The Celtic Cross Killer

by Keiron Cosgrave

  ‘Okay. Everything is arranged. You’ll have the report by six o’clock tonight. If I’m delayed, I’ll call you on your cell. That okay?’

  ‘Yeah. Don’t call. I’m interested in results not excuses,’ said Pecarro.

  With that, the driver of the Mazda fired up the engine, reversed and drove off.

  Pecarro eased into the Lexus. Set the seat in full recline. Settled back against the sumptuous leather. Closed his eyes. Hoped to grab some much needed sleep.

  100

  ‘Casey, come in and sit down. I’ve received a complaint.’

  ‘A complaint?’

  ‘Yes, Casey, a complaint. Someone is very unhappy with our performance.’

  ‘Okay?’

  ‘It seems Mrs Sophia Ricci—the wife of the second victim of the so-called Celtic Cross Killer—wants heads to roll,’ said Chief Johnson, frowning. ‘And I think she means business.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, sir. Did she mention me by name?’ said Casey, trying hard to conceal his irritation.

  ‘No. She’s dissatisfied with progress. She says she’s not receiving regular progress updates. Of course, I’ve assured her we’re doing our very best. What do you have to say for yourself, Casey?’ said Johnson, adjusting his tie.

  ‘It’s a difficult balance, sir. As you know, we’ve made some progress. We’ve a witness who saw someone wearing a balaclava leaving Tooley’s house on the night of his murder. The thing is, sir, it’s taken that particular witness two months to come forward. I can’t afford to have my team taking time out to update grieving relatives. I don’t have the resources. I’m sure you appreciate that?’

  ‘Okay, Casey, I accept what you say. As you move forward, I want you to be mindful of Mrs Ricci’s complaint. Arrange for a female officer to call in on her at least once a fortnight. We need to build some rapport with her. Okay?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Casey, raising up to leave.

  ‘Before you go. On an associated matter…’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Mrs Ricci mentioned she’s hired a private investigator. She wouldn’t divulge a name when I pressed her. Of course, I asked her to reconsider, but she wouldn’t budge. Casey, find out who it is. Call in on them. Find out what avenues of inquiry they’re pursuing, or intend to pursue. You can go now, Casey. Keep plugging away,’ said Johnson, reaching for a tumbler of water.

  ‘Thank you, sir. I will.’

  101

  Pecarro stirred and stretched. Numb buttocks tingled. Five hours in a rental car had left its mark. The radio debate about medical care reform had sent him to sleep. He rose up, reached for the door lever. It was five thirty. He expected his contact within the hour. It gave him enough time to grab a meal deal. Celine wouldn’t be happy about his culinary choice, but eh, what the hell, she’d never know.

  Pecarro stepped into the fast-food restaurant. Children in golden crowns screamed and ran over the tiled floor. He walked over to the counter.

  ‘Eat in?’ asked the server.

  ‘To go,’ he said, scanning the menu cards on the back wall.

  The glamorous side of investigative work, contemplated Pecarro, launching spent packaging into the trash can next to the external seating area. He turned and watched a red Mazda Miata drive into the space next to the Lexus.

  The geek rolled out of the low-slung sports car and walked over to Pecarro, beaming. He clutched a fat Jiffy bag in his right hand.

  Pecarro frowned. Nodded at the passenger seat. ‘Get in.’

  ‘You okay? You seem a little pissed.’

  ‘I’m fine. You heard of discretion?’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Forget about it. Did you bring the report?’

  ‘I have. All as agreed. This must be some heavy shit you’re dealing with,’ said the geek, wide eyes imploring Pecarro to divulge the details of the case.

  ‘Yeah, about as heavy as it gets,’ said Pecarro, without emotion. ‘Here’s the cash. The balance. Don’t worry … it’s all there. You can trust me. There’s no need to check. Let me see the report.’

  The geek handed Pecarro the envelope. ‘Enjoy,’ he said, right index finger pushing thick-rimmed glasses along his nose.

  ‘Have you read it? What’s the bottom line?’

  ‘Yeah, man, I have. I perform all the secondary checks as part of our quality assurance accreditation. It’s also an insurance requirement. I check the checker.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And…’ The geek paused. The tension was palpable.

