by Steven Henry
“You think we shouldn’t be looking at Carlyle?”
“I like Carlyle for this,” Vic said.
“Me, too,” Jones said, but she sounded less certain.
“We absolutely need to look at him,” Erin said. “That wasn’t what I meant. I just think there’s more to the case. What about Frankie?”
“What about him?” Vic asked.
“Can we hold him?”
“For resisting arrest,” Webb said. “But that’s all we’ve got on him for now. No, I think he walks, unless we find anything else to pin on him.”
“Why’d he run?” Erin demanded.
“Guys like that run from cops,” Jones said. “It’s a habit, practically a reflex.”
“Were you really on the gang squad?” Vic asked her.
“Yeah, before I went to IA,” she said. “I used to dress up like a ganger girl, go to all the cool parties, try to steer young bangers away from the life.”
“Wish I could’ve seen that,” Vic said. “You wanna show me your tats sometime?”
“In your lonely dreams, big boy.”
“Sir?” Erin said to Webb. “Everything okay?”
Webb looked blank. “What do you mean?”
“I thought he was getting to you.”
He laughed. “Good cop, bad cop,” he said. “Jones and I worked it out ahead of time.”
“It worked, I guess,” Erin said. “You got the name. But we don’t really have anything more on Carlyle.”
“It’s still not enough for a warrant,” Webb agreed. “But it’s enough to go talk to him again.”
“I’ll do it,” Erin said quickly.
Webb looked at her curiously. “Okay, if you want it. Neshenko, you want to go with her?”
“I’d rather go alone,” she said.
“Why?” Vic challenged.
“Something he said,” Erin explained. “He… he knew my dad. I think maybe he’ll talk to me, maybe say a little more if it’s just me.”
Webb considered it. “Okay,” he said again. “But be careful. These are dangerous guys we’re dealing with here. I want Neshenko close by. Anything smells hinky, you get him in there.”
“It’s a bar in downtown Manhattan,” Erin said. “It’s not like I’m following the guy down a dark alley.”
“Yeah,” Vic said. “And no Irish cop ever got in trouble walking into a bar.”
Chapter 9
Dealing with Fergus and his goons had eaten up most of the day. It was late afternoon by the time Erin got to the Barley Corner. Vic stayed outside, lounging in the car. She debated the wisdom of bringing Rolf into the pub. He helped her confidence with his presence, and he’d be essential if there was trouble, but he also might make Carlyle nervous. She decided to leave the dog with Vic. “Don’t eat him, boy,” she told Rolf, rubbing his ears. The Shepherd gave her a long, doubtful stare as she closed the car door.
The smell of roast beef and potatoes inside the Corner made her mouth water. Her stomach growled, and she suddenly remembered she’d skipped lunch. With all the excitement of chasing down Fergus, she’d clean forgotten to eat. But that would have to wait.
The Corner was starting to fill up with the first wave of drinkers, the guys who’d gotten off work early. The ratio of men to women was about eight to one, even more lopsided if she didn’t count the waitresses. Most of the guys were big, blue-collar types. It was a lot like the bars she was used to in Queens.
Erin looked around, but didn’t see Carlyle. His silver hair and neat attire should have made him stand out. Momentarily stymied, she eased her way up to the bar. With that magic every good bartender knows, Danny materialized in front of her.
“Afternoon, ma’am,” he said. “What’ll it be?”
Erin wanted a drink. Maybe it was the atmosphere of the place, maybe it was nerves, maybe it was just her Irish heritage coming out at an inconvenient moment, but she very nearly asked for a shot of whiskey. Then she reminded herself she was on duty. “Coke,” she said.
“Anything to stiffen it?”
“No, thanks. Just Coke.”
He filled a glass and set it down on the bar. “Cash or tab?”
“Cash,” she said, reaching for her wallet.
“Please, love, allow me,” a voice at her elbow said in a rich Irish brogue. “Just put it on my tab, Danny.”
