Irish Eyes

by Mary Kay Andrews

  “Did you report the gun stolen?”

  “Well … see, I didn’t actually have a carry permit for it, you see. So I didn’t feel like it was all that germane to the robbery.”

  “What kind of gun was it?” I knew, but wanted to hear it from him.

  “Just a little twenty-two. Cheap, but right handy.”

  “My friend was shot with a twenty-two,” I said slowly. “What kind was yours?”

  “Just a little Saturday-night special, really,” he said. “Marlena got it at a flea market over there in South Carolina.”

  “It’s the same gun,” I said. “It has to be.”

  “By damn,” Earl said.

  I got up slowly, finished my beer to be polite. “Thanks a lot, Mr. Witherspoon.”

  “Earl,” he said. “It’s Earl, remember? And the beer and burgers are on the house. Say. About that associate of yours, that Neva Jean. She ain’t married or nothin’, is she?”

  38

  “Was it worth the trip?” Mac asked when we were back in the Blazer, headed toward home.

  “I think I know who shot Bucky.”

  “Who?”

  “Sean Ragan.”

  “The cop who was killed Saturday night? What makes you think he’s connected to Bucky?”

  I told him what Earl Witherspoon had said, about hiring Ragan as a bouncer, how Ragan had known that Witherspoon had an unusually large amount of cash on hand, and even where he made his bank deposits.

  “There were two men involved in Witherspoon’s robbery,” I said. “He didn’t get a look at the guy who hit him on the head. I’m betting that was Ragan. No telling who the guy in the mask was.”

  “Could it have been Ragan’s partner?”

  “Witherspoon’s impression was that the gunman was white. But he wasn’t positive.”

  “Seems pretty slim evidence,” Mac said. “Witherspoon seems like a pretty rowdy character. A lot of people in that bar could have known the stuff you say Ragan knew.”

  “Yeah, but listen to this. Witherspoon’s pistol—a twenty-two—was taken after he was robbed. A Saturday-night special. I think it could be the same twenty-two used to shoot Bucky. It was left behind at the liquor store.”

  Mac nodded. He drove for a while before he had another question.

  “We still don’t know why. I mean, why would Ragan shoot Bucky? Did he even know Bucky? And why would a cop leave a weapon behind?”

  “I don’t have all the answers,” I admitted. “All I have so far is some ideas. Bucky would have known Ragan, because they were both members of the Shamrock Society. And they were both part of John Boylan’s ad hoc employment agency. Maybe Bucky saw something he shouldn’t have seen—the night he got shot. Ragan, Boylan, Viatkos, could have been any of ‘em. We know Bucky went in that back room to get that six-pack from the walk-in cooler. Maybe that’s what got him killed. Maybe Ragan knew he had to keep Bucky from talking. He used the twenty-two he’d stolen the night before from Witherspoon. I doubt any of this was planned in advance. It just happened, and that’s why Ragan made such a stupid blunder by leaving the gun behind.”

  “What makes you think Pete Viatkos was there too?” Mac asked. “Not that I think the guy’s an angel or anything, but I can’t see why he’d be connected with any of this.”

  “Deecie told me she saw Viatkos’s truck, parked out there in the alley,” I said. “It was gone by the time the cops arrived. And I talked to Viatkos. He’s lying about something, I know it. And now Deecie’s disappeared. She was the only witness, Mac. And she took the videotape of the robbery. She told me the robbery didn’t go down the way she told the cops. That’s why she was so scared. Because she knew she’d seen too much.”

  “You think Ragan wasn’t killed by a burglar?”

  “I’m not sure. He messed up by leaving the twenty-two behind. After all, if somebody put all the pieces together, it could connect Ragan to at least one other armed robbery. And these guys couldn’t afford a blunder like that.”

  “I heard on the news that Ragan’s partner is under investigation,” Mac said. “You think he was involved in Ragan’s murder?”

  “No telling. He’s refusing to cooperate with the internal affairs investigators, so that means something is funny. And he’s hired David Kohn to represent him. Kohn doesn’t come cheap. That makes me think somebody is helping Antjuan Wayne. Who? The Shamrocks? Wayne certainly wasn’t a member. He’s black. And according to C.W., these guys are all just one step up from the Ku Klux Klan.”

