Irish Car Bomb

by Steven Henry

  But the other thing that made her a good officer was discipline. So when his hands started wandering in their dance, she moved them back to safe territory, even though a part of her—a large part—wanted to let him go where he wanted. He accepted the corrections with good humor. In fact, there was a look in his eye that suggested he liked the chase as well as the capture. With that in mind, she let herself get a little flirty, even suggestive.

  At last, though, she knew it was time to call it a night. It was well after ten, and they were a good half hour’s drive from her apartment. “I don’t know about you,” she said, having to lean in close to be heard over the music and background noise, “but I’ve got to get up in the morning.”

  “More dead criminals to discover?”

  She laughed. “Not all of them are dead.”

  “I should hope not! I’d not want you to be deprived of the thrill of pursuit.”

  “Are you all right to drive?” she asked. It had been over an hour since either of them had had a drink, but Corky had knocked back two strong rum punches, as well as the car bomb and whiskey earlier.

  “Never better, love,” he said. “But perhaps you’d like to take the controls?”

  “Really?” She’d wanted to, but hadn’t dared ask. Erin liked fast, powerful cars; yet another perk of being a cop.

  He handed her the keys as they walked out of the club. “Just don’t get us pulled over.”

  “Are you kidding?” she retorted. “Once we cross into Queens, that’s my old beat. I’ll know all the guys on the road.”

  “But just think of their feelings,” he said. “They’ll see you with me, and their poor hearts will be broken.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I never date cops,” she said, opening the door of the convertible. Corky didn’t bother with his door, sliding over the top of it and into the passenger seat.

  “Why’s that?”

  “It’s not a good idea to mix work and romance,” she said. “Policing is still a guy’s world. It’s hard not to be a sex object when you’re a woman on the force. Bring actual sex into it and… it’s trouble.”

  “I see what you mean,” Corky said. “Fortunately, I’m no copper.”

  Erin gave him a quick smile as she started the car, feeling the thrum of the engine through her feet. She took a moment to adjust the mirrors and get a feel for the vehicle, then put it in gear.

  Corky leaned in close, brushing a loose strand of hair back from her neck. Her skin tingled at the near-ticklish touch. Then she jumped as his lips pressed softly against her neck, just behind her ear. The cool night air raised goosebumps on her arms as her perspiration cooled, but his breath was warm.

  She kept driving, looking straight ahead. He kissed her neck again, then slid a hand up to touch the side of her face, caressing her cheek.

  “I’m driving!” she exclaimed, as he turned all the way toward her in the seat and slipped his other hand onto her leg, just above the knee. “You want to cause an accident?”

  “Ah, you’ve plenty of self-control,” he said. “I’ve no doubt you can handle the situation.”

  “You’re just lucky I left my Taser at work,” she said.

  “So you’re saying you want sparks to be flying between us?”

  “Have you ever been tased?” she countered. “It’s not a pleasant experience.”

  “Aye, I have.”

  “Really? What for?”

  “Disorderly conduct. I was somewhat the worse for drink at the time. It was all a tragic misunderstanding.”

  “What did you think of it?”

  “I asked if the officers wouldn’t mind giving me a second helping.”

  Erin took her eyes off the road for a second. “You didn’t.”

  “Aye, I did,” he said, his face showing nothing but earnest truth.

  “And did they?”

  “Aye, they gave me another jolt, for the crime of gross stupidity.”

  “Did you ask for a third?”

  “Nay, I didn’t want to be greedy.”

  Erin shook her head. She’d had to submit to a Taser jolt when she’d been issued her own to carry, and one had been more than enough. “You’re something else, Corky.”

  *

  She pulled into her apartment’s lot, parking in a visitor space. Leaving the engine running, she unbuckled her seatbelt and turned to face him.

  “Thanks,” she said. “This was fun.”

  “Are you sure you want me to be leaving?” he asked.

  “I need to get some sleep,” she said. “Gotta be sharp tomorrow.”

  He unfastened his own belt. “That wasn’t an answer,” he said, and then he had his arms around her and his lips tasted of just a hint of rum, and she closed her eyes and let the kiss unfold. And she arched her back into him without fully realizing what she was doing. Oh, she wanted him.