Erin thought for an instant it was Carlyle. The accent was nearly identical, that of a man born in Northern Ireland. But even before she turned to face him, she knew it came from a different man. There was a kind of reckless amusement in the voice. It was made for laughing and singing. The face of the man beside her was a perfect match for his tone. He was just an inch or so taller than Erin, so she was looking right into his eyes. They were a bright, brilliant green, laugh lines crinkling their corners. He had a slender face dotted with a few freckles, framed by thick, wavy hair of such a fiery red that she suspected a dye job. He had a warm, conspiratorial smile that made her think of shared secrets.
“Sure thing, Corky,” Danny said.
“Thanks,” Erin said. “But I don’t accept drinks from strangers.”
The newcomer grinned. “Of course you don’t, love, which is why I appreciate your making an exception in my case. You’re far too fair a lass to be drinking alone. Danny, if you wouldn’t mind another Glen D for me, while I keep the lady company?”
A glass of whiskey appeared in front of Erin’s new drinking companion. He held it up and cocked it toward her. “Amber poison, love,” he said. “You know why the good Lord invented whiskey and hangovers, don’t you? Without them, the Irish would long ago have conquered the world.” He sipped the drink and sighed appreciatively. “Ah, that’s fine. You surprise me, though. I’d pegged you for a whiskey lass yourself. Or haven’t you any Irish in you?”
“On both sides,” she admitted. “But I can’t drink right now.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I find it hard to believe an Irish lass would come into a public house solely for the purpose of not taking a drink.”
“I’m here on business, Mr…?”
He shook his head. “Not Mister anything, love. James Corcoran, Corky to my friends, of which I hope you will be a dear one. Will you favor me with your name?”
“Detective Erin O’Reilly,” she said, emphasizing her title.
“Oh, grand!” he exclaimed, more amused and impressed than intimidated. “You’d not be the first copper to wet your whistle on the clock, and I’d not tell a soul, but I understand. So what brings you here, Erin?”
Corcoran was standing just a bit too close, giving off all the signs of a man looking for a date, but that didn’t bother Erin by itself. She dealt with that sort of thing all the time. What made it awkward was that she liked the look of him. He practically dripped with charisma. She was sure he’d be a fun guy to hang out with, the life of every party. And she was unattached at the moment. But she was on a murder investigation, not enjoying an evening off, and she needed to keep her mind on her job. She’d been a detective less than forty-eight hours, and she wasn’t going to start flirting with some random guy when she was supposed to be interviewing a potential suspect. Especially a random guy who was hanging out in a mob bar.
“I need to talk to Mr. Carlyle,” she said.
“And why would a copper need to be talking to him?”
“Police business,” she said. She glanced around again and still didn’t see Carlyle.
“Ah, to be sure,” he said. “And after you’ve concluded your business, would you be letting a lad buy you a more interesting drink?”
She had to smile at his persistence. “Not tonight, Mr. Corcoran.”
“I suppose I’ll have to live in hope, Erin,” he said. “But so that we’re clear, I’m quite certain you’d take me up on my offer in other circumstances.”
Erin gave him a level, hard stare, the one she reserved for juvenile delinquents. “How sure are you?”
The glare bounced off with no apparent effect. “Sure
enough that I’ll be certain to have our next encounter under more relaxed conditions. I think you’re worth pursuing, Erin, and I think a copper might like being the one pursued for a change.” He looked into her eyes with a frank warmth, then flicked his gaze past her. “Ah, and we were getting on so well. There’s the lad you came to speak with.”
Erin turned to see Carlyle, who’d just emerged from the back of the pub. She glanced at her companion, but James Corcoran had slipped into the crowd and vanished. It was an impressively quick fade. She put Corcoran out of her mind. Carlyle was the whole reason she was here. She gulped down the last half of her Coke, a poor substitute for liquid courage, and stood up.
Carlyle made eye contact when they were about ten feet apart. He smiled with surprising warmth. Erin didn’t return it. Now that she was face-to-face with him again, she wondered why she’d volunteered for this, and why she’d come alone. Up close, she remembered how she’d felt at their last meeting. She thought of her conversation with her father, of the way Carlyle had played him. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides.
“A good evening to you, Miss O’Reilly,” he said, offering his hand.
