Marilyn disappeared into a back office. Five minutes elapsed. She marched up to Pecarro, shuffled a bundle of papers into her shoulder bag. ‘Okay, I’m ready. Follow me, Detective Pecarro.’
‘Please, call me Antonio, Ms Wilson. I’m no longer a detective.’
‘Silly me, yes, Antonio.’
89
They sat on a bench facing a lake. Mothers with children fed ducks and geese with bread from bags.
Pecarro dragged his gaze from the calming water, said, ‘Did you know Gerard Tooley well?’
Marilyn shook her head. Shrugged. ‘We’d only just met. That said, I believe we had an affinity. We clicked. Despite only knowing Gerard for a short time…’ She stalled, searched Pecarro’s face for understanding. ‘I hoped that we could have had a future together.’
Pecarro settled his hand on Marilyn’s. She felt cold to the touch. They shared sympathetic smiles. ‘I’m sorry for your loss. I liked Tooley. He understood the fragility of the human condition. He was a people person and a brilliant cop. I miss him.’
After a half-minute of contemplative silence, Pecarro said, ‘I met Gerard the day before he was murdered. He asked me to brief him on the first murder. When we were talking, he took a call from you. I got the distinct impression you’d just completed some research for him; you wanted to talk to him about it.’ Pecarro shifted in the seat. Recognised the anguish in Marilyn’s face. ‘Tooley was very complimentary about you. He told me how much he appreciated the work you did for him. He thought a lot about you. And not only in a professional sense.’
Marilyn dabbed tears from the corners of her eyes. ‘In the short time we shared, we grew fond of one another. I had hopes…’ said Marilyn, filling up, snuffling. ‘It’s true. I did some research for him. I prepared these.’
Marilyn reached into her handbag and produced a copy of the list of names she’d prepared for Tooley two years before. She handed the list to Pecarro. Described Tooley’s train of thought. His theory about the potential mob vendetta and how the lists had culminated in the final list of eight names. Explained how two shared the same surname.
‘My niece prepared a genealogical report for the surname, O’Shea. I don’t have a copy. I gave the only copy to Detective Casey. I didn’t read it myself. After Gerard’s murder, I didn’t think it was … well … at all relevant. I could ask my niece to email you a copy if you like? She’s on vacation in Florida for the next week.’
‘If you wouldn’t mind,’ said Pecarro.
Concluding their discussion, Pecarro handed Marilyn a business card with his contact details and expressed his surprise at the progress made by Tooley with Marilyn’s assistance.
‘I really don’t think they’ll lead to a breakthrough, Mr Pecarro. The thing is… I made sure Detective Casey had copies of everything. I’m sure he’s followed up where necessary,’ added Marilyn. ‘Were you aware that I was with Gerard the night he was murdered?’ Marilyn stalled. A glazed look settled on Pecarro’s face. ‘Mr Pecarro, are you listening?’
Pecarro shook himself out of his reverie. ‘I’m sorry. Only, it’s just so revealing … this list. It provides a valuable insight into how Tooley’s mind worked. I wonder if he sensed something was about to happen? Perhaps, he wanted to leave something behind? A clue, perhaps?’ said Pecarro, mind racing.
90
‘Did your sister collect Carlo?’ Pecarro said, settling his feet on the edge of the desk, getting comfortable in the leather recliner, lifting a smoking cigar from the ashtray to his lips. Pecarro smouldered.
‘Yes, she did, no thanks to you. Don’t you dare drop me in the brown stuff again. It’s not nice,’ said Celine. ‘When you get home, you and I, we need a serious discussion. We need to set some ground rules.’
‘Ground rules! I’m sick to death of rules. Isn’t it time you considered me, Celine? I’ve had two years of trauma. I’ll never be a stay at home, father. You hear?’ Pecarro roared, rose from the chair, bounding over to the filing cabinet and dragged out a twenty-five-year-old bottle of malt.
‘I never said you were a stay at home father. Only, life is different now. You resigned. It was your choice, darling. And don’t you ever forget it.’
‘How could I. You never let me forget it. And just so you know, darling… I’ll be working late. This new case is complex. It’s taking up a lot of my time. I won’t be coming home until tomorrow evening. Staying out-of-town over the next few weeks. You’re going to have to cut me some slack,’ said Pecarro, pressing the call end button, not waiting for Celine’s predictable response.
