s stamina.

  After more than an hour of lovemaking, the couple fell asleep. As the flaming shadows danced across the walls, all their thoughts of tomorrow were put to rest.

  * * *

  19

  LONG ISLAND

  NOVEMBER 1994

  Tommy O’Malley was in what he called “a black mood”—an emotional condition that visits some Irishmen often, but troubled Tommy only occasionally. The depression’s cause was his unanswered phone call to Ashley Van Buren earlier that morning. Tommy suspected she was visiting Shannon Michaels, whom he was to question in person later that day.

  A man of force and action, Tommy did not like feeling out of control. But his thoughts about Ashley were now becoming incessant, and uncontrollable. He knew he was falling in love. Worse yet, he suspected his feelings might be unrequited.

  Tommy was also distressed over progress in the GNN case. At least on paper, David Wayne was suspect number one, but he was still missing. According to a computer check, he had rented a car from Hertz for a full month. Tommy had sent a heads-up to police in the five states closest to New York saying that Wayne was wanted for questioning in a murder case. Wayne, he hoped, would get pulled over on some interstate. But nothing with him had yet materialized.

  While not discounting Wayne, Tommy knew that Shannon Michaels had good reason to despise both Ron Costello and Hillary Ross. But, he asked himself, is my negative bias toward Michaels born out of jealousy? The very question made him angry.

  Three goddamn murders. One missing suspect. What else can happen? Tommy thought. Oh I know: by the middle of next week, I’ll be as bald as Michael Jordan.

  Disgusted with feeling sorry for himself, Tommy shifted his thoughts to his immediate environment. The Sunday morning traffic was light as he drove east from Manhattan toward the suburban enclave of Levittown, where he would visit his mother. Growing up, Tommy had had no idea that he lived in a ghetto. Levittown was a huge subdivision of identical, cheaply made houses sold en masse to veterans returning from World War II. Tommy’s neighborhood was a mixture of Italians, Jews, and Irish—all of whom had one thing in common: not much money. Dermot O’Malley, Tommy’s father, had been a New York City fireman. Providing for a family of five had exhausted every cent Dermot O’Malley ever earned. Luxuries did not exist in the O’Malley household. Life was very basic.

  In hindsight, Tommy thought that Levittown closely resembled both the Bronx and Brooklyn—only with lawns instead of apartment stoops, and a few more open spaces. Whites had begun leaving the outer boroughs of New York City around 1950, when greedy real estate agents, called blockbusters, started buying apartment buildings in mostly white working class neighborhoods. Turn of the century buildings were then subdivided, often illegally, and rented to minority families. A building that had housed four poor Irish families, for example, was now home to eight poor black families.

  Overcrowding then caused the buildings to deteriorate, and callous real estate owners often failed to provide repairs. Faced with a declining neighborhood infrastructure and influenced by inherited racial prejudice, many whites panicked. They began moving out to the suburbs in large numbers, lowering property values drastically. The despicable blockbusters then bought up entire neighborhoods at market-bottom prices. It wasn’t long before the complexion of the Bronx and Brooklyn changed completely. And many of the white flight refugees wound up in Levittown.

  Dermot O’Malley had been raised on Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn, the fourth son of a dockworker. His future wife, Mary Elizabeth Fitzgerald, lived five blocks away, along with her two sisters and two brothers. Both of Tommy’s parents were afflicted with the American ethnic scourge: intense insecurity. Tommy’s father and mother had grown up during the Great Depression. Financial doom was always hovering just outside their front door. Fear of impending, uncontrolled disaster influenced just about every decision Dermot and Mary Elizabeth O’Malley made. Although it wasn’t as if Mary Elizabeth ever had a voice equal to her husband’s—she didn’t.

  Tommy, the family rebel, opted for a secure city job. His sister, Catherine, married young and had four kids by the age of thirty. Brendan, his brother, was a divorced fireman who sought solace in a shot glass.

  His mother, Mary Elizabeth O’Malley, was, in Tommy’s view, a saint. She put up with him, his father, and his brother, all of whom were difficult men. Dermot O’Malley had a volcanic temper and was often frustrated and bitter over life’s injustices. Brendan O’Malley was shy, introverted, and unhappy without apparent cause. Tommy himself was unpredictable. At times, he could be gregarious, funny, and great company. But, he also had his father’s temper and, though he never became a bully, he sometimes took part in unnecessary and destructive physical confrontations. Tommy struggled with conformity, never quite getting it down.

  His mother loved her family and friends with a passion most human beings couldn’t even contemplate. It was a love devoid of all selfishness. She had few wants of her own, devoted herself to the needs of others, and wanted nothing in return. She not only overlooked all neurosis, but was as kind a woman as could be found this side of Mother Teresa. Her house was usually full of people gathered to experience her support and approval. When his father came home, the visitors tended to vanish.