She stared at it for a moment, making up her mind, then gave him a quick, abrupt handshake.
“I confess,” he continued, “I wasn’t expecting to see you again so soon. I’m pleased my establishment made such a fine impression on you.”
“Mr. Carlyle, this isn’t a social call.”
“I never thought for a moment that it was.”
Erin buried a flash of irritation. The guy was so smooth. Everything bounced off him. She decided to play it cool, just like he was doing. “But it’s a fine bar,” she said. “If I wasn’t on duty, I might still drop by.”
“Ah, grand!” he exclaimed, sounding just like Corcoran. “You’ll be welcome at any time. I’m always proud to cater to New York’s finest.”
“And here I was thinking this was a mob bar,” she said, just to see how he’d react.
Carlyle spread his hands in a gesture of innocence. “You wound me, Miss O’Reilly. My public house is open and welcome to anyone who cares to come through the doors. You’ll see no secret business conducted here. Why would I have anything to hide from you or your colleagues?”
Bullshit, Erin thought. “I’m glad to hear it,” was what she said. “I’m hoping there’s something you can help me with.”
“Any favor I can do for you will be my pleasure.”
A shiver ran down Erin’s spine at that, remembering her father’s last words to her. “It’s not a personal favor,” she said. “It’s for the city of New York.”
Carlyle sat down beside her on a bar stool that hadn’t been empty until a moment ago. The big, beefy guy who’d been sitting there had quietly moved off the instant Carlyle had looked his way. “Miss O’Reilly, I do no business with cities,” he said. “I’m a publican. My business is retail, man-to-man, man-to-woman. I’m not talking to New York City, I’m talking to you.”
“Okay, Mr. Carlyle,” she said, meeting his stare. “Let’s talk. First off, William O’Connell owed you money. That’s not speculation, that’s a fact.”
“Let’s suppose for the sake of argument you’re speaking truth,” he said.
“How were you planning on getting repaid?”
Carlyle drummed his fingers on the bar’s dark, worn wood. “In full, and with interest.”
“Could you elaborate?”
“Were a lad to owe me, say, sixty thousand dollars, he would make payments in monthly installments, at fifteen percent,” Carlyle said. “Still speaking hypothetically, of course. It’d not be in my best interests to blast him to bits. Why kill a man making good on his debts? That would be killing the goose that laid the proverbial golden eggs. Then, I’d also have to consider the example it might set for others who might owe money.”
“That’s true enough,” Erin admitted. “But there’s also the little fact of Billy working for your competitor.”
Carlyle didn’t react, except to raise a finger to signal the bartender. “Pour me a house special, Danny,” he said. “It’s appropriate to the conversation. And what can I get for you, Miss O’Reilly? You needn’t worry about cost, it’s on the house.”
“Nothing, thanks.”
Danny brought Carlyle a glass of Guinness, then dropped the bomb shot of Irish cream and whiskey into it. Carlyle knocked back the drink in a matter of seconds, bringing the empty glass down on the bar with a thud. The shot glass bounced against the inside of the beer glass with a follow-up clink.
The Irishman turned back to Erin. “I’m well aware O’Connell was working for Mr. Fergus,” he said. “Apparently, he owed dear Franklin even more than whatever he may have owed to me. What of it?”
“Look, Mr. Carlyle,” she said. “You’ve got a history here. You worked for the O’Malley gang down in Queens back in the ’90s, blowing up garbage trucks. Now you’ve got a rival who’s had one of his enforcers blown up in a car bomb. Maybe he was paying you, maybe he wasn’t. Maybe you were just pissed at him. All I know is, right now I’ve got a list of suspects exactly one name long.” She thought of Webb in the interrogation room. “I’m not asking you to help me. I’m asking you to help yourself. Because the way the wind is blowing right now, this thing’s going to get hung on you.”
Carlyle smiled. “So you’re saying it’s in my best interests to help you… unless I blew poor William to atoms, of course, in which case I’ve honestly no idea what you want me to say. Would you be wanting a written confession, should I prove to be the perpetrator?”
“What do you want, Mr. Carlyle?” she shot back.
