Cuts at the shoulder and the waist, where the material would have been tightest. So the killer snipped his clothes off, she thought. Cut the waistband and then sliced down the loose fabric. But that wasn’t enough. He peeled back the outer layer of skin itself.
Looking at the body, she had a vision of what Collins had suffered.
Stop intellectualizing, Absalom. One impression.
Now.
“Cold,” she said out loud, startling herself.
Cold. He wanted Collins to feel the deepest cold. The body was spread-eagled against the bramble because that gave it the greatest exposure to the wind, wicking away body warmth. He took away his clothes, he bared every inch of his body, even slowly removed the heat-giving blood. It was like he was taking the body down to some absolute zero.
That was what the killer was whispering to Collins. “This is what cold is. Feel it? Understand? Now we go lower.”
She shivered. The sun was beginning to dip behind the tallest of the branches above her, sending spiky shadows down onto the mud-colored snow.
As Abbie drove back to headquarters, she went over the Jimmy Ryan case. She was confident in her evaluation of the Collins scene. It was about cold, exposure. But what did that mean for the Ryan killing?
With Jimmy Ryan, the killer had a huge church to do his work. But he’d dragged Ryan down those stone stairs to the small room beneath the floor. Then he stuffed him into the undercroft, still alive probably, and let him strangle himself to death in that tiny, confined space, the rope tied to feet and his neck slowly tightening as he kicked.
What was that about?
Did it mean anything that Ryan was hidden away and Collins—though concealed for the time it took to kill him—was left exposed to the world? Again, her mind demurred. It wasn’t about contrasts. He wasn’t drawing distinctions between the two deaths. He had used each for one phase of the story.
Isolation and cold. A personal story, she thought, but whose? The killer’s, or the victim’s?
She pulled out her cell phone, dialed information and had them put her through to the Historical Society. When she got Dr. Reinholdt on the phone, he seemed to purr with pleasure.
“I’ve been waiting for your call,” he said.
She could almost picture him, perched on his chair like a perverted Weeble. “That’s good to know, Doctor, but I need some information.”
“Who’s dead now?”
“Another member of the Gaelic Club. You’ll be hearing it on the news, a Marty Collins.”
“They’re dropping fast, Detective.”
“And that’s why I need your help, Doctor. We talked about the history of the Clan na Gael, but I doubt someone is hunting them for reasons that go back a hundred years.”
She heard Reinholdt suck his teeth in thought.
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that. If you really do have a Clan-killer loose in the County, there are several possibilities, and one of them is what is colloquially known as the Troubles. The state of war that exists between some true believers and the British government.”
“I realize that. But there are indications the killer has a personal motivation.”
“What indic—”
“I can’t go into that, Doctor, and I’m sure you’ll understand why. What I need to know is what other possibilities exist. Now that the Troubles are over, what has the IRA gotten into? Drug trafficking? Arms? Are there different factions I need to know about, both here and in Ireland? Recent violence involving members?”
Silence on the other end of the line.
“I have a colleague, now retired, at the State Department in Washington who was briefed on these things up until a few years ago. She’s a hometown girl, and a fanatic for Seneca Indian relics, which I send her every so often when some idiot brings one in. I’d be happy to cash in a favor if you’d like.”
“That would be a huge help. I’ll call you back this afternoon?”
“I’d rather you come see me.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that. It’s an active investigation and it’s eating up all my time. I’ll make sure to call you, though.”
“I’ll be on pins and needles.”
Abbie slipped the phone into her bag and then, unable to control the impulse, wiped her hand on her wool pants. Then she grabbed the wheel and made a sharp left onto Potters Road.
When she pulled up to Collins’s house, she took it in this time: squat, heavy-timbered, boasting a broad front porch with a rectangular opening onto the street that looked like a gunner’s window in a large pillbox. The lawn was beautifully cut beneath its coating of snow, the bushes healthy and cared for, and the hunter-green paint with mink-white trim was a few years old at the most.
Spotting money in the County was easy. Anything that was brightly turned out—a car with new wheels and a detailed paint job, or a house, or clothes—spoke of income. And Collins’s house said it loud and clear.
There were two cars in the driveway—a late-model Grand Cherokee and a brand-new Cadillac. The Taurus was gone. She climbed the wooden steps and rang the doorbell. A deep bass note sounded inside; so far away, it sounded as if it had gone off in a second basement.
She turned as the door opened. Framed in the stainless-steel screen door was Billy Carney.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
BILLY HAD BEEN TRANSFORMED. HIS LANKY HAIR WAS FRESHLY CUT INTO A stylish overhang, he wore a dark wool suit that shaped his ex-athlete’s body into a thin V, a crisp white dress shirt with a wing collar, and a thin black-and-green-striped tie. His face looked freshly scrubbed and he eyed her through the screen door with a composure that momentarily silenced her.