  Mary O’Malley unexpectedly became a widow in 1987, cancer taking her husband quickly. From that time onward, Tommy was his mother’s protector. His sister had moved to Virginia and his brother divided his time between the firehouse and barroom, so it was Tommy who was on call. As his mother grew older, the problems mounted. She was still self-sufficient and feisty, but could not handle financial matters, house repairs, or emotional stress on her own. It fell to Tommy to take care of these things. He did so, often grousing about it, but never really minding.

  As Tommy exited off the Meadowbrook Parkway and onto Hempstead Turnpike, he winced at the low-budget stores glued together on both sides of the roadway, and he thought back to his childhood. He had been a wild kid, constantly challenging the School Sisters of Notre Dame who attempted to teach him. He was scolded on a daily basis, often being told that he could look forward to taking up residence in Hell. While that threat made many of the other child
ren cower, it didn’t bother Tommy at all. He figured that he would eventually arrive there, but so would all his friends, too.

  High school was more of the same. Tommy consistently broke the strict school rules of St. Gregory’s. His problem was authority. If they told him to do something, automatically, he didn’t want to. It was as simple and stupid as that. But as he grew bigger, Tommy developed into a fierce football player. The sport gave him an outlet for his rebellious energy, and some discipline. He began to see that teamwork could accomplish things. In his junior and senior years, he settled down a bit and performed decently in class.

  The turning point in Tommy’s life came when he was accepted at Boston University. He would be the first one in his family to go to college. To afford the tuition, he painted houses in the summer. In Boston, he prospered. Though majoring in history, he knew early that law enforcement was the career he wanted. His parents tried to convince him to be a lawyer, but Tommy wanted action. His father’s connections in New York’s civil service arena made it easy for him to apply to and be accepted by the NYPD without going into the military, which was the preferred route into policing in the seventies.

  As Tommy pulled into the driveway of the family home, he saw his mother waving at him through the kitchen window. Built in 1950, the house still had just three tiny bedrooms, one bath, and no expensive conveniences. He laughed to himself recalling the times when five people were sharing the same space. As a child, he did not think of the house as small. It was only when his teenage sister began spending days in the bathroom that the true nature of his living circumstances began to dawn on him.

  “Thomas, you look tired,” his mother said.

  “I am tired, Ma. I had to get up early and drive all the way out here.” Tommy smiled and hugged his mother. She knew he was kidding.

  Age had diminished her looks, but Mary Elizabeth O’Malley still had the vivid, sparkling blue eyes that had made her one of the prettiest girls in Brooklyn. Troublesome arthritis had hunched her posture and begun to gnarl her hands. But she never complained. Her only concession to the terrible disease was to avoid standing for too long.

  “So you look good, Ma. There’s something different about you.”

  “I had my hair colored, Thomas.” His mother’s hair had been dyed a subtle shade of red, hiding most of the gray.

  “Better quit that, Ma. You’re gettin’ to be a real babe.” Tommy and his mother laughed together. As usual, she fixed him a large breakfast of French toast, bacon, and fruit. She knew he was a coffee drinker and a large pot was ready as he sat down. Tommy’s large frame made the small kitchen table seem even smaller. Mary Elizabeth O’Malley pictured her son sitting at the table as a child, covered with neighborhood dust, and smiled to herself.

  Mary Elizabeth knew her son better than anyone on earth and she admired him greatly. He had courage and integrity. He had often argued intensely with his father, but with her, he had always been respectful and loving. She knew he had suffered mightily when his marriage collapsed, but she never reminded him of his problems, and she tried very hard to comfort him. Mary Elizabeth had never been particularly fond of Angela Rufino, thinking her immature and selfish, but no one could have predicted the woman would become a religious fanatic. Mary Elizabeth herself went to Mass three times a week. But few in her circle understood the charismatic Catholics or their almost frightening religious zealotry. Those people, she thought, made the Jehovah’s Witnesses look like agnostics.

  As Tommy plowed through his meal—he had eaten quickly ever since he was a little boy—his mother sensed his depression. She looked at her son and felt the tenseness he exuded.

  “Tommy, something’s bothering you, isn’t it?”

  Wiping his mouth with a yellow paper napkin, Tommy looked at his mother. Although he often kept things from her, he never misled her. He knew she loved to participate in his life, so he decided to fill her in. “I’m working on a complicated case, Ma. One of the suspects lives out here. He’s also kind of involved with a friend of mine and I’m a little worried about her.”

  “Her?” Mary O’Malley, like most mothers, was extremely interested in her son’s female friends.

  “Yeah, reporter by the name of Ashley Van Buren. You might have read some of her articles in the Globe.”

  Mary O’Malley was a radio person. John Gambling on WOR was her favorite. She didn’t know of Ashley, but nodded anyway. “Do you think your friend is in any danger?”