  Mac yawned loudly, and I did the same. Long day.

  “Seems to me you’re overlooking one piece of the puzzle,” he said.

  “Probably I’m overlooking lots of pieces. I’m on the outside looking in,” I said. “Which piece are you talking about?”

  “How does Bucky fit into all this? Babe, I know he’s your friend, but look at what you’ve told me about this outfit he was in. These Shamrocks.

  “You say they were involved in some kind of robbery ring, getting inside information on likely victims because they worked as security guards or bouncers. Bucky worked at that liquor store. He worked other jobs, too. How do you know he wasn’t in on some of those holdups? For that matter, how do you know he wasn’t the other guy who helped Ragan rob Earl Witherspoon? Maybe that’s why Ragan shot Bucky. Because of something that happened the night before. Maybe Bucky was trying to screw Ragan out of the money from the robbery.”

  “No,” I said flatly. “Bucky wouldn’t have done that. You don’t know him like I know him, Mac.”

  “People change, Callahan,” Mac said quietly. “You’ve changed. I’ve changed. Bucky was an ambitious guy. For the first time in years, he had a serious girlfriend. You told me yourself he was talking about settling down. Maybe he wanted more out of life than a police pension. Maybe he got tired of having to work two and three extra jobs just to get caught up with his bills.”

  “No way,” I said.

  “Suit yourself,” Mac said. “But face it, you’re in over your head. Edna told me what happened when you went snooping around that housing project. You nearly got killed. And you’ve just told me you’re on the outside looking in. Maybe it’s time to share what you know with the authorities, instead of trying to make sense of it all by yourself.”

  “I’ve tried,” I protested. “I told Lisa Dugan I thought a cop was involved in trying to kill Bucky. She had a fit and walked out on me. She won’t even return my phone calls. And I told Major Mackey exactly what I think was going on. He’s the commander of the homicide unit. He’s not a stupid man. But he was enraged that I would suggest such a thing. He practically threw me out of his office, Mac. It makes me wonder now if Mackey might have been involved, too. I mean, he wears an FBI Academy ring.”

  “Everything makes you wonder.” Mac laughed. “You’re the original conspiracy nut, you know that?”

  “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

  “You’ve taken this as far as you can. You wanted to find out who shot Bucky and why, and it looks like you’ve done it. If Mackey won’t listen to you, tell somebody else. Tell the chief, or the GBI, or somebody like that.”

  “According to C. W., the FBI’s involved now,” I said. “I guess I could talk to one of their agents. C.W. said he heard they’d already had chats with Boylan and some others.”

  “Do it,” Mac urged. “I’m serious. You can’t take on the whole Atlanta Police Department. You’ve done some good work. Now it’s time to step back and let the law do the rest.”

  “Give it to the big boys, huh? Go back to my dusting and mending?”

  “You know I don’t mean it like that,” he said. “Are we going to have another fight?”

  “Naw,” I said, leaning back in my seat. “I’m tired of fighting. Make love, not war—that’s my new motto.”

  “That can be arranged,” he said.

  Mac got off the Interstate at the North Avenue exit and drove toward Candler Park. We were at the light at North Highland when I
glanced over to the right, at Manuel’s Tavern.

  “Look at that,” I said, pointing at the parking lot. It was jammed with police cruisers. And not just white APD cars. There were cruisers of every color and description. Charleston, South Carolina; Savannah, Georgia; Charlotte, North Carolina; Lexington, Kentucky; Richmond, Virginia; Detroit; Miami; New Orleans.

  “Is it some kind of convention?” Mac asked, craning his neck to get a look.

  “No,” I said slowly. “I’d forgotten. Tomorrow is Sean Ragan’s funeral. They’re all in town for a cop’s funeral.”

  “There must be a couple hundred cars in that lot,” Mac said, pulling forward when the light turned green.

  “The wake was tonight,” I said. “This is nothing. You wait until tomorrow. There’ll be hundreds more, from all over the country.”

  “For a cop’s funeral? They don’t even know Sean Ragan.”

  “Doesn’t matter. He’s a cop. A fallen comrade. When an officer’s killed, especially in the line of duty, it’s a mark of respect to muster as big a show of manpower as possible.”