  But she couldn’t. Not yet, not tonight.

  He felt the change in her, the way she gently disengaged. He pulled back a little, so they were eye to eye. “Are you sure?” he asked again. “This could be something wonderful.”

  She managed a shaky smile. “No kidding,” she said. “But that’s not the point.” She sat up and redid her ponytail. Even though they were both fully clothed, she felt disheveled, half-naked.

  He smiled, and the smile warmed her right to her toes and made her question her decision. “Well, love, if that’s your way of thinking, I’m bound to respect it,” he said. But the way he looked at her had much more to do with desire than respect.

  “Jesus,” she muttered, half to herself. “You’re the guy my dad warned me about. You know, the one every dad tells his daughter about when she starts noticing boys.”

  Corky threw back his head and laughed. “I’m one of them,” he agreed. “But I doubt I’ve ever personally met your old man.”

  Erin got out of the car. Corky climbed out of his seat and came around to the driver’s side. They stood facing each other, close together.

  “Just because I’m not saying yes tonight,” she said, “doesn’t mean I’m saying no forever.”

  “I know it,” he said.

  “Goodnight, Corky.”

  “Goodnight, Erin.”

  They moved toward each other in unspoken unison. She took his head in her hands. They kissed, letting the moment linger. Finally, they stepped reluctantly apart.

  “Shall I call you?” he asked.

  “You don’t have my number.”

  “Of course I do,” he said. “Nine-one-one, aye?”

  She laughed. “You do know there’s over thirty thousand cops in New York, right?” She thought about it. “I may end up working some strange hours,” she said. “Why don’t you give me your number, and I’ll call you?”

  “Grand,” he said, and rattled off the digits. Erin logged the number in her phone.

  “Well, see you around,” she said.

  “Aye.”

  Erin went into the apartment, still feeling a tingle in her lips and a heat inside her that had nothing to do with rum punch.

  Chapter 14

  Erin didn’t sleep well, despite her fatigue. There were way too many things going on for her to let go of them. She dozed off, then snapped awake, then drifted for a while, then woke up again.

  She gave it up at four in the morning. The sun wouldn’t be showing for a while yet, but she got out of bed anyway and put on her running clothes. Rolf, who’d slept much better than his partner, was instantly on his feet, excited at the prospect of an early-morning run.

  She jogged through the dark streets, unconcerned about muggers. At four o’clock most of them were sleeping off their drug of choice, and the ninety-pound German Shepherd at her side was a pretty effective deterrent. She hoped that by working her body she could quiet her brain.

  Little flashes of clarity moved through her thoughts like the glow from the streetlights as she passed under them. But the overall picture stayed dark. When she got back to her apartment at five-thirty, she’d broken a goo
d sweat but was no closer to figuring out what was bothering her.

  There was only one thing to do. After putting on the coffee and grabbing a quick shower, Erin did what every good cop did when faced with trouble. She called for backup.

  *

  A lot of retirees wouldn’t have answered the phone before six AM. But Sean O’Reilly, Senior, had always been an early-morning riser. He’d bought the house in upstate New York when he’d left the NYPD so he could go right out on the lake, or into the woods, depending on the fishing or hunting season. He picked up the phone before the third ring, sounding wide-awake.

  “O’Reilly,” he said, having never quite broken himself of his old patrolman’s style of answering.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “Erin! Everything okay?” He was instantly alert and concerned.

  “Yeah, Dad, I’m fine,” she said. “Sorry it’s so early.”

  “It’s okay. I’m on the kitchen phone. Your mother’s still in bed. I was getting set to take the boat out, see what’s biting.”

  “You got a minute?”

  “I’ve always got time for my favorite daughter. What’s on your mind?”

  “I’m your only daughter.” She took a deep breath and sorted through her thoughts. “I got my first Major Crimes closure.”

  “Really? Great work!” Sean exclaimed. “What can you tell me?”

  “I told you a little the last time we talked. There was this guy who got in deep with some bookies. He was a collector for one of them, working off the debt, and tried to make a big score by offing his wife for the insurance.”

