by Steven Henry
“Detective O'Reilly,” Natalie said. “I have come to thank you and the others for what you have done for us.”
“Just our job, ma'am,” Erin said.
“No,” Natalie said with a decisive shake of her head. “You found the monsters who killed Gregory, and you punished them. For that I must thank you.”
“Ma'am,” Erin said. “There's something I should say. Ludmila, the woman who was killed, was meeting Gregory for a reason.”
“I do not need to know this,” Natalie said.
“I think you do,” Erin said. “The young woman was pregnant. She wanted her child to have a better life than she could give her. Gregory helped her escape from a terrible situation. She was grateful. She was going to give her child to the two of you to raise.”
Natalie put a hand to her heart and murmured something in Russian, her eyes closed. Then she recovered her poise. “The men who killed them,” she said. “Do you know why?”
Erin nodded. “They were afraid she'd tell someone about their operation, bring attention. I think they thought she was telling him about herself.”
“Gregory was a hero,” Natalie said.
“He risked his life to help two girls escape,” Erin said. “Yeah, he was a hero.”
That shut them both up for a minute.
“The newspapers, they say there are other girls?” Natalie asked.
“Yeah,” Vic said. “We got seven off the plane. Plus Anna.”
“That is good,” Natalie said. “I would like to meet them, to do something for them.”
“Their situation is a little awkward,” Erin said. “They were brought into the country illegally.”
“So what will you do? Send them back?” Natalie demanded, her eyes flashing.
“It's not up to us,” Vic said. “It's an Immigration thing now.”
“So you will do nothing? You save their lives, then you throw them away?”
“Hey,” Vic said. He stood up.
Erin faced the Russian woman. “Ms. Markov,” she said, “we can't save anybody. People have to save themselves, and each other. All we can give them is a chance.” She was thinking fast. “These girls are minors. Their families need to be contacted, if it's possible. But if they okay it, or if the families can't be found, then the girls will need sponsorship.”
Natalie nodded. “But for this they must be relatives, yes?”
“It's not a requirement,” Erin said. “They need someone to file an affidavit, promise to take financial responsibility until they become citizens.”
Natalie crossed her arms, thinking it over. “Very well,” she said. “I will do it.”
“They won't let you sponsor all of them,” Vic said.
“Then I will take as many as I can,” she retorted. “And I will find others, good people, to sponsor the rest of them. Gregory gave his life to help people to come here and live. To honor him, I will do what he would do.”
Vic glanced at Erin. “It'll be messy,” he said. “And complicated.”
“But it might work,” Erin said. “Ms. Markov, I'll find out who you need to talk to, who can get you the right paperwork.”
Natalie smiled a grim, determined smile. “Always there is the paperwork,” she said. “I will do this, for Gregory, and for these poor girls. They will have a life, the best life I can give to them.” She looked the detectives over. “You are a good man and a good woman. Thank you for this, and for everything.”
“Thank you, ma'am,” Erin replied. She offered her hand.
Natalie ignored it. She took hold of Erin's shoulders and kissed her on the cheek. Then she did the same to Vic, turned, and walked back to the elevator.
“That's some woman,” Vic said as the doors slid shut behind her.
“They make 'em tough in Russia,” Erin said.
“She's gonna be fine,” he said. “And so will they.”
“Eventually,” Erin said.
“Eventually,” he agreed.
Chapter 18
Erin had one more task to take care of before she closed her personal file on the case. At the end of the day, she went home, took Rolf for a walk through the neighborhood, and made her way to the Barley Corner. Not a single seat was available when she got there. But she saw Carlyle in his usual spot. By the time she got to him, he'd noticed her and made meaningful eye contact with the guy on his left. That man moved off without a word.
Carlyle stood. “Good evening, Erin. Have a seat, if you please.”
She settled onto the stool, Carlyle resuming his own seat. Rolf settled under the bar at Erin's feet. Danny appeared, with his usual bartending magic.
“What'll it be, Erin?” he asked.