  ‘Don’t fuck about.’

  ‘Sorry. All I know is whoever sweated and shit in those boxer shorts, is the same guy whose sample of blood is in the phial.’

  ‘You’re sure about that?’

  ‘I’m one hundred percent sure, yeah. The DNA is a perfect match.’

  102

  With the end of the case in sight, Pecarro’s mind raced like a waterwheel caught in a flood. Sleep eluded him. He knew it would. Often did, with the end of a case in sight. Factor in his unfamiliar and claustrophobic surroundings and sleep was never going to come easy.

  What’s the point, he thought. Sitting up. Throwing the duvet off. Swinging his legs to the floor. I need a drink.

  Pecarro padded, bleary-eyed, into the kitchenette recess at the rear of the motel room, collected a bottle of Irish whiskey from the work surface and poured a double. Sank it in a single smooth draught. It had never tasted so good. Poured another double. Paused in silent contemplation. The desperate hollowness of betrayal simmered inside.

  Pecarro gazed into the small mirror above the tiles. Said, ‘Sick bastard, Casey, how could you protect a cop killer? If I get my way, they’ll lock you up and throw away the fucking key.’

  He poured another double. Returned to the bedroom. Slumped onto the bed. Sank the whiskey. Within two minutes his snores rang from the thin walls.

  103

  Pecarro recollected his last thoughts of the night before.

  Five minutes later, with his suspicions confirmed, he felt compelled to act. Deferring any longer would be dangerous.

  He took out his mobile, highlighted ‘MICHAEL CASEY PRIVATE’ in contacts. Pressed call. Put the phone against his ear.

  ‘Michael Casey,’ barked Casey, oblivious to the caller’s identity not having stored Pecarro’s new work number in his cell phone.

  ‘Michael, it’s Tony. How are you, buddy? Is the department still getting its pound of flesh?’

  Only a low hiss along the line.

  ‘Are you there?’

  ‘Sorry, Tony, I didn’t recognise your number. I forgot to store it. You sent it through on a text, didn’t you?’ said Casey, voice trailing off. ‘I’ve been busy, lately.’

  ‘I did. I have the perfect antidote for that.’

  ‘You have?’

  ‘How about a get together? You and me meet up and shoot the shit. Have a meal. Sink a beer, or two. How does tonight sound? Celine, she’s drivin’ me up the goddamned wall,’ said Pecarro. ‘I need an excuse to get out of the house.’

  The silence on the line was interminable.

  ‘Yeah, why the hell not? What you thinking?’

  ‘Thought I’d take you to The Philly Steakhouse? Their steaks are the best in Brooklyn. We could make it early. How does seven thirty sound?’

  ‘It sounds great. I know The Philly. Their steaks are delicious,’ said Casey, after a long beat. ‘A night out would be great. I’ll meet you there at seven thirty.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it. Don’t you dare be late.’

  ‘I won’t be.’

  The battery in Pecarro’s cell died. He plugged the phone into the charge socket, sank back in the seat and closed his eyes. His plan was coming together. All he needed was confirmation from the two women that they were available.

  Within twenty minutes, Pecarro had received two text messages.

  The trap was set.

  104

  Pecarro arrived at The Philly Steakhouse at seven o’cloc
k, half an hour before Casey’s expected arrival. The dining room bustled with early evening diners attracted by the ‘early bird’ ten dollars for a three course meal deal. The deal comprised a twelve ounce rump, a dessert and a stein of beer. Pecarro halted at the service lectern. The proprietor strolled up. Grinned a toothy grin.

  ‘Have you reserved a table, sir?’ asked the proprietor, Stefan Vidic.

  ‘Yes, I booked a table for four at seven thirty. I’m expecting one person at seven thirty. The others will join us at eight thirty,’ said Pecarro. ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘No, sir, no problem at all,’ said Vidic, with a smile. ‘Do you have any preference where you would like to sit, sir?’ said Stefan, looking past Pecarro’s shoulder.

  ‘I’d prefer a quiet table, please. I’m entertaining important clients.’

