“No.” His voice is sure. Strong.
I study his face. “She didn’t have the window open?”
His head is shaking from side to side. “It might have been June, but it’s still June in Ireland. It was so cold that night. They were harping on about it breaking some record on the news. Near freezing, it was.”
I remember. The surprise of the cold when I stepped out of the office that night. More details from the case stir in my mind. There had been no sign of forced entry. A killer who knew his victim was part of the story now, and should be part of Tracy’s.
“You don’t know of any personal connections between the Costellos and Tracy, do you?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be the detective?” He leans back into the chair. “No. Ever since my solicitor told me about the link between the murders, I’ve been wracking my brain trying to put them together, but they were worlds apart: Tracy’s world and that Costello lady at least. To me anyway.”
He’s forward in his chair again. Staring at his hands.
The killer is the only one who completes that link. I push out of the seat and Neary’s head tips up slowly.
I extend my hand and he shakes it lightly. He doesn’t stand.
“Thanks, Mr. Neary.”
“He’ll kill again, this fella. If you don’t get him fast.”
My lips harden against my teeth. “I know.”
* * *
—
WHEN I OPEN the office door, there is a brief show of glances; faces lift quickly from their desks, then dip back behind computers. The fear in my gut that Clancy has boxed up the investigation begins to subside. My gaze flicks to the case board. It’s intact. Nothing removed. I search the room for Clancy. He’s not here, but he has been. I can feel the resultant tension in the room. No one wants to tell me he’s about to declare the case cold.
I shut the door and walk steadily to the board, pick up a pen and reach to a space right above Eleanor Costello’s name. I write, “Victim one: Tracy Ward,” and fill in her details, adding “Known to killer” afterward.
Steve hovers behind me; his pale face is a white shadow on the sheen of Eleanor Costello’s photograph.
I remain staring up at Tracy’s name. “What is it, Steve?”
“Good news and bad news,” he says. “I managed to get Murphy to answer a few questions over the phone. Without much persuasion he told me that Eleanor Costello borrowed his car for two days, 8 and 9 October, to go to a work conference in Cork. We have tollbooth photos of his car passing through the M50 toll on those days. The photos clearly show a female driver in the car, no other passenger. I contacted the conference that she was to attend, but she never showed.”
Hope stirs again in my chest. “So she definitely used his car to move the body, and throughout the day at least, she was heading south on the M50.”
He nods, passes me a sheet of paper. “The other thing was that there’s a press release due in a few hours. To be signed by the commissioner.”
“A press release? Let me guess. An announcement about winding down?”
He clears his throat. “I’m sorry.”
“Where’s Clancy now?”
“Chief, he’s pretty pissed at the little stunt you played in Kilcullen, especially as CSI didn’t find anything.”
I turn, take the press release from him. Crumple it up in my hands. Drop it on the floor.
“That ‘little stunt’ was necessary. It wouldn’t do if it got out that we’d failed to investigate one of Eleanor Costello’s hidey-holes, now, would it?”
“Chief, I agree with you. I feel like we’re so close to this fucker I can smell his ass crack.”
I look over his shoulder, survey the office. “Any more on the chat room?”
“Helen has been stepping up the honey trail, but our man’s not biting.”
“I don’t like this.”
“I know. It’s almost like he’s busy with something else, because he was certainly keen before. Myself and Emer have been tracing TrustMe57’s history of commentary on the forum. Looking at his activity rates over the last year. And it’s all peaks and troughs. Things heat up for a while on his end, then go quiet. We put the dates together with the estimated times of death for all our victims.”
My mouth dries. “And?”
“He definitely switched off for a while when the murders happened.”
“Peter Costello’s?”
“Yep.”
My heart picks up. “And now?”
“He’s been completely silent over the last few days. His account remains inactive, no matter what we do. Short of giving him an online lap dance to engage him, we’ve tried everything, and he’s not playing.”
Coldness drops through my body.
“He has another victim,” I whisper.
Steve sighs. “I mean, our theory’s not foolproof, but it looks that way, yes.”
Nicole Duarte’s smiling face appears in my mind’s eye. “Nicole.”
“Nicole?”
“Yes. The coffee girl at the university. I keep trying her number, but it’s going straight to voicemail. I think she’s involved in this somehow. She’s hinted at knowing Eleanor and Murphy intimately. And everyone in that little club takes part in a kill-or-be-killed philosophy. I’m worried for her.”
I turn to leave.
“Wait!” Steve calls out. “Clancy wants to talk to you. The press!”
“Tell him I’ve work to do!” I shout back at the door.
I text Baz, let him know to meet me at the university. Lorcan Murphy can at least help us find Nicole Duarte. I think of her youthful complexion, the photo of her daughter. My feet pick up the pace, and before I know it, I’m running down the steps toward the car park.
When I reach the car, my stomach plummets. Baz is waiting, stony-faced and staring at his shoes. His entire being hangs like that of a scolded schoolchild. Clancy is grim-faced beside him. I slow to a walk, then stop in front of them.
“Jack,” I say by way of a greeting.
His eyes slide away. “It’s over, Sheehan.”