“Gimme a White Russian.”
“And a Glen D whiskey for me,” Carlyle said. “On the rocks.”
While Danny made the drinks, Carlyle studied Erin's face. His eyes were thoughtful. He was taking in everything in her manner and appearance.
“What?” she said at last. She was starting to feel awkward.
“It's a funny thing,” he said. “In your world, after what happened, you've all manner of reports to file, investigations into your conduct. Were you on the other side of the line, you'd have made your bones.”
“Is that what this is to you guys? Some sort of test?”
“Maybe,” he said. “But personally, I don't see that being a killer makes a lad either more or less trustworthy than he was the day before. I think it's more a matter of knowing yourself.”
Erin's drink was waiting for her on the bar. She took a slug. “What do you mean?”
“The great mass of humanity wonder what they'd do in a life-or-death situation,” he said. “Some, a few, discover the answer. Now you know something about yourself that you didn't.”
She looked into his eyes. They were a clear, intense blue. “So what do you think?” she challenged him.
He smiled. “Erin, I already knew what you had in you.” He took a drink of his whiskey, then swirled the ice cubes in the glass. His smile faded. “I told you the Russians were rough lads. I'm sorry things went the way they did.”
“Are you?”
“Aye,” he said. “Believe it or not, I was trying to help you.”
“You did help,” she said. “And that's why I'm here. I came to thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
It was her turn to study him. “You're different than any gangster I've ever met,” she said.
His eyebrows went up. “Is that a compliment?”
“You've got a code,” she said. “It's different from mine. Hell, it's different from everyone else's. But you've got it, and you stick to it.”
“Maybe I do, at that,” he said. “Does that surprise you?”
“I thought you were more selfish than that.”
“Are you saying I'm a good man, in spite of my bad impulses?” He smiled more widely than before.
She grinned back. “No, you're still one of the bad guys. But you're not all bad.”
“I suppose that's something,” he said.
“We were able to save eight young women,” Erin said.
“They'll have a rough time of it,” Carlyle said. “But they're accustomed to difficult times, I imagine.”
“Why do you care what happens to them?” she asked.
“I don't suppose you'd believe me if I said it was pure altruism?”
“Not for a second.”
“What if I said I didn't know why I helped you?”
“I don't believe that either,” Erin said. “Carlyle, I don't think there's a single thing you do or say without knowing exactly why.”
“Fair enough,” he said. He drained the rest of his whiskey and brought the glass down with a clink of ice cubes. “You've read my file, of course. When you were investigating me regarding the death of that unfortunate gambler.”
She nodded.
“Then you know about Rose McCann.”
“Your wife.”
“It was those paramilitary bastards in the UVF,�
� Carlyle said. “They came to our flat while I was out, looking for me, I expect. But they may simply have been targeting Catholic civilians. They did a great deal of that, you know. They shot my poor lass almost to pieces. I found out from the doctor, afterward. Erin, she was pregnant.”
Erin swallowed. “I'm sorry,” she said. It sounded as inadequate as it always did. Cops did too much breaking of bad news.
“We never did find the ones responsible,” he said.
“So that's why you helped me.”
He shook himself free of his memories. “No, Erin. I helped you because you asked me. I like the thought that you might come through the door of my pub every now and again. You raise the tone of the place.”
“You are so full of shit, Cars,” she said. “You make it sound good, 'cause you're a smooth SOB, but it's still bullshit. You should've been selling cars, instead of blowing them up.”
He chuckled. “I'll not try to convince you otherwise, darling. There's no greater waste of time on this earth than trying to convince someone to believe something different from what they've already decided.”
She finished her White Russian and stood up. Rolf jumped up, ready to go. She reached into her pocket.
Carlyle raised a hand. “Please, darling. I've told you before. Don't insult me by trying to lay money on my bar.”
“Thanks for the drink.”
He rose, ever the old-world gentleman. “Always a pleasure. I'm sure I'll be seeing you here again.”