  “Probably not physically. The guy we’re looking for is smart and has a game plan. If it is our guy out here, I don’t think he’d draw attention to himself by hurting Ashley. But he might use her for his own purposes.”

  “What are you going to do?” asked Mary, who was always very interested in her son’s career.

  Tommy finished his coffee and poured another cup. “I’m not sure. I’m going to see this guy later today. He lives on the North Shore, Sands Point.”

  “That’s big money over there, Thomas.”

  “I know, Ma. I’m an investigator, remember? Anyway, let’s talk about you. How much did you give the Pope this month?”

  Mary O’Malley smiled and looked down at the small kitchen table. As always, she was enjoying her son’s visit. The two talked for about an hour, then Tommy paid some of her bills and looked over the mail. At five minutes to one, he settled into his father’s old easy chair to watch the Giants play the Cleveland Browns. Usually he would have totally concentrated on the game, but today was different. Today, he was thinking about Ashley Van Buren.

  Ashley awoke at ten a.m., rolling over to find herself alone in Shannon Michaels’ king size bed. She was naked and a little sore from the previous night’s exertions. Sitting up, she read the clock and flopped back down. How could I have slept so late? she wondered.

  Downstairs in the kitchen, Shannon was making a healthy breakfast for two. Sliced fruit, low fat yogurt, English muffins dabbed with honey. Designer coffee was brewing, a Brazilian blend, and Evian water had been poured. He was surprised that Ashley had slept so soundly. He himself could never relax in a strange bed.

  Ashley finally kicked the thick comforter off her body, roused herself from bed, and walked into the bathroom adjoining the master bedroom. A huge shower stall stood before her on the right, a floor-to-ceiling mirror on the left. What she saw in the mirror mortified her. Before falling asleep, she had not washed, and mascara had streaked her face. She looked like the bride of Frankenstein.

  Ashley quickly turned on the shower water. Four water jets caressed her body. The hot water began to relax her. She might still be a mess when she got out of the shower, but at least she’d be a clean mess.

  Shannon heard the shower running, climbed the stairs, and left towels and a robe for Ashley. He had already collected her clothing, which had been strewn all over the living room. He knew this would be an awkward time for Ashley, so he quickly went back downstairs, giving her maximum privacy.

  Ashley toweled herself off, found a blow dryer, and worked on her hair while analyzing her emotional state. I should not have let last night happen. It was fun, but that’s no excuse. He assumed control over the evening and I feel foolish for succumbing. Ashley knew she was in a vulnerable state, and she was distinctly unsure where things were going. She hated both of those feelings.

  As Ashley entered the kitchen wearing one of his thick terrycloth robes, Shannon sensed she was feeling less than exhilarated. He knew he had to think quickly, do just the right thing. He turned to Ashley, smiled, and said just one word: “Muffin?”

  Despite her uneasiness with the morning after, Ashley smiled as he held up an English muffin. She appreciated the light touch. No need to discuss anything, she thought. That would come later.

  “It looks a little burnt.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, that’s my muffin. Yours is toasting as we speak, and it will be perfect. I promise. If not, I’ll commit ritual suicide.” They both laughed and enjoyed the breakfast. Ashley then borrowed an iron and pr
essed her wrinkled clothing. Ninety minutes later, she was driving back to the city. She felt better, but recognized she still had to come to terms with what had happened.

  Shannon Michaels had agreed to see Detective O’Malley at four that afternoon. Shannon did not like the intrusion on his weekend but was somewhat curious about O’Malley because of Ashley’s tie to him. From the tone of his voice on the phone, Shannon ascertained that O’Malley was not a person to take lightly. The interview would be interesting, he thought.

  At 2:30 that afternoon, Tommy O’Malley finally reached Ashley Van Buren by phone. Speaking to Ashley from his mother’s house, he was intensely curious about her whereabouts that morning, but was careful not to press her too hard.

  “So, what have you been up to?” Tommy asked.

  “Just the usual. Running around, breaking stories, breaking hearts.” Ashley was trying to sound casual but suspected she was not fooling O’Malley. She immediately thought he detected a slight bit of apprehension in her voice. “Where are you?”

  “Out at my mother’s. I think I told you I’m gonna interview Michaels today. You haven’t talked to him, have you?”

  Ashley paused. She knew O’Malley picked up on it, and she wasn’t going to lie to him. “I saw him last night. He is definitely expecting you.”

  Tommy felt a twinge in his stomach. He was jealous. He wanted to ask her a bunch of personal questions. But he knew this would hurt his chances with her. He struggled, but kept it professional. “So, what did he say about the meet?”

  Ashley knew the detective was not pleased. All warmth had left his voice. “Not much. Just that he was expecting you. Tommy, this is a guarded man. He doesn’t exactly open up about things.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  Ashley felt Tommy’s anger over the phone. She liked the detective, but she didn’t want to deal with that now. She kept her voice even. “So, will you call me after you talk with him?”