“At the moment? To share a drink with a charming lass while engaged in pleasant conversation. What more could a lad ask?”
“Don’t you want to clear your name?”
“Miss O’Reilly, if my name was clear before this business crossed your path, I very much doubt you’d be consulting me on the matter,” he said. “What’s my occupation?”
“You’re a gangster, Cars,” she said, emphasizing his nickname.
“You’re a copper. We’re all playing our parts in this game. You’re seeking information. It would be a sight easier, I’ll admit, if you could simply drag me to the local jail in irons. But you’d prefer to collar the true guilty party, wouldn’t you? Now, I’m not saying I’d anything to do with those trucks that exploded in Queens all those years ago…”
“Of course not,” she said dryly.
“…but I do know a thing or two about explosive devices. This information may be helpful to you. Perhaps we’re in a position to assist one another.”
“Maybe. But you still haven’t told me what you want from the NYPD,” she said.
Carlyle shook his head. “As I’ve said, I do business with people.”
“Okay, then. What do you want from me?”
He was still smiling. “A free exchange of thoughts. Not a string attached. Here and now, I’d like to talk about bombs, and I imagine you do as well. So can we lay aside whatever you think you know about me, and get on with solving your little explosive problem?”
“Okay, start talking,” she said. At least it would get him talking about the case.
“Do you know how the device was detonated?”
“It was hooked up to the ignition.”
“So the lad was blasted when he started the engine?”
Erin wondered how much she should be sharing with this guy. “I didn’t say that.”
“Was there a cellular telephone?”
“Yeah, he had a phone.”
“Not on the victim,” he said. “Attached to the bomb.”
“No.”
“No remote detonator at all?”
She shook her head.
“A direct device,” Carlyle said. “If you’re wanting to kill a lad with a bomb, there’s good and bad sides to such a thing. The benefit of it is, you needn’t be present to do away with him. You can be halfway across town, enjoying a right
lovely alibi. But like poison, such a bomb doesn’t care who it kills.”
“What’s your point?” Erin asked.
“My point is, you’re making some assumptions.”
“Such as?”
“How do you know dear William was the intended target?”
Erin blinked. “Well, it was his car…”
“I suppose that proves him the target,” Carlyle said quietly. “Unless, of course, someone else also had use of the automobile.”
Her mind raced. She’d just made a connection. “The wife,” she said quietly.
“Beg pardon?”
“She had a garden club meeting yesterday morning,” Erin said. “She said she’d have to call for a cab. Which meant she’d been intending to drive…”
She stood up without finishing her thought. “Thanks,” she said. “I have to go.”
“Of course you do,” he said, smiling. “I’m glad to be of service. Please do come back soon. I shall look forward to it.” He stood in a gesture of old-world chivalry. “Good evening.”
She was already heading out the door, pulling her phone and dialing Webb.
*
“Well?” Webb asked as soon as she identified herself. “What did the Irish bomb-maker have to say for himself?”
“It wasn’t him. O’Connell, I mean,” Erin said.
“You mean Carlyle didn’t kill O’Connell?”
“No. Yes. I mean… I’m pretty sure Carlyle’s not our guy. But O’Connell may not be our victim, either.”
“O’Reilly? You’re not making sense. Of course O’Connell’s the victim. He’s dead, isn’t he?”
She took a deep breath and started over. “Yeah, O’Connell got blown up. But the bomb might’ve been meant for someone else. The wife.”
“The garden club meeting.” Webb caught up fast.
“Yeah, she was going to drive that morning. Either the killer screwed up the schedule, or he meant to take out Cynthia.”
“Yeah,” Webb said. Then, gaining conviction, “Yeah. It fits. But the Irish Mob angle has to be there. Listen, O’Reilly. Are you absolutely certain Carlyle didn’t plant the bomb?”
“No,” she admitted. “But my gut says he didn’t do it. Skip said it was an amateur device, and Carlyle’s a pro. And then there was the way he was talking about it. He was cagey, but he seemed to be trying to help. I can’t get a clear read on him. I think he’s jerking me around a little, just for fun. I think…”