Fuck you, Celine. You’ve never understood and you sure as hell, never will…
91
Pecarro’s impromptu pub-crawl saw him patronise Irish bars in the Downtown Area. In less than two hours, he’d downed five pints of Guinness and three whiskey chasers. Before leaving the office, he’d also sunk a quarter bottle of Irish whiskey. He planned to arrive at Delaney’s a little after 10:00 p.m., hoping to find regulars propping up the bar.
Pecarro stalled on the top step. Gazed over the flight. Crystals of frost sparkled on the treads. Pecarro took a firm grip of the handrail. The cold steel burned under his palm. He started down the stairs. Halted at the bottom. Sucked a long breath. Tried hard to control the giddy alcoholic elation overtaking him.
Pecarro pushed through the door, walked into a fug of cigarette smoke and a torrent of raucous laughter. He looked over to the bar. Recognised the thickset ebullient owner, Dermot Riordan: Irish tricolour and the word EIRE in Gaelic script emblazoned across his forearms. Riordan wiped spills from the bar with a cloth.
‘Make no mistake, you lot are a bunch of dirty feckers, so you are. Try to get some drink in your mouths. It’s bad enough having to look at you all night, without having to clean up after you. God, give me strength.’ He bawled.
Pecarro walked over to the bar and set his weight against the rail.
‘What can I get for you?’ Riordan asked above the din, pouring spills into a bowl beneath the bar.
‘I’ll take a pint of stout and a whiskey chaser, please,’ said Pecarro in his best imitation Irish brogue. ‘A Jameson’s if you have it.’
‘I most certainly do. Give me a tick,’ said Riordan, stepping to one side and placed a pint glass on the drainer. He turned and studied Pecarro.
‘Don’t I know you from somewhere? I swear I’ve seen you before?’
Pecarro shrugged his shoulders. Bit his lip. ‘I don’t think so. First time, I’ve been in. You might be able to help me. I’m looking for some old friends of mine. I have their names here,’ said Pecarro, lying. Pecarro dragged out a scrap of paper from a trouser pocket with three names scribbled in black ink.
Shamus Malley, Jimmy Johnston, Eamonn Connolly
Riordan read the list. ‘Shamus is the moody son of a bitch over there in the corner reading the Irish Times. He’ll be studying form. You’ll find him much more sociable after he’s had a couple. I’d leave it a few minutes if I were you. Jimmy will be along later. He usually arrives around eleven o’clock. Connolly, you won’t find him here. He’s gone home to Ireland. I’m led to believe he came into money,’ said Dermot, thrusting the paper at Pecarro. ‘That’ll be seven dollars and fifty cents,’ added Dermot, trying hard to place his new customer.
‘Cheers,’ said Pecarro, turning, setting off towards the man studying the racing pages. Pecarro halted at the booth, cleared his throat. The seated man raised his head. ‘Sorry to interrupt. Are you Shamus?’
‘On any other day I’d tell you to feck off, today, your luck is in. I’m in a good mood. What’s more, I’ve had quite enough of the gee-gees for one night. Don’t believe what the bookies say, fella,’ said Shamus, a sharp-featured, curly haired, smart-dressed, Errol Flynn lookalike, tapping the side of his nose. ‘Betting is a mug’s game. And do you know something?’
‘What’s that?’
‘I’ve the bank balance to prove it,’ he said, winking, smirking. ‘Anyhow … that’s enough about
me. And who might I ask are you?’
‘Name’s Antonio Pecarro. I’m a private investigator. I’m looking for a man. I don’t know his name. What I do know is, he drinks here sometimes. Do you mind if I sit down?’
‘Go ahead. Take a pew. It’s a free country.’
Pecarro lowered himself into the booth, turned to face Malley. ‘All I know is … this guy … he’s in his late forties or early fifties. He’s tall with gelled up black hair. He wears a long black Crombie overcoat most of the time. He’s got family in Cork. I’m told he was in here a couple of years ago. On that occasion, he paid for the entire pub to get shit-faced. He’s the type that likes to splash the cash. When he’s drunk, he likes to show off a big fat ugly scar across his gut. I need to find him. One of my clients, she needs to find him.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Yeah.’ Pecarro paused, gulped stout, and wiped excess froth off of his top lip. ‘The thing is, I represent a young woman who says he raped her. This bastard, he’s ruined a young girl’s life. She wants justice. I’m sure you can understand that.’