  “Classic. You get him?”

  “Not exactly. He screwed up setting a bomb in her car and blew himself up.”

  “He was the car bomb guy?”

  “Yeah. So he’s our man, but he’s already dead. So… we got it closed, but…”

  “Not very satisfying?”

  “Right,” she said. “And I don’t know, it’s…”

  “Not what you figured it’d be?” he suggested.

  “Maybe that’s it,” she admitted. “But…”

  “But what?” he said. “Kiddo, what’s eating you? Are you sure he’s the guy?”

  “Yeah. Well, I mean… I’m pretty sure.”

  “Is it the Carlyle thing?” Sean asked. “Look, Erin, that was years ago. Did he get inside your head on this?”

  “No! Well, maybe a little. But there’s Irish mob fingerprints all over this.”

  “Do you mean actual fingerprints, or…”

  She smiled. “No, Dad. I mean, this is the sort of thing they’d do, right? I mean, car bombs aren’t common over here. But there’s this guy who was with the IRA, building bombs for them, and another suspect fingers him for us, and it turns out he had nothing to do with it? Does that sound right to you?”

  “You had a suspect give you Cars’s name? Can you tell me who?”

  “Just another Irish thug,” she said. “Young guy. I don’t think you’d know him.”

  “Another Irish guy sold out Carlyle?” Her dad sounded skeptical. “Did he volunteer the info, or did you lean on him?”

  “We leaned pretty hard,” she said. “But look, Dad, we’re sure O’Connell killed himself. The blast pattern, the tools he had out… hell, we found his bomb lab in the basement! It wasn’t Carlyle.”

  Sean O’Reilly was quiet a few moments. “Then what’s the problem?” he finally asked.

  “There’s gotta be more to it.”

  “Why?”

  “Why a car bomb? There’s a hundred easier ways to kill someone. Safer ways.”

  “If this guy knew Carlyle, he might’ve had car bombs on the brain.”

  Erin nodded. “Yeah, that makes sense. But why’d the other guys try to feed Carlyle to us?”

  “I’ve seen some of the Irish mob in action,” her dad said. “These guys aren’t rats. Code of silence, y’know? They’re not gonna sell out another of theirs, not if they’re buddies.”

  “What if they weren’t buddies?”

  “They still wouldn’t bring the cops into it,” he said. “The Harbor Patrol would be scooping a body out of the East River.”

  “Then why would they tell me Carlyle did it?” she wondered aloud.

  “You’d have to ask Carlyle that,” Sean said dryly. “Or the guy you talked to.”

  “I think maybe I’d better,” she agreed. “Guess the case isn’t quite closed yet.”

  “Guess not,” her dad said. “But remember, Erin, you won’t always know everything. You’re not gonna get all the answers every time. If you know who, and why, that’ll have to be good enough. Otherwise you’re not gonna be happy as a detective.”

  “Right, Dad,” she said. “Look, I have to get to work. Say hi to Mom for me, okay?”

  “You can say it to her yourself,” Sean said. “She just came into the kitchen. Mary, why aren’t you asleep?”

  Erin missed most of her mother’s answer, but then her mom’s voice came on the line, loud and clear.

  “Erin, how are you?”

  “Fine, Mom, but I need to get going here.”

  “All right, dear. But you really should come up here to see us soon. We miss you, honey.”

  “Sure thing, Mom. I miss you too. Especially your pie.” Mary O’Reilly’s baking had been well-known in their neighborhood while Erin was growing up.

  “I’ll bake whatever you’d like best,” Mary said. “And if you have a nice young man you can bring with you, I’ll feed him too.”

  “Mom!”

  “Come on, dear, isn’t there somebody…?”

  “Mom!” she said again, but she knew her voice had given her away. “Okay, there is a guy I just met, but it hasn’t really gone anywhere yet. We’re not at the meet-the-parents point.”

  “Is he a good Catholic boy?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Yes, Mother, he’s a Catholic. He’s a former altar-boy from Ireland. I’m sure you’d like him. But I really need to go now. Traffic into Manhattan’s gonna be a killer.”