“I’ve got a lead. The barista. Nicole Duarte, she’s a possible target, she’s been missing for days.”
He looks up. “You’re chasing shadows. How about taking leads on the victims that we know are dead, Sheehan. Is there not enough of them? You went to Neary’s.”
I pull my spine straight. “It was all right. He was expecting me.”
Clancy runs his hand through his hair. Baz takes a step back, as if he can protect himself from hearing what’s coming.
“It doesn’t fucking matter what he was expecting. What if the press had got a shot of that? What if he goes to the papers?”
“He wanted to help.”
“If he’s giving a new statement, then he needs to come to us.” He looks me in the eye. A challenge.
I blow air through my lips. “You fucking know he won’t do that.” I take a step closer and I see Baz’s head snap up. Caution. “Jack, the window, it’s one of those old fob latches.”
He raises an eyebrow. “The window? What fucking window, Frankie? Have you lost it completely?”
“Tracy Ward’s. Her bedroom window. It’s not easy to open if you’re not familiar with the mechanism. There was a knack to how it’s opened.”
His shoulders shift beneath his jacket, but I can see the intrigue glint in his eyes. It takes him a few moments, but he catches on. “Tracy knew him then?”
“It would explain why there was no forced entry. She let him in, and when he needed to run, he was used to handling the tricky window.”
He seems to be coming around, but suddenly he shakes his head. “No. It’s too late, Frankie. If it was solely up to me, then—”
My fingernails bite into the heat of my palm. “Don’t give me that bollocks, Jack.”
“Sheehan!”
“No, fuck it. Fuck you. Why did you put me on this case if I wasn’t going to be able to see it through?”
“There’s no more money in the tin, Frankie!” he’s yelling. His voice booms around the dark underground car park. “The case is not the only thing to be shut down.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m out.” He sighs. Then tries to smile. “I’m retiring, end of next month.”
“Retiring or being forced into an armchair?”
He shrugs. “Does it matter?”
“It’s because of me, isn’t it?”
“Get over yourself, Sheehan. The way I remember it, I was the one who snapped the handcuffs onto Neary’s wrists and pushed him headfirst into the back of the wagon. You were out cold.”
“You’re being fed to the press then?”
“Hardly. I’m not a fucking victim, Sheehan. I put an innocent man behind bars.”
I force down the ball of anxiety that’s rolling up my throat.
“I’m sorry, Jack. I am. I could be told to pack up my office next, and where are our victims then? I can’t let anything get in my way. I need this to end right.” I meet his eyes. “You know that.”
I take a deep breath, feel the tension creep away from my shoulders. I picture Nicole Duarte. “You knew that when you brought me in on this case. I won’t give up.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
He means that it wasn’t supposed to be tied up in the mess of Tracy Ward’s death.
I set my jaw. “Well, it is.”
He leaves me hanging for a full ten seconds, then meets my eyes. “I can delay the paperwork for twenty-four hours. At. The. Most.”
I smile. “Come on, Jack. We’re on Ireland time here, nothing gets done in twenty-four hours.”
His mouth thins. “Twenty-four hours, Sheehan, but first go relieve the guards at the Costello house. Clear the tape and seal it up for the lawyers. At least look as if you’re playing ball.”
Clancy grumbles something about his pension plan as he strides to his own car, a washed-out silver Mondeo.
I smile. Catch Baz’s eye. He’s already opening the car door.
CHAPTER 27
A SLEETING RAIN SMEARS over the windshield. I turn up the heating in the car, feel the blast of it on my face. Slowly, the fog lifts from the window. Baz is squinting through it. He’s wondering, no doubt, why we’re headed out the N11 and not out the Bray road to relieve the Gardaí at the Costello house, as Clancy demanded. After a moment, he shakes his head. Lays it back on the seat. A sign for the university sleeks past.
“Lorcan Murphy again?”
“He owes us. He’s muddied and he knows it.”
“He’s not going to incriminate himself, Frankie. Not now. We’ve shown him our cards and he’s royal-flushed our asses.”
“I still can’t reach Nicole Duarte.”
“The coffee girl?”
“Yes, the coffee girl. And Lorcan’s onetime date. A girl who was probably pretty jealous of Eleanor Costello.”
“Or Eleanor of her.”
“You could be right.”
“She’s young. Vibrant. Single. And Eleanor’s playboy had a thing with her once.”
Slush is gathering along the roadside; cars are rolling by, drivers slowing ahead. I move out, overtake them. Turning onto the Belfield road, I follow the signs to the university, go up the drive, and park in front of the distinctive building.
The halls are clammy, the hot breath of hundreds of students in from the frigid air steaming up the walls. We push up through the mass of people toward the biology labs and lecture hall upstairs. I check my watch: It’s almost one.
Alibi or no, I can’t ignore the evidence we’ve gathered against Murphy or the fact that he has repeatedly failed to give us essential information that could have cut our investigation in half. Eleanor’s blood on his sheets, the phone messages, his lying, his deceit, his relationship with Nicole.
When I turn the corner of the café, I’m not surprised to find someone else handing hot chocolates and coffees over the counter.
Baz states the obvious. “Nicole’s not here.”