  ‘In that case, I’d recommend booth five, sir. It’s the table along the back wall in the rear section. You’ll probably have the whole section to yourselves. Tuesdays quieten down when the early bird offer finishes,’ said Stefan, collecting menus. ‘If you’d like to follow me, sir, I’ll get you seated.’

  Once seated, Vidic handed Pecarro a menu and the wine list. ‘I’ll be back in a moment to take your wine order, sir,’ said Vidic.

  Pecarro studied the wine list. Selected an Italian red. Vidic returned to the table.

  ‘Your wine order, sir?’

  ‘I’ll take a bottle of red, please, the Barolo. In fact, make it two bottles. A good friend recommended it to me. He swears by it,’ said Pecarro, returning the wine list. ‘I’ll take the first bottle now. If you could bring the second bottle when the ladies arrive.’

  ‘It would be my pleasure. And may I add, you’ve made an excellent choice. The Barolo is simply sublime.’

  105

  An attractive waitress approached the table clutching a bottle of red wine in her right hand. She wore skin-tight white denim shorts, red crocodile-skin cowboy boots and a body-hugging red tee shirt, printed with ‘PHILLY’ in bold white lettering.

  She set the bottle down on the table. ‘Good evening, Mr Pecarro, my name is Molly. I’m your server, tonight. Would you like me to pour the wine?’

  ‘No, I can manage, thank you. Do you have larger glasses, Molly? My fellow diner, is, although he doesn’t like to admit it, something of a wine connoisseur. Buckets on stalks will do,’ said Pecarro, trying hard not to stare at Molly’s toned, tanned, “to infinity and beyond,” legs.

  ‘Yes, sir, we have. I’ll go get some.’

  Pecarro watched Molly glide away. Savoured her jiggling bottom.

  Returning, she replaced the glasses. ‘Here you are, sir, the glasses you wanted. Enjoy.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I’ll come back and take your order when your friend arrives.’

  ‘You do that, Molly,’ said Pecarro filling his glass, raising it. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Pecarro filled the huge glass with Barolo, stopped pouring the velvety red liquid a quarter of an inch from the rim.

  He scanned the restaurant. Satisfied that no one was watching, he reached for his wallet and extracted a bright yellow tablet. The tablet was stamped both sides: one side featured a hallmark cartoon smiley face, the other, a Cyrillic E. This ought to move things along, he thought, crumbling the tablet into dust with a knife handle, adding it to the wine in the huge glass opposite.

  106

  Casey arrived at seven thirty. He wore faded jeans, a blue denim shirt, tan boots and a brown leather biker jacket. He approached the table and Pecarro with a broad grin.

  ‘What’s with the outfit? You come on the Harley?’ quipped Pecarro, offering a hand. Casey looked like he’d stepped off the set of the Travolta comedy Wild Hogs. ‘You having a mid-life crisis?’

  ‘Not quite, but I’m getting there,’ said Casey, with warmth in his eyes. The two former work colleagues shook hands. ‘It’s great to see you. It’s been a long time. Too long.’

  Over Casey’s shoulder Pecarro spotted the underdressed Molly approaching the table carrying two foaming steins of Budvar.

  She set them down on the table.

  ‘Ours? I didn’t order beer,’ said Pecarro.

  ‘They’re with the compliments of the management, gentlemen. Best beer around, or so I’m told. I wouldn’t know. I don’t drink it myself,’ said Molly.

  The two men shared wry smiles.

  ‘Thank you, Molly. That sure is nice of the manager,’ said Casey enjoying the service, and Molly. ‘Give him our thanks.’

  ‘I’ll come back to take your food order in a minute. Enjoy.’

  ‘Oh, we will. Thank you.’

  ‘Wow, what a welcome this is. I’m delighted I came. You’ve ordered wine, I see,’ said Casey.

  ‘I have. I hope you don’t mind?’

  ‘No, not at all, I’m glad you did.’

  Casey collected a stein. Made to make a toast. ‘To you, wishing you every success in your new business venture. Do you know something, Pecarro PI, has a certain ring to it.’

  Casey drank a quarter of the beer without coming up for air.

  ‘How is business?’