  “All right, dear. But at least tell me your young man’s name.”

  “James. Goodbye, Mom.”

  “Lovely. Well, have a good day at work, dear. I love you.”

  “Love you too, Mom, Dad. ‘Bye.”

  *

  When Erin got to the Major Crimes office, her first thought was that the place had been burglarized. File folders were strewn on the floor, arrest reports, mug shots, crime-scene photos, all jumbled together. A small wall of cardboard boxes from Evidence had been constructed around Vic’s desk. The big Russian sat in the middle of it all, eyes bloodshot, the largest soda cup she’d ever seen at his elbow.

  “Jesus Christ, Vic,” she said. “Have you even been home?”

  “Huh?” He looked up. “What time is it?”

  “Quarter to eight,” she said, then added, “in the morning.”

  “Shit,” Vic said. He cleared his throat and said it again. “Shit.”

  “So what’s all this?” she asked, gesturing at the snowstorm of paperwork.

  “Irish mob,” he said. “All the known associates of Carlyle, O’Connell, Fergus, the rest of them. There’s gotta be a hundred of these guys. You have any idea how many Irish crooks there are in the five boroughs?”

  “Almost as many as there are Irish cops,” she said with a smile. “Find anything?”

  “Not really,” he admitted. “Carlyle’s the only one with a history of bomb-building.”

  “So someone was trying to set him up,” she said. “O’Connell was making it look like Carlyle bombed him.”

  “Because of the gambling debts? Yeah, I thought of that,” Vic said. He took a slurp of whatever was in the cup on his desk. “So maybe he was trying to frame Carlyle. So what? He’s still dead, so what’s it matter?”

  “It matters if someone put him up to it,” she said. “That makes it conspiracy. If anyone helped him plan it, that makes it Murder One on whoever helped.”

  “That’s gonna be impossi
ble to prove,” Vic said. “Whoever it is, he’ll just say they never discussed it, and that’s it. Dead end, unless someone was enough of a moron to record the conversation. Believe it, Erin. I’ve been beating my head on this all night.”

  “Okay,” she said. “Well, who are we looking at? We can at least narrow the list down a little.”

  “Let’s see,” Vic said. “Carlyle works for Evan O’Malley. Evan’s an old-school mob boss, real big on loyalty. From what I hear, he wants you dead, you’ll know it was him. A frame isn’t his style. Then there’s the rest of the O’Malley lieutenants. There’s Mickey Connor, he’s chief enforcer, bombing’s not his style, though. More of a face-to-face guy. Frankie Fingers, of course, we know already. Liam McIntyre, he’s a possible. Don’t know much about him. We think he’s big into narcotics. Then we’ve got James Corcoran, smuggling; Veronica Blackburn, runs whores…”

  “What?” Erin’s throat felt suddenly thick and swollen, her hands cold.

  Vic looked at her quizzically. “Veronica Blackburn,” he repeated. “Runs whores. I don’t see what—”

  “No, the other one,” Erin said. “The smuggler.”

  Vic rummaged through the files on his desk. “James Corcoran,” he said. “Here he is. Another Irish import. Same neighborhood as Carlyle. File says they’re best friends, grew up together. You know the guy?”

  Erin took the file, willing her fingers to stay steady. The mug shot was unmistakable. Corky was even smiling slightly into the camera, that mischievous sparkle in his eyes. “No,” she said quietly, “I don’t think I do.”

  “I don’t know that I like him for this,” Vic said. “Childhood friends? I can’t see them coming apart like this. Unless we’re missing something.”

  Erin barely heard him. It took all her willpower not to crumple the photo in her hand and scream at the ceiling. She took a deep breath, held it, let it out again. “You’re probably right,” she said, and was glad to hear that her voice sounded more or less calm. “He doesn’t look that subtle to me.”

  “Read the file,” Vic said. “He’s a cocky son of a bitch, that one. They say he never carries a gun. Got a guy says he just keeps a knife on him. And the bastard’s fast enough he can get away with bringing a knife to a gunfight.”