Malley nodded. ‘And tell me … if you do find this fella … if I give you a name and you find him, surely, that’s got to be worth something? There’s a fair chance I know him,’ said Malley, glancing sidelong at Riordan stood at the bar, staring at Pecarro.
Pecarro nodded. Moved closer. ‘I’ll make it simple. I’ll give you three hundred dollars and not bother you again if you give me a name. No name. No cash. That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.’
Pecarro’s patience was wearing thin. He flashed six, fifty-dollar bills at Shamus. Set them flat. Slipped them under a copy of The Irish Times laid on the table. Settled his hand on the paper.
‘And it’s non-refundable?’ said Shamus.
‘I want the name of the guy with the scar across his gut. It’s that simple. I don’t have all night,’ said Pecarro, hand firm on the wrinkled newspaper.
Shamus shuffled forward. Pecarro leaned in.
‘It’s Sean… The guy’s name is Sean,’ whispered Shamus, glancing around. ‘That’s his name. I’m sure it is. He told me himself. I’m good with names. I put it down to studying the gee-gees. I never forget a name. His surname … now let me think…’ Shamus fell silent, his weasel-like face contorted with the effort of thought. ‘That’s it! I’ve got it. I remember. His surname is Casey. Just like Casey Jones, the TV train driver from back in the day. That’s right, Casey Jones, steaming and a rolling… His full name is Sean Casey. He lives local. That said, he doesn’t come in here very often.’
A spasm of shock and disbelief loosened Pecarro’s grip on the newspaper. Malley lifted the paper and scooped up the bank notes.
‘Are you okay, mister?’ said Shamus with a discernible glint in his eye. ‘You might want a snifter of whiskey. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘I’m fine…’ mumbled Pecarro, collecting his coat, sinking the remaining stout in a single gulp.
92
Pecarro bounded up the stone steps two at a time. Reaching pavement level he slid to a halt on the icy concrete. He stood, gathered his breath and felt paralysed with dread. Wild eyes peered into the dark recesses between parked cars, into doorways and along alleys. Interrogated the shadows. The paranoid cloak of fear enveloped him.
Kaleidoscopic images rallied through Pecarro’s brain, his imagination running amok.
Spider fingers gripped the hilt of a knife. Yellowing teeth barred. A blade glinted under moonlight. The blade raced at him. Found flesh. Brought him to his knees. Michael Casey held the knife.
Pecarro’s rational side erased the images. Countered that Casey—his partner for ten years—by some freaky coincidence shared the same surname as the unknown suspect, the man with the scar, in Delaney’s. Was he a close relative? It was unlikely though possible.
Pecarro felt compelled to share what he’d learned before it was too late. Tooley hadn’t been able to. Hadn’t had enough time. A yellow cab rolled around a corner, moved over to the kerb.
‘Taxi!’ Pecarro hollered, stepping out into the street with his arms flailing. ‘Stop!’ He yelled. Jumped aside at the last second.
The cab skidded to a halt alongside him. Pecarro flung open the rear door. Fell into the rear seat. Dragged the door closed. Locked out his demons. Bent forward towards the cab driver.
‘Thank you,’ said Pecarro. ‘You’re a lifesaver.’
‘Where to?’
‘I’m not sure… I’ve got to make a call … first. Find an address,’ said Pecarro, teeth chattering.
After several unsuccessful attempts—fingers and brain not quite synchronised—Pecarro dialled the correct number. ‘Sophia, it’s Antonio Pecarro. I need to see you, tonight. I’m sorry, but it can’t wait. I’ve stumbled across something important.’ Pecarro paused for a beat, considered his options. ‘Listen. I think I’m being followed. Shit! Sorry… I’ll be careful … real careful. Make sure I’m not followed…’
‘Calm down. Take a deep breath. Do you have a pen? I’ll give you my address.’
‘Don’t tell me. Tell the driver. I’ll pass him the cell. I’ll be there soon. Don’t, I repeat, don’t, open the door until you hear my voice. Do you understand?’
‘I understand. I won’t open the door until I hear your voice.’