  “Even if that cop is a thug? A renegade who tried to kill another officer?” Mac asked.

  “They don’t know that,” I said. “At least, most of them don’t.”

  I honestly tried to keep my mind off the subject of Bucky Deavers, and instead keep myself engaged on the topic of Mac and me, but the conversation petered out a few blocks from home. At least, I thought, we had agreed that a compromise might be possible. It was a start.

  We kissed goodnight in the Blazer. It was a sweet, lingering, where-can-this-take-us kind of embrace.

  “Come home with me tonight,” Mac urged.

  “Can’t,” I said, full of regrets. “What about Friday night at your place? I’ll spend the whole weekend.”

  “You got a deal.”

  Edna was waiting by the door, her face white. “Where on earth have you been? One minute you walked outside, the next minute you were gone.”

  “Relax,” I said, patting her arm. “I was with Mac. You’ll be happy to know that we’ve patched things up. We might even have worked out a compromise on this Nashville thing.”

  “I’ve got bad news,” Edna said. “That Major Mackey called. He said I should tell you they found Deecie Styles. Jules, she’s dead.”

  39

  I followed her blindly into the kitchen, sank down into a chair. “What happened?”

  “He didn’t say. Just said I should tell you her body was found this afternoon.”

  Deecie was dead. Faheem’s mother, dead. I was dialing the police department while Edna went on fretting about that sick little baby all alone at the hospital.

  There was nobody in the office, Manuel’s. That’s where Mackey was, of course. Where nearly every cop in town would be. Paying homage to the fallen hero. A sour taste rose up in the back of my throat.

  Deecie was dead. William was right. Something bad had happened. And it was still going on. Sean Ragan might be dead, but he’d had help in those robberies. And that helper was still out there, still killing. I took the key that Deecie had given me out of my pocket and turned it over and over.

  Thing had definitely gotten out of hand. First Bucky, then Ragan, now Deecie. It was time to get some help. Years ago, I’d known the FBI agents who worked in the Atlanta field office. But after the bombing at Olympic Centennial Park, when the feds had mistakenly tried to make a case against an innocent bystander, a lot of those agents had taken early retirement or accepted transfer out of the city.

  The best I could do was leave a voice mail message addressed to whomever it may concern.

  “This is Callahan Garrity,” the message said. “I am a licensed private investigator and a former Atlanta police detective, and I have information pertaining to the shooting of Atlanta Police Detective Bucky Deavers and the murder of Atlanta Police Officer Sean Ragan. Please contact me as soon as possible.”

  My luck, I thought glumly, they’d probably think I was some crackpot. Oh, well. I’d tried.

  I called C. W. too. “Deecie Styles was murdered today,” I said.

  “Shit. What do you want me to do?”

  “A couple things. Your sources at the APD—have you got anybody who could check the call-out logs?”

  “Maybe. What do you need?”

  “Lisa Dugan,” I said. “She was supposedly on a call-out Wednesday night, when she didn’t show up at the St. Patrick’s Day party. I want to know when she got the call, and what time she logged out on it. Also, the night before, when that robbery went down in Hapeville—find out if she was anywhere around. Hell, for that matter, find out where she was Saturday night when Ragan was killed.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “One more thing. Maybe Linda could help with this. There’s a young man sitting in the waiting room over at Egleston. His name is William. He’s going to need a friend.”

  “We’re friendly folks,” C. W. said.

  “I know. Thanks.”

  A rough plan had begun to form. I had to try three different spellings before directory information found him for me.

  “You’re sure this is a good idea?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure of anything,” I said tartly. “Except that these killings have to stop. You don’t have to help if you don’t want to.”

  Then I called Manuel’s, asked for Bishop, and told him my plan.

  He wasn’t enthusiastic. “I’m supposed to get off in fifteen minutes.”

  “This is for Bucky,” I told him. “The person who’s responsible for shooting him is in the bar tonight, I guarantee it. There’s been another murder, too. Just today. Come on, Bishop, I’ve got nobody else to turn to.”

  “There’s a million cops in here, Garrity,” he said.

  “That’s the point,” I said. “I think it was a cop behind all this.”