“Of course,” she said. “Give an Irish girl a place she can get a free drink, she's sure to come back.”
“If that's all it takes, it's more than worth it,” he said. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Erin.”
For a long, strange moment, Erin was sure he was going to bow, or kiss her hand, or something. Then she got Rolf's leash and made for the exit. She didn't look back, but she knew he was watching her go.
The sidewalk under Erin's feet was warm, giving back the heat of the day. For a few minutes, she wondered what it would be like to be a civilian, just an ordinary woman walking her dog. To be done at the end of the work day. To go home to dinner, maybe a husband and a couple of kids. Not to watch every passerby, scanning for a threat. Glancing in their faces, but mostly watching their hands. What will hurt you? Hands will hurt you. That was the first thing they taught you at the Academy.
Little flashes of memory sparked in her brain. The first bullet hole punching through the windshield of her Charger. The tear-streaked face of the girl on the plane. The wide-open eyes of the man she'd shot, and the tiny hole in his forehead.
Even if she wanted to do something else, it was too late. She was a part of the dark side of the world, and it was part of her. And the crazy thing was, in spite of all the horrible things she'd seen, and even done, she didn't want to do anything else. Erin O'Reilly was a cop. It was what she was born to do, just like Rolf was born to be a police dog. And God help her, she loved it.
“You and me, buddy,” she said to the Shepherd. He cocked his head, but when orders weren't forthcoming, he went back to sniffing a signpost.
They got to the steps leading to Erin's apartment. As she turned toward the door, she saw a man walking toward her from the opposite direction. There was an instant of alarm. He was looking right at her and moving purposefully. But then she recognized his bright red hair and wide, mischievous smile.
“Erin, love!” he said. “What a grand surprise!”
“Corky,” she said. “I suppose you're going to tell me this is a coincidence?”
James Corcoran spread his hands in a gesture of innocent surprise that didn't fool her one bit. “Perish the thought. I'd heard you'd moved into the neighborhood and hoped our paths might cross. As a matter of fact, I was just on my way down to the local public house. I thought I might drop in and see if you were going the same way, perhaps share a drink with a lonely lad?”
She laughed. “Corky, lonely is the last word I'd use to describe you.” Then her detective's brain snatched at something he'd just said. “Hold on. How'd you know where I live? You've been to my old place in Queens, but not here.”
“People talk,” he said. “Ask a question here, find an answer there.”
“Yeah, I don't buy it. Have you been following me?”
“Like a lovesick pup,” he said cheerfully. “But only in my heart. No, truth to tell, I spoke with your landlord.”
“Jesus,” Erin said. “So much for having an unlisted address.”
“Not to worry,” Corky said. “He's an old mate. I've known Harris for years. He's reliable. But what about that drink?”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” she said. “Rolf and I just came from the Corner. I've had my drink for the night.”
“Erin, the night's not even begun. How can you be done drinking already? I'm starting to think you may not really be an Irishwoman.”
She shook her head. “Not tonight, Corky.”
“Tomorrow, then?”
“I don't think so.”
He was still smiling. “You're turning me down?”
“Yeah.”
“Afraid you'd do something you'd regret in the morning?”
Looking him over, Erin thought that might just be true. “You're with the O'Malleys,” she said instead. “You're a gangster. I'm a cop. Even if I never catch you for anything, it'd never work out.”
“How do you know that, if you've never tried it?”
“I've never taken a bullet to the gut. But I still know it'd hurt.”
He gave her a pained look. “You really think it would be that bad?”
She shook her head again, but smiled as she did. “Goodnight, Corky.”
“Half a moment,” he said. “One question.”
She paused, half-turning away.
“Is it that big Russian lad? Afraid he'll be jealous?”
“What?” She was genuinely baffled. “Vic? You think I'm sleeping with Vic?”
It was Corky's turn to be confused. “You're not?”
“No!” Erin exclaimed. “He's my partner, Corky! It'd be like... God, like sleeping with one of my brothers!”