Billy smiled quickly, looked behind him, murmured something to whoever was just behind the wooden door, and then opened the screen and stepped onto the porch. Abbie’s eyes drifted down the length of him, ending up at a pair of new leather oxfords, the swirling whorls of the design subtle in the winter light.
“Jesus, Billy,” she said. “I thought you were dead.”
“Dead?” he said casually, walking past her. “What made you think that?”
Billy reached the white porch rail. He scanned Potters Road up and down before turning to face her, leaning the back of his powerful thighs against the rail.
“You did, on the phone yesterday. What happened to you?”
He shrugged. Underneath the new clothes, she sensed a new confidence, a willingness to displease.
“What do you mean?”
“What do I mean? You look like Bugs Moran.”
Billy reached inside his suit jacket and pulled out a pack of Marlboro Reds. “Who’s Bugs Moran?”
I wonder when he started smoking, Abbie thought.
“An Irish gangster. You should read a book once in a while.”
“You should have a drink once in a while,” he said. Billy lit the cigarette with a thin gold lighter and breathed in the smoke. “And relax.”
“You said you were going to Vegas.”
“Change of plans,” he said. “A new position opened up. Had to stay in town.”
“How nice. A new position with who?”
Billy did the not-important frown.
“A private company.”
“The Clan?”
He leaned away from her, sucking at the cigarette as he appraised her through slit eyelids.
“What’s that?”
She gave him a look.
Billy held his hands up. “Is this an official question?” he said.
“I can make it one.”
He exhaled and looked away down the street.
“I don’t think you can, Ab. But let’s be friendly. The executive committee of the Gaelic Club.”
She nodded. For a moment, she felt a sudden urge to embrace Billy, for all the disappointments and failures that the new suit and the good shoes and the gold lighter were in payment for.
Then she wanted to slap him.
“I thought you were going to disappear. Instead the Clan
bought you out. That’s nice for you. But I have a feeling it’s going to end the same way.”
“How?”
“With you dead.”
He leaned toward her and looked at her from under his naturally perfect eyebrows.
“Not likely.”
She glanced down as he pulled back to the railing.
“Where’d you get the piece?”
“The what?”
“The gun.” She pointed at his chest. “There.”
He looked down, then back up, avoiding her eyes.
“If you’re going to play in this world, at least learn the basic terminology.”
“It’s licensed. Went down to register it yesterday.”
“Some cops from the County put you at the front of the line?”
He smiled.
Abbie sighed, then walked to the rail and leaned against it, facing the house’s huge plate glass window. She noticed that heavy drapes had been pulled across it since she’d arrived.
“You sure you want to do this?” she asked.
She watched him in her peripheral vision. Billy looked at his new shoes, then raised his head and nodded.
Abbie sighed and then rose, walked to the door.
“How can we help you, Ab?” said Billy.
She turned. Her face was grave.
“We? I’m here to talk to Mrs. Collins.”
He met her stare with a steely one of his own.
“She’s resting. Can’t talk to anyone.”
“We’ll just see about that.”
Abbie opened the screen door and rapped hard three times on the door. When it was opened, a beefy, red-faced man with a paunch opened the door. He looked flustered.
“Who’s that?”
She pulled out her ID, held it up.
“Detective Kearney. I’m here to talk to Mrs. Collins about the murder of her husband.”
“She’s resting. Please leave your card and—”
“Who are you?”
“I’m James Collins, her nephew. Now, if you don’t mind …”
James Collins looked like an accountant who was more comfortable with numbers than actual human beings. He was sweating now, looking like he wanted to slowly close the door and sit quietly in the basement for a while.
“Mr. Collins, is the family interested in solving this case?”
Collins looked nervously past her to Billy Carney. Abbie turned and sent him a fast look. Billy nodded.
“Of course we are. But my aunt needs time. She’s only just arrived back from a visit to East Aurora and heard the news.”
“If the family wants to find out who murdered and skinned alive your uncle like a deer—”
She heard Billy get up and turned to hold a hand out his way.
“Then she has to talk to me. Today.”
The nephew stared at her.
“Please try and understand—”
“I’m paid to solve murder cases, Mr. Collins. If you’d rather have the blood of the next victim on your heads, so be it. I understand that certain people are putting pressure on you not to cooperate with me. But if you’re relying on Billy Carney here and whatever boy desperadoes you have inside to catch the killer, then let me guarantee you that other people are going to die. Horribly.”
James Collins looked like he wanted to grow wings and fly. As it was, he stroked his tie once.
“Your card,” he repeated.
She snapped open her card case and stuck a card into the frame of the screen door. Then she leaned in and lowered her voice.
“If I find out you or your aunt had information about the killer you didn’t share with me, I’m going to make that clear to everyone in Buffalo. Including the next victim’s family. Do you understand me, James?”
She turned and headed for the street. Billy was watching her, smoke drifting up around his face.
“Playing rough, Ab?”
Her look was of the stone-breaking variety.