  “Aw, all right,” he said. “But if my old lady wants to know why I’m late, I’m blaming it on you.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Bishop was right. There were about a million cops in Manuel’s. They were all dolled up in their dress uniforms; starched shirts, ties, jackets, all of them with gleaming badges covered in strips of black tape, mourning dress for the fallen hero. The Shamrocks were out in force, too, all of them in the same green blazer Bucky had worn on St. Patrick’s Day.

  Mackey was sitting at one of the big round tables in the front room. I’d never seen him in his dress uniform before, but tonight he was all starch and brass. Lisa Dugan was sitting beside him. Her face was pale against the dark green Shamrock blazer she wore. Sitting beside Lisa was a very young, very pregnant woman with soft, shoulder-length brown hair and red-rimmed eyes.

  This, I realized, would be Alexis Ragan, Sean Ragan’s widow. She wore an ill-fitting pink maternity dress with a big red bow at the neck, and despite the crying eyes, she looked childishly excited by all the attention being paid her by her late husband’s boss and colleagues.

  Mackey frowned when he saw me approaching. He stood up, put a protective hand on Alexis Ragan’s arm. “This is Callahan Garrity,” he said. “She used to be on the force. She’s friends with Deavers.”

  Alexis misunderstood. She smiled up at me. “Thank you for coming tonight. I can’t believe it. All these people,” she said, gesturing around the room. “They’re strangers. But they came here for my Sean. From all over the country. Major Mackey says it’s going to be the biggest policeman’s funeral this city has ever seen.”

  Lisa Dugan patted Alexis’s hand. “They’re not strangers. Fellow officers. And there are at least a hundred Shamrocks here, too. The bagpipe and drum unit is here from Chicago, you know. Ten officers.”

  “I’m sure it will be a very moving funeral,” I said. Turning to Mackey, I said quietly, “Could I talk to you?”

  He followed me to the bar, where I’d spotted Bishop as soon as I walked in.

  “Jack and water,” I told Bishop. “And make it a double. It’s been a hell of a day.”

>   “You got my message?” Mackey asked. “About Deecie Styles?”

  “What happened? I saw her earlier today, over at Egleston Hospital, with her little boy. She never came back.”

  “You saw her?” Mackey asked sharply. “When was this? Why didn’t you let somebody know?”

  “About three o’clock. Her baby was in serious condition. He has sickle cell anemia. I wasn’t going to turn her in with a sick kid. Get real, Mackey.”

  “If you’d turned her in, she might still be alive,” Mackey said. “We got a call about seven o’clock, from a resident at that apartment complex she lived at. The neighbor said she heard somebody in the apartment, and she knew this Monique Bell wasn’t home. We sent an officer over, he found the door unlocked. The body was in the living room.”

  “How was she killed?” I asked dully.

  Mackey tugged at the end of his mustache. “Her throat had been slit.”

  Bishop set my drink on the bar and I took a long gulp. “Jesus.”

  “There’s more,” he said.

  “I don’t want to hear any more. When is this going to end? When are you going to believe me that cops are involved in this thing? Boylan and Viatkos and the rest of their Irish asshole buddies are up to their ears in these robberies, and you know it, Mackey.”

  “I don’t know any such thing,” Mackey said. “So just shut up and listen, would you? We found a bank bag hidden in a heat duct in the bathroom at that apartment. The deposit slip was still with it. A little over twelve hundred dollars in cash from the Budget Bottle Shop. There was no masked robber, Garrity. It was only your girlfriend, Deecie Styles. Bucky must have walked in on her while she was cleaning out the register. She panicked and shot him, then set it up to look like it was a masked gunman. That’s why she stole the tape out of the video camera. And that’s why she booked.”

  I sipped my drink. I’d been expecting something like this, ever since Edna had given me the news about Deecie’s murder.

  “If she shot Bucky and took the money, why’d she hang around?” I asked. “Twelve hundred dollars was probably the most money she’d ever seen in her life. Why’d she hit the panic button? She could have taken the money and run out the back door. Then, later, why’d she call me? She was ready to come in and testify about what she saw. She knew who shot Bucky. It was somebody she recognized. That’s why she was so scared. And that’s what got her killed.”