“Ah,” Corky said. “Well, that's my mistake, then. Just promise me something.”
“What?”
“You're too fine a lass to go all to waste,” he said, winking. “Get yourself a fine lad. And if you don't, then do give me a call. I'm not hard to find.”
Those words jogged Erin's mind again. “Corky,” she said. “Did you lean on Harris to get me this apartment?”
“Word of honor, Erin, I’d nothing to do with it.”
Erin nodded thoughtfully. She didn't think Corky told very many outright lies, but that didn't mean what he said was the whole truth. “I'll see you around,” she said.
“I've no doubt.”
“Stay out of trouble, Corky.”
“Back at you, Erin.”
She climbed the stairs to the lobby of her building, Rolf beside her. Somehow, she didn't think she'd be able to follow her own advice. Trouble had a way of finding her.
Erin squared her shoulders. She'd be ready for it, whatever came her way.
“Don't worry, boy,” she said to Rolf. “We can take it.”
Rolf wagged his tail.
Here’s a sneak peek from Book 4: Double Scotch
Coming Winter 2018
“Rolf! Fass!” Erin O'Reilly snapped.
Her partner sprang into action. His feet barely touched the ground as he charged. The perp didn't try to run. That was smart; Rolf was faster than any man in New York. Instead, the poor guy threw his arm out in front of himself.
Rolf had him. His teeth snapped shut on the man's arm. With a terrific snarl, all ninety pounds of German Shepherd piled into the guy. As Rolf drove his target in a stumbling backward sprawl, the dog's tail wagged enthusiastically. He was having a great time.
“Okay! Okay!” the victim said. “I give up!”
“Rolf! Pust!” Erin ordered, giving the command in the dog's na
tive German. Rolf obediently let go of the man's sleeve and returned to Erin's side, tail still wagging. “Good boy,” she said, holding out his favorite tug-rope. Rolf immediately clamped his teeth on the toy and began happily dragging at it.
“Good boy?” Vic Neshenko echoed, brushing at the sleeve of his bite-suit. “He almost bit clean through.”
“Sure,” Erin said, still engaged in her tug-of-war with her K-9. “You're supposed to feel it. If he doesn't bite hard, then what's the point?”
“I got an idea,” her fellow detective said. “Next time, you wear the suit, I'll give the orders. We'll see how you like that.”
“I've been in the suit,” she said. “K-9 school, everybody wears the suit sometimes, to help the other guys train their dogs.”
“Like Tasers,” Vic muttered. “Gotta ride the lightning before they let you carry 'em.”
“At least they don't have the same rule for sidearms,” Erin said.
That shut both of them up for a minute. It had been almost a month since their gunfight at JFK Airport. Erin and Vic had both killed men that night. They'd been clean shootings—as clean as taking a life could be—but it was something neither of them really wanted to talk about.
Now they were in Central Park, taking advantage of an unseasonably cool late-July day to get some outdoor training done. Erin worked Rolf every day, but she was the one person on earth he would never bite, so she needed to partner up for bite-work. Vic hadn't exactly jumped at the opportunity, but Vic wasn't jumping at anything these days. His bullet wounds had healed nicely, so that he hardly limped at all, but his spirit had taken a beating.
Erin worried about him. Vic had always been a surly guy, but since the Russian case, he'd been downright unpleasant. She knew why. It was his girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend, of course. The Russian girl had set him up to be killed. Even though it hadn't been her idea, or her choice, and she'd tried to walk it back, the experience had left Detective Neshenko with an even worse view of human nature than he'd had before.
Erin wanted to help him, but wasn't sure how. Hell, she had her own issues. The first week after the shootings, she'd had nightmares every single night. She kept waking up in a cold sweat, seeing muzzle flashes in the dark, grabbing for her Glock automatic in the nightstand. She hadn't shot any holes in her ceiling. Thank God for good trigger discipline. The dreams had spaced themselves out lately, and her temper wasn't flaring up like it had, but she knew she wasn't quite herself yet.