When she walked onto the fourth floor of HQ the next morning, Perelli saw her coming from his corner office. He raised his right hand and the tips of his fingers bent inward twice. She nodded as she came through the door.
“Have a seat.”
Abbie glared at him. A sit-down in Perelli’s office was never good.
“Marty Collins. Tell me what you know.”
Abbie felt her skin itch.
“He’s dead,” she said.
Perelli studied her. “No shit. The whole city knows that. In fact, I’ve just received a call from Grady.” Bill Grady was the chief of police.
Perelli leaned across his desk.
“Who got a call from the mayor.”
Abbie looked up, startled. “The mayor called him about Collins?”
“No, the mayor called him about the police budget for next year, but at the end he asked what was happening with the Collins investigation. Which was clearly the whole point of the call. And when a mayor mentions a case after talking about the budget, Kearney, the implication is very clear. Do you know what the implication is?”
Abbie thought for a second.
“The County vote.”
“Very good. Maybe you should be chief of police.”
The Irish in Buffalo had always held the advantage in numbers and political power. They’d elected a string of mayors going back to before Abbie was born. All of them had either been born in the County or had claimed it as their spiritual home, suddenly showing up at Bishop Timon football games, communion breakfasts, and bingo nights at the Gaelic Club. But with the slow strangling of the city, more whites had left than blacks. As bad as things were in the County, things were worse on the mostly black East Side—the people there had less education, fewer skills. They were nailed to the pavement. They had nowhere to go, so they stayed. And a few of them even voted.
So now the numbers were roughly even. When, three years before, an Italian and an Irish candidate had failed to reach a consensus on who would represent the white neighborhoods, the black candidate, Reginald Theribauld, had snuck in and Buffalo had its first black mayor. It had made USA Today and caused a small ripple nationally—a civil rights “first,” if a minor one. The mayor’s seat in Buffalo was no longer a prize to be fought for and won; it was scraps for the desperate.
“What did the chief tell Theribauld?” Abbie said.
“That there was probably a connection through the Gaelic Club. That we were tracking it down. I’m sure that failed to calm the mayor’s nerves.”
“There is a connection.”
“So I repeat my original question: What do you have?”
“Jimmy Ryan and Marty Collins were member of a semi-secret organization within the Gaelic Club. It’s called the Clan na Gael.”
As she began to recite the details of her case, Perelli sank back in his chair and ran his hands through his thinning black hair.
“It’s an old organization with roots in the movement to free Ireland from British rule. Back in the day, they took up arms, even went to war.”
“Here?” Perelli asked incredulously.
“Yes, but not for a century or so. They adapted, started providing money and arms to the IRA in Belfast. Even though Ireland is a republic and has been for decades, they believe that Northern Ireland remains … unfree. So they’re true believers in the cause.”
“And something happened to make someone unhappy with this Clan?”
“It looks that way.”
Perelli nodded. “What do Collins’s family say? Enemies, recent threats?”
Abbie knew this was coming, knew what her answer would mean to Perelli.
“They haven’t talked, so far.”
“They haven’t talked, so far,” Perelli parroted. “Tell me you’ve been over there.”
“Of course I’ve been over there. And his wife is unable to talk right now.”
Perelli’s eyes grew harder. “The same thing that Jimmy Ryan’s family told you.”
“Yes. But I’m working around them.”
Perelli made an explosive sound with his mouth and turned toward the window.
“ ‘Working around them’ sounds like code for … I don’t know, fucking bullshit.”
“I don’t speak in code, Chief. You know me better than that.”
“Yes, I do. Listen …”
He swung back to face her.
“Maybe we should bring in—”
“Don’t even say it.” Abbie instantly found herself on her feet, leaning three feet over Perelli’s desk.
“Excuse me?!” Perelli shouted. “Have you forgotten who the goddamn commanding officer is around here?”
“You are, Chief. But I thought you were about to say—”
“What?”
“That I can’t work the County.”
Perelli’s gaze dropped to his desk. “I didn’t say that. I said maybe you could use some help.”
“Some help in the form of a nice Irish detective, a local boy, you mean? Are you saying that they won’t open up to someone they consider an outsider?”
“A woman from outside the neighborhood. You know the County as well as I do.”
“No, I know the County better than you do. And I know this case better than anyone.”
“What do you want me to do, Abbie?”
“What I want you to do is back me up, sir. Call the powers that be over there and tell them if I don’t get some cooperation, there’s going to be open hunting season on the Irish.”
“You have no idea what you’re saying!” Perelli shouted. “You want me to threaten the Irish community of this city with further murders of their … of their … loved ones, if they don’t talk to you? Is that what you’re saying”
Abbie stalked away. Perelli slammed a file onto the desk.
“Where are you going?” he roared.
“It’s not about me being from outside,” she said quietly.
“What?”
She turned to face him.
“It’s … not … about … me being from outside the County.”
Perelli scoffed. “No? That’ll be a first.”
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