by Steven Henry
“Yeah,” Jones said. “Rough bunch, pretty well established.”
“He have a history of blowing people up?” Webb asked.
“Don’t know,” Jones replied. “His file says he was suspected of blowing up some garbage trucks in the late ’90s, but he’s never even been arrested. Not this side of the pond at any rate.”
“Is he an immigrant?” Erin asked.
“Looks like he came over from Ireland in ‘94,” Jones said.
“Maybe your family knows him,” Neshenko said to Erin.
She gave him a look. “My family’s been American for a hundred years,” she said. “New Yorkers the whole time. How long since your folks came over from Mother Russia? You’ve got a bit of an accent.”
“Enough with the immigrant profiling,” Webb said. “I get it, we’re a real ethnic crew. I’m from LA, and that’s practically a different planet. Jones, I want you to go back to the office. Find out if they’ve got anything on this Carlyle where he came from. O’Reilly, Neshenko, you’re with me. We need to go talk to this Carlyle character. He’s involved, one way or another.”
“Hey, Lieutenant, just because it’s my first day, you don’t have to take me to an Irish bar,” Erin said.
Webb blinked and stared at her. There was an awkward pause. Then Neshenko slapped her on the shoulder and grinned. “You’re all right, O’Reilly,” he said.
“You can call me Erin,” she said.
“Then call me Vic.”
“Okay,” Webb said. “We’ve gone around in a circle and introduced ourselves. Now let’s go see what the Irishman can tell us. And remember, no drinking, even if you’re Irish and Russian. We’re on duty.”
“So, an Irish cop and a Russian cop walk into a bar,” Vic said. “The bartender looks at them and says, ‘What is this? Some kind of joke?’”
Erin laughed. “Say, can one of you give me a ride?” she asked. “I don’t have a car from the motor pool yet.”
“How’d you get here?” Webb asked.
“I took a cab,” she admitted.
“A Yellow Cab delivering a detective to a crime scene,” Vic said. He shrugged. “Goddamn New York City. They let you take your dog?”
“He’s a working animal. The first couple passed me by, but the third guy stopped. I tipped him an extra five.”
Vic shrugged. “Everyone’s got a price.”
“It’ll be a bit of a squeeze,” Webb said. “Neshenko rode with me, so we’re only taking the one car.”
“I’ve got shotgun,” Vic said immediately.
“Rolf and I will be fine in back,” Erin said.
Chapter 3
“So,” Erin said as Webb’s unmarked Crown Victoria rolled toward their destination, “how long have you guys been on this unit?”
“It’s brand new,” Webb said. “Expansion of Major Crimes. The Captain brought me on first, six weeks back. The others have been here about a month.”
“Where’d you come from?” she asked.
“Los Angeles,” Webb said. “I already told you that.”
“No, I mean, what was your prior posting?”
“Homicide,” he said. “I moved from the LAPD eight years back.” He held up a finger. “And I’ve heard all the LA jokes already, so don’t go there.”
“How about you, Vic?” she asked.
“ESU,” he said. “Tactical unit.”
“How do you go from kicking in doors with Emergency Services to working major cases?”
“Same way you got out of Patrol Division,” he shot back.
“I went over the head of the Detective Bureau and almost got fired,” she said, then wished she could take the words back. She saw Webb’s eyebrows in the rearview mirror. They were trying to climb right off his face. “Captain Holliday liked my initiative,” she said, more defensively than she’d meant to. “And I did solve the case.”
“Yeah, that art thing down in Queens,” Neshenko said. “I heard about that.”
“So, did Holliday recruit you, too?” she asked.
“Not exactly,” the big Russian said. “My commander said it’d be good experience for me.”
In Erin’s experience, if an officer wasn’t specifically requested for a unit, then that officer was probably being transferred because he, or she, was a bit of a problem child. Transfers were a great way for a division to shed dead weight or to get rid of a misfit. What would a guy have to do to get kicked off an ESU team? Erin looked at Vic’s rough profile. No doubt about it, he looked like a police brutality suit waiting to happen. But who knew? Maybe he was a marshmallow underneath.