I approach the barista. She’s plump. Older. Flustered. Students wait, tight-faced and angry in a line extending out through the seating area.
“There’s a queue,” she barks, as if I could miss it.
“Where’s Nicole?”
She turns, jiggles a metal jug under a steamer. Twists the air on for a moment, then off. Without looking up, she shouts, “Who are you?”
“Detective Chief Superintendent Sheehan. Where’s Nicole?”
Abruptly, she flicks the machine off, turns. She slides her hands down the sides of her apron. “Aren’t youse the ones that should be answering that question?”
“What do you mean?”
“Sure, yis are supposed to be looking for her. Her mammy put in the report days ago.”
“Report?”
“Jesus, no wonder the country’s in the state it’s in. I dunno where Nicole is. She’s been missing for days. No one knows.” She shakes her head, then turns back to the machine.
I glance back at Baz. He’s already on the phone, telling the office to search for the report. Bring him feedback. The pulse is ticking away over my temples; I rub the sensitive skin.
“Do you have her mother’s address? Her number?”
She slaps a milky coffee down in front of a waiting student. For a moment he looks set to object but then thinks better of it. He takes up the mug and slinks off into the café.
“Do you want me to get out there and start looking for her meself? Lazy fucks.”
“Please. Nicole could be in danger. Help me find her.”
“Well, then, you’d best speak with the dean, so. He’ll have her ma’s number. Up one floor there and at the end of corridor.”
“Thanks.”
Baz stalks off down the corridor.
Joe Clifford is the dean. Even though my team have been in and out of his university almost as often as his students, I’ve yet to speak to him. When we reach his office, the door is wide-open and Clifford is clicking through his computer with one hand, a steaming cup of tea in the other. When he spots us in the doorway, his face is an expression of soft-lined welcome.
“What can I do for you?”
“Mr. Clifford, I’m Detective Sheehan and this is Detective Harwood.”
His mouth eases out of a smile. He looks mildly terrified. “Not another murder?”
“No. I was hoping you have a home contact number for a member of staff.”
“Normally, the utilities manager holds all those records, but I should be able to get something on the file here. What’s her name?”
“We appreciate that, Mr. Clifford. Nicole Duarte. She works in the café.”
He scrolls down through a file of staff records; the screen freezes for a moment and he swears. “As you can see, we’ve not updated our system in a while. Life”—he blushes—“or rather death has got in the way of normal service in some ways. We’ve had a few staff shortages in our admin team, folks nervous about this killing business.”
He pauses. “How’s your investigation into Dr. Costello’s death going?”
“It’s moving along.”
“I would have thought you’d got everything you need by now?”
“All except the killer.”
“Sorry. I wish I could be more help.” He leans back from his computer, taps the screen. “There we are. Nicole Duarte. Her mother’s number.”
I type it into my phone. “Thank you.”
We walk back down the corridor, damp soles squeaking on the tiles. A woman steps out of a door; a heavy stack of paper leans forward in her arms. A few sheets slide from the top of th
e pile as she attempts to close the door behind her. I pick them up. Replace them. She smiles her thanks, then walks off. When I straighten, I notice the sign outside the door: “Behavioral Sciences: Dr. Jeremy Burke.”
I glance up at Baz. His eyes are fixed to it too.
“The therapist you talked to, right? Eleanor’s therapist?” I ask.
“Looks the same. Same name. Surname,” Baz says.
“Coincidence?”
“You know how I feel about those.” He reaches out to grab the door handle, but I stop him.
“No. Go. Find Murphy. I’ll see how this one plays out. Your report didn’t flag up anything abnormal.”
He points at the door. “He never mentioned he worked here, though.”
“Murphy’s a loose end. We’re up against the clock. You’ve already spoken to this guy, let me try.”
“Murphy’s a lawyered-up loose end.”
I push a hand through my hair; my fingers brush the sensitive spot at my temple. “I don’t give a shit. Get to him.”
Baz turns, heads off down the hall. I wait until he disappears round the corner and down the stairs; then I lift my hand and knock.
“Come in,” comes a male voice. I push the door open. A man is standing at a printer in the corner of the room. The printer is spewing out sheets. The man is collecting pages from an already printed pile, dividing them in three and stapling them together. He looks up quickly from his task when I enter, stapler hovering over the corner of a fresh print.
“Sorry, I can’t stop. Lecture notes. What can I help you with?”
“I’m Detective Frankie Sheehan, I’m looking for Dr. Jeremy Burke?”
He pushes the stapler and lays the paper down, quickly retrieving another set of notes to do the same.
“I’m afraid Dr. Burke’s away. He’s taken an extended holiday over Christmas.” He pauses, tips his head back to the ceiling. “I think China or something. Oriental. Unusual.” He returns to the printer.
I move a little farther into the room. Peruse the walls. There are plaques over the desk, declaring Burke’s heavyweight qualifications for human psychology, behavioral sciences, and cognitive behavioral therapies. I get a flashback to my training years, our first day of criminal psychology and my lecturer makes a joke about how the only people who study psychology are the only people who need it.
Too Close to Breathe Page 24