‘Good. Now give the driver the address.’
Pecarro handed the cell to the driver. He accepted it with a resigned grunt.
Cranks, thought the driver. Brooklyn sure as hell had its fair share.
93
Pecarro stumbled over the threshold into Sophia Ricci’s apartment. She took his coat. Led him by the arm into the lounge.
‘Sit down. Take it easy. You’re safe now. I’ll make coffee. Looks like you could do with some,’ she said, hurrying away. She wore a full-length black kimono-style nightgown.
Sophia called from the kitchen. ‘How much have you had to drink?’
Pecarro glanced over his shoulder. ‘Not as much as you might think. I’m okay. Coffee will sort me out. I can explain everything,’ he said, wondering whether he’d overreacted to what Shamus had said.
Sophia returned to the lounge carrying two large mugs of steaming black coffee.
‘I’ll join you. I’m wide awake,’ said Sophia, gathering the nightgown around her thighs, lowering herself onto the edge of the sofa, awaiting Pecarro’s explanation. She took a first tentative sip of scalding coffee and placed the cup on a low table.
‘I’ve been to an Irish bar called Delaney’s. I was following up on a lead. During the Costa murder investigation we—Michael Casey and I—identified a suspect drinking in Delaney’s on the night of the murder. This suspect, this guy, he’d been shooting his mouth off, telling anyone and everyone how much he hated Italians. What’s more, he made a big thing of showing off a scar across his stomach. During our initial investigations we couldn’t trace him,’ Pecarro shifted in his seat, agitated. ‘I can’t tell you how frustrating it was.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘I always believed this guy was our best lead since we’d recovered vomit containing quantities of Irish stout from the crime scene. Everything pointed to this guy. Despite extensive inquiries we couldn’t identify him. Tonight, with a little financial assistance, a local—someone who’d been in the bar the night of the Costa murder—came up with a name.’
Pecarro checked himself. Collected the cup. Gulped coffee. Set the cup down.
‘Mrs Ricci, the name he gave me was Sean Casey. It may not be relevant, but I remember telling Tooley about the man with the scar just before he was murdered. Tooley visited me to quiz me about loose ends from the Costa investigation. It surprised me that he didn’t know about him. It got me wondering if Michael Casey had kept it from him. Of course, I may be jumping to the wrong conclusion. I hope I am. Casey and me, we go way back. I trust him,’ said Pecarro, reaching for the rejuvenating coffee.
‘So … let me get this straight. You believe that Sean Casey is
a relative of Detective Michael Casey and that he—your ex-partner—is covering for him?’
‘It’s a possibility, yes,’ said Pecarro, shrugging. ‘I know Casey has a brother, but for the life of me I can’t remember his name. He never talked about him much. What I do know is Tooley was working on a theory that the two victims, Ernest Costa and your husband, may well have been murdered as some kind of retribution for some past crime. A vendetta between Italian and Irish gangs, that kind of thing. Whilst I established a link with Ernest Costa to a gang called The Fratellanza, to the best of my knowledge, the Ricci family has no known mob association.’
‘But the name Parrini has!’
‘Parrini? Sorry you’ve lost me.’
‘Parrini is Franco’s real surname. His family adopted the name Ricci to disassociate themselves from the Parrini mobster legacy of the 1930s. Stefano Parrini was Franco’s great-uncle. He was a senior figure in the Fratellanza Gang. Detective Casey knew this. He interviewed Franco’s Uncle Giuseppe after the murder. He visited him.’
Silence filled the space between them.
Pecarro said, ‘Tooley had a list prepared of victims of unreported gang activity. The list contains the names of young men who’d died in unexplained circumstances in the 1930s. The names of two brothers stood out; the O’Shea brothers. I’m expecting a report showing the O’Shea family tree via email soon. I wonder if there’s a link to the murders? Some evidence of a credible motive, perhaps? In the meantime, I’ve some traditional investigative work to complete,’ said Pecarro, weary from drink and mental exertions.
‘What will you do?’
‘I’ll go under the radar. It’s for everyone’s safety, my own included. Should my suspicions prove correct, I’ll need you there when I present the evidence. I’ll call to let you know the arrangements. Sadly, Ernest Costa’s widow died in a car accident.’
The Celtic Cross Killer Page 17