Then again, maybe under the layer of thuggery was just a thug.
*
It was just after eleven when the three detectives and one dog walked through the door of the Barley Corner; a little too early for the lunchtime crowd. It was an old brownstone building, with rounded window arches lined with green and gold stained glass.
Erin took in the interior. The Corner was better lit than most pubs she’d been in, so her eyes adjusted quickly. The pub’s main room was furnished in dark, worn wood. The woodwork was well cared-for and lovingly polished. The bar was an elbow shape, with the usual assortment of bottles of exotic liquor behind it. There were tables and booths, most of them currently unoccupied, and three large flat-screen TVs showing sporting events.
Erin’s policewoman’s eye caught the relevant people in the place right away. The bartender, a twentysomething with red hair and a pleasant smile, looked like a civilian. So did the waitress, a pretty young woman sporting a long ponytail and a skirt and blouse high and low enough to attract attention. But the two guys at the corner table with buzz-cut hair and athletic physiques needed watching. She’d have bet a week’s salary they were carrying guns and knew exactly how to use them. They were hired muscle, probably ex-military. The other people were customers, big blue-collar guys for the most part. And then there was the man sitting at the bar.
She knew who he had to be right away, even though she didn’t have a photo to work from. Everything about him, from his carefully-combed silver hair to his perfectly shined shoes, spoke of control. This was his place, and he was completely at home in it. He was dressed conservatively in a dark charcoal sport coat and slacks. He was good-looking in a classic Hollywood way, a little like Richard Gere. His eyes were bright, piercing blue.
He watched them approach, focusing his attention on Erin. His gaze traveled up and down her with nonchalant appreciation. Erin had been leered at by countless street punks, but something in the way Morton Carlyle looked at her made her self-conscious. As a trained dog handler, she knew an alpha male when she saw one. And there was something else. Erin could have sworn he recognized her, though she couldn’t recall ever setting eyes on him before.
“Mr. Carlyle?” Webb asked.
“And who would be wanting to know?” he replied, his voice holding the unmistakable brogue of Northern Ireland.
“I’m Lieutenant Webb, NYPD,” Webb said, flipping open his wallet to show his shield. “This is Detective Neshenko and Detective O’Reilly. We’d like to ask you some questions.”
“O’Reilly, you say?” Carlyle said, glancing at Erin again. “I’m at your disposal, detectives. Would you be wanting anything with which to refresh yourselves?”
“No, thanks,” Erin and Webb said simultaneously.
“Well then, if you’ll pardon my own indulgence,” Carlyle said. He raised a finger. “Danny?”
The bartender was instantly there. “What can I get you?”
Carlyle leaned over and said something in Danny’s ear. The younger man nodded.
“Are you certain?” Carlyle said to the others. “It needn’t be spirits. Perhaps a glass of soda water? Come now, it’s insulting to an Irishman not to drink with him.”
“I’ll have a Coke,” Erin said.
“Nothing for me,” Vic said.
Webb sighed. “Mineral water.”
Danny returned. He slid the requested drinks t
o the police, then put a glass of Guinness on the bar in front of Carlyle. He placed a shot glass on the bar, half-filled with Bailey’s Irish Cream. He topped up the shot glass with whiskey from a bottle marked Glen D, an expensive-looking label. Finally, the bartender gingerly lifted the shot glass over the glass of stout and dropped it in.
“Cheers, ma’am, gentlemen,” Carlyle said, lifting the glass. He tossed back its contents in a single long drink. That was the way to take the beverage, before the cream had a chance to curdle. Erin took a more measured swallow of her Coke, trying to keep a straight face. She knew what the drink was called, and it was the single cockiest thing Carlyle could have drunk in front of them. He was taunting them without even saying anything.
Carlyle let out his breath slowly. “Well,” he said. “Now that we’ve dispensed with the rituals, what can I do for New York’s very finest?”
To Erin’s surprise, Webb looked at her and made a slight gesture with his hand for her to talk. A little flustered, very conscious of Carlyle’s attention, she started in with the interview.