  ‘So, so,’ said Pecarro, rocking a hand. ‘I could do with an injection of interesting cases. Divorce and paternity cases are wearing me down. That said, just last week, a community group commissioned me to follow a suspected paedophile. It came to nothing. Weirdo was into BDSM not kids. Someone got his or her wires crossed. While we’re talking work; is there any freelance work you can put my way? I miss the buzz of big cases.’

  ‘Freelance work? If only I could commission you, I’d fill your sales ledger in a morning. Of course, you’d have to budget for keeping Johnson updated hourly,’ Casey said. ‘He drives me to distraction.’

  Casey took a long draw of beer.

  ‘I can relate to that. I never had much time for him. He never did me any favours. Towards the end I reckon Johnson and his cohorts actively managed me out. It’s probably me being paranoid,’ said Pecarro, gazing at Casey with sad eyes, remembering the good times.

  ‘Paranoid, I doubt it. You understand people, Tony. You know what makes them tick. You worked Johnson out. I try not to get involved with him. You’re worth ten of him,’ said Casey, sinking the remaining beer with a slurp and a hand dragged over a top lip.

  ‘Awe shucks don’t, you’re embarrassing me. Save the compliments for Molly.’ Pecarro nodded past Casey’s shoulder. ‘Here she comes to take our order. Drink up. I’ll order more beer,’ said Pecarro, wracked with a mix of pride and guilt.

  Over the forty minutes, Pecarro and Casey shared wine and beer. Conversation ranged from politics to baseball. Pecarro steered the conversation away from the real subject of the night—the Celtic cross murders.

  Casey settled his second empty glass on the table. Captured a burp under a fist. Eyes rolling. Face flushed bright pink. ‘Christ, Tony, I feel … really … weird… Fucking place is … is ... spinning. Feels already like it’s the end of the night … yet … we’ve only just started… Christ’s sake … I’m wired… How you feeling?’ mumbled Casey, consciousness levitating just below the ceiling.

  ‘I’m fine, Michael. If you’re not used to it, Czech beer can be a killer.’

  ‘Time for … food?’ slurred Casey. ‘Drinking on an empty stomach is a … bad … idea…’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right. You okay?’

  ‘I’m not sure…’

  Pecarro grinned. ‘Michael, I’ve a confession to make.’

  ‘A confession … what kind of confession?’

  ‘I’ve lined us up some dates; a couple of lovely ladies. I’m expecting them to arrive in five minutes,’ said Pecarro, trying hard to maintain the pretence.

  Casey chuckled. Sniffed. Burped. ‘You sly son of a bitch, Pecarro. Aren’t you the dark horse?’ said Casey. ‘Any chance I could order another beer? I’ve got a raging thirst.’

  ‘Yeah, why not? Do you trust me to order you one?’
r />   ‘Ugh? And why the fuck shouldn’t I trust you? You were my partner … once…’ said the drunk and drugged, Detective Michael Casey. ‘I’d trust you with … with … my life…’

  ‘Oh, no reason.’

  107

  Beyond Casey’s shoulder Pecarro watched the two women arrive: the elegant Sophia Ricci followed by the voluptuous Marilyn Wilson.

  Michael Casey cradled his head in hands.

  Everything is going to plan.

  ‘I’ll go fetch two more beers. You stay put, buddy. I won’t be long,’ Pecarro said, pushing the chair away, placing a hand on Casey’s shoulder.

  ‘Yeah … you do that… The service here … stinks…’ slurred Casey, sinking the last dregs of wine from the bottom of the huge goblet. ‘You do that…’

  Both women watched Pecarro cross the room. Pointed him out to the Maître d.

  ‘Ladies… Ladies… Thanks for coming. Would you mind stepping outside for a moment? There’s something important I’d like to discuss,’ said Pecarro, ushering the women outside.

  Pecarro introduced the two women to one other. Summarised each woman’s unfortunate involvement in the Celtic cross case. Hesitated, to collect his thoughts.

  ‘Inside is Detective Michael Casey. He’s been drinking. When we’ve finished talking we’re going to go back inside and join him. I’m going to present him with some facts. Watch how he reacts. I’ve uncovered compelling evidence. Evidence which proves beyond reasonable doubt that Detective Casey’s brother Sean, murdered both Ernest Costa and your husband, Franco, Mrs Ricci.’