“Mr. Carlyle, what is your relationship with William O’Connell?”
The Irishman leaned back against the bar, taking his time answering. “There’s more than one lad in this city who answers to that name, Miss O’Reilly,” he said finally. “To which might you be referring?”
Erin didn’t like being baited. “I’m talking about the one who owed you over sixty grand,” she said bluntly.
“Miss O’Reilly,” Carlyle said. “While the Corner does allow frequent patrons to run a continuous tab, I’m quite certain we’ve no customers with such a high debt incurred. That would pay for a considerable number of drinks.”
“I’m talking about a gambling debt,” she said.
“I’m greatly afraid you might be thinking of me as a man engaged in some manner of illegal activity,” he replied. “I assure you, this is a reputable establishment. Though surely there’s a certain amount of friendly wagering on sporting events, as goes on in any such place.”
Erin tried to think how to chip away at the man’s polished exterior. He knew why they were there, and what was more, he wanted them to know that he knew. The only reason to play coy with him was that he was wanting to play it that way himself. Webb and Vic were being no help at all; Vic was actually a short distance down the bar, talking to the bartender, while Webb was watching Erin and Carlyle’s conversation in silence.
“Do you know much about explosive devices, sir?” she asked, changing tacks with deliberate suddenness, trying to get a reaction.
It didn’t work. He raised an eyebrow fractionally, but that was it. “I know they’re dangerous, Miss O’Reilly, and good things to steer well clear of.”
“Specifically, what do you know about car bombs?” she pressed.
“If you’re referring to prior history, I’ve nothing to say on the matter,” Carlyle said. “And if you’re referring to anything that may have happened to dear William, I assure you, I had nothing whatever to do with it.”
Erin blinked, caught momentarily at a loss for words.
“When things happen in my neighborhood, Miss O’Reilly,” he said with a smile, “you should know information finds its way to my ears.”
“Okay,” Erin said, deciding to bite. “If you’re a guy who hears things, tell me what you’ve heard. Why would someone blow up O’Connell?”
“Miss O’Reilly,” Carlyle said, still smiling, “why do you think anyone wanted to kill him?”
“If they didn’t, they did a good job of faking it,” Erin said. “He’s one of the deadest guys I’ve ever seen.”
“And how did you find him at the scene?” he asked.
Webb broke into the conversation. “Mr. Carlyle, we’re asking the questions here,” he said brusquely. “For obvious reasons, we can’t discuss the details of an ongoing investigation. Now, where were you this morning between five and seven thirty?”
“I was upstairs, asleep,” Carlyle said. “My place of residence is directly above this public house.”
“Can anyone vouch for you?” Erin asked.
He looked her straight in the eye. “I’d no overnight company, Miss O’Reilly,” he said.
She felt her face flush slightly. That hadn’t been what she’d meant, and he damn well knew it. He was still playing games. “Did anyone see you coming or going?”
“Aye,” he said. “But that proves nothing. After all, one of the joys of an explosive is that one needn’t be present when it goes off. Like poison, it works whether the perpetrator is present or not, on whomever happens to get in its way.”
“Just so we’re clear,” Webb said. “You’re saying you didn’t kill O’Connell, and you don’t know who did.”
“That’s correct, Leftenant,” Carlyle said, using the British Isles pronunciation of Webb’s rank. “But I wish you the best of luck in your inquiries.” He looked at Erin again. “And I do hope you will tell me if I can be of any further service to you.”
“That’ll be all for now, Mr. Carlyle,” Webb said. “Thank you for your time.” He turned to Vic. “Time to go, Detective.”
Erin started for the door after the others. Then she paused. “Mr. Carlyle, there’s just one more thing.”
“Certainly,” he said.
“I just want to introduce you to my partner,” she said. “Rolf, such,” she ordered, giving the command for him to search and pointing to the publican.
Rolf, ears stiff and alert, approached Carlyle with none of the tail-wagging friendliness of a normal dog. He was on the job, sniffing carefully at the man. Carlyle watched the animal with polite curiosity.
The German Shepherd finished his search and turned to Erin, tail waving uncertainly. He hadn’t alerted to anything, which meant Carlyle didn’t have any explosive residue that Rolf could smell.
“And what’s this lad’s name?” Carlyle asked.
“Rolf,” Erin said.
“Fine name. Is he a European import as well?”
“Bavarian,” she said. “Okay, we’re done here.” She turned to go once more.
“Miss O’Reilly?” Carlyle’s voice followed her.
She turned in the doorway.
“Tell your father an old friend said hello.”
Chapter 4
“Sir, with all due respect, what the hell just happened?” Erin burst out.
Webb raised an eyebrow at her. They were standing on the sidewalk a short distance from the Barley Corner. Passersby shot curious looks at them, but she didn’t care.
“Got a problem, Erin?” Vic asked. He was smiling a little, as if he got the joke, which didn’t help her state of mind at all.
“Is this some kind of hazing thing?” she demanded. “Sir, you threw me in there with no prep, no leverage, and let me just bounce off that guy. He’s a serious mobster, and it’s my first day on the damn job!”
“You know him?” Webb asked.
“No!”
The Lieutenant raised a hand. “I just thought, with the last thing he said when you left…”
“I don’t know what that was about. Maybe he saw my picture in the paper, from the art thing down in Queens. Whatever. Why didn’t you talk to him?”
“Because he was talking to you,” Webb said.
“Huh?”
Webb shrugged. “Field interrogations and interviews aren’t an exact science. With the real hardasses, the toughest thing to do is break through the silence. Whatever gets them talking, you go with that. He was talking to you, so you were the best one to talk to him.”
Erin could see his point, when he put it that way. “God, he’s a creep,” she said. But she didn’t mean it. What was unnerving about Carlyle was his confidence and his easy manner, even under police scrutiny. There was something oddly charming about him. She’d been right with her initial assessment. He was an alpha in the rough and tumble pack of the underworld. It made him compelling, but also very dangerous.
“So what do you think, O’Reilly?”
Webb asked. “Did he do it?”
“I hope so,” Vic muttered.
“Maybe,” Erin said. “He’s absolutely capable of it. And did you see his drink? Bomb shot of whiskey and Irish Cream into Guinness?”
“Irish Car Bomb,” Vic said, getting it. “He’s a smug son of a bitch, all right.”
“He’s messing with us,” Erin said. “Which means either he’s just having fun jerking us around, or he really did do it and he’s sure we can’t prove it. But it tells us one thing about him for sure.”
“What’s that?” Webb asked.
“He knew about the hit on O’Connell before we got there,” Erin said. “He knew why we were at his bar. He was waiting for us. So he has to have some other information source, if he’s not the guy.”
“Let’s get back to the precinct and see how Jones’s research is going,” Webb said. “Maybe she can give us the skinny on Mr. Carlyle.”
*
As they entered the precinct, Vic put his hands on his hips. “What the hell?” he demanded.
“What’s the problem?” Webb asked.
“What’s all this shit doing on my desk?”
Erin followed his look and grimaced. She’d put her gear down on the emptiest desk, assuming it was the vacant one. Apparently she’d been wrong.
“That’s mine,” she said. “Sorry about that.” She hurried to clear her belongings away. “Where am I?”
“That one,” Vic said, pointing to a desk that had been doing duty as a receptacle for empty pizza boxes and Chinese takeout containers. Erin piled up the trash and crammed it into a garbage can, then came back to join the others.
Jones was busy at her computer. She pointed to a pile of fresh-printed pages on her desk. “This is quite a guy you’ve got,” she said.
“How so?” Webb asked, picking up the papers and flipping through them. Erin saw that they were mostly news printouts from English and Irish papers and websites.
Jones pushed her chair back and ran a hand through her blue-dyed hair. “He’s a freaking terrorist, for starters.”
“You’re kidding,” Erin said, fighting the urge to grab the papers out of her Lieutenant’s hands.
