by John McEvoy
“That doesn’t mean I completely countenance the mercy killings,” she concluded as she returned to her chair, composure regained.
“You don’t ‘completely’ countenance them? What the hell does that mean?” Doyle snapped. “Do you partially approve of them?”
She sighed. “I would have thought that my putting up a fifty-thousand-dollar reward for the capture of your ‘killer’ would be enough to show where I stand.”
“And where is that?”
“I’m primarily on the side of the horse. Always have been. But, no matter how much I abhor these wonderful creatures being treated like helpless lab rats, I do not necessarily agree when ALWD declares the murders to be justified. They are attacks on property that does not belong to anyone but the schools to which the horses have been donated, or the owners of the horses who donated them.”
Her phone rang. She said, “Just a second, Barb, I’m with someone.” Putting the receiver down, she said, “That’s all I have to say about this matter, Mr. Doyle. So, if you’ll excuse me…”
“So, we’re back to Mr. Doyle.” He stood up and plucked his coat off the top of the rack. “My FBI agent friends might have a few more questions for you, Ms. Ness.”
“If they do, they can contact my attorneys. I’m not a fan of such interviews.”
Doyle, irritated, said, “Well, the government has lawyers, too.”
Esther laughed. “Oh, I’m well aware of that. When my father was involved in a spurious case years ago, his lawyers knocked down the government opposition like, well, like tenpins. You get what you pay for,” she added.
Doyle stood up. “I’m going to give you my cell phone number. I’d appreciate it if you’d call me if you happen to get any information about the horse killer. Okay?”
She wrote the number down before saying dismissively, “Couldn’t I Twitter you if I hear anything?”
“Esther, I don’t look at Twitter. I decided long ago that was a waste of my time. Reading a lot of those messages, it seemed to me they were being written by thirty-five-year-old bachelors who had never made it anywhere. They’d like to beat their dogs, but they don’t even have dogs. So they tweet.”
Back in his Accord, he sat back in his seat, irritated with himself for being so irritated with this woman. F. Scott Fitzgerald’s Daisy Buchanan, he remembered, had a “voice full of money.” Ms. Ness’ monied voice to him sounded full of confidence, privilege, and invulnerability.
All the natural beauty visible on his drive out of Barrington Hills was lost on Doyle. He didn’t like the fact that he had, really, nothing useful to report to Karen and Damon. The reward that Esther Ness, possible suspect, had offered could be for real, or could be a smokescreen.
On Highway 14 going toward the Edens, his phone buzzed. Caller ID showed it was Nora. He said hello, wait a second, and pulled into a 7-11 parking lot. “This is a kick. I don’t get many international calls. What’s up?”
Nora said, “I can’t talk now. But I’ve sent you an e-mail you should look at as soon as you can. Where are you?”
“Fleeing the boonies. I’ll be home in about, oh, forty minutes. Did you get that info I asked for?”
“Heh, heh. Is poteen the water of life? Of course I did. You’re dealing with a trained reporter here. Got to go. I’m on assignment as a stringer for the Irish Times. Some clerical big shot is going to announce another grand settlement in a series of priestly child abuse cases. They’re not doing this in Dublin. I’m on the outskirts of Limerick.”
Doyle said, “If an admission of guilt is forthcoming far away from the capital, will it be heard?”
“If I’ve got anything to do about it, and I do, it will. Talk to you tomorrow after you’ve digested my report about the Shamrock Off-Course Wagering corporate structure. It will give you quite a bit to chew on. In fact, Jack,” she giggled, “I would not be at all surprised to see you back here in your ancestral homeland pretty darn quick. Bye.”
Chapter Forty-five
Aer Lingus flight 582 approached Cork International Airport poking through a layer of thick, early morning fog that obscured the landscape below.
“Not unusual, you know,” remarked Jack Doyle’s seatmate, a slim, well-dressed septuagenarian who had introduced himself as Seamus Scanlon soon after their takeoff from O’Hare Airport the night before. Doyle initially feared he was going to be in the seven-hour presence of a too-talkative Irishman. But that was not the case. After a minute or two of introductory chatter, Scanlon plugged in earphones and soon went to sleep. When he awoke an hour later, he yawned, smiled at Jack, and picked up his paperback copy of an Edna O’Brien novel and began to read. Another bit of chat during dinner was the extent of their conversation until now.
“Cork Airport is a bit more than five hundred feet above sea level,” Scanlon informed. “Sometimes, like this morning, it’s prone to foggy conditions and low cloud ceiling. This can cause delays, like this one. We are circling now, as I’m sure you’re aware. If the fog doesn’t give us an opening, we’ll be diverted to either Shannon or Dublin. That happens every so often.”
Doyle said, “You must be a veteran of these weather-related maneuvers. You don’t seem too concerned.”
“Aw, sure, this has happened to me before,” the little Irishman smiled. “It’s not what you would term a Big Deal. You learn to live with it.” He turned back to his book.
There was the thunk of airplane wheels being dropped. “Ah,” Scanlon said. “Good. We’re going to land here in Cork.”
Once the plane was on the tarmac and parked at the gate, Scanlon rose first and opened the overhead bin. “Do you have something up here?”
“It’s a dark green carry-on,” Doyle said. “Thanks. But I’ll get it.” Scanlon deftly snatched Doyle’s carry-on out of the bin and presented it to him.
Standing in the aisle, they waited while passengers in front of them, many young folks, wrestled down lunks of luggage. Three young women had to be helped retrieving their bulging carry-on cases. Doyle and Scanlon waited patiently.
“You’ve observed this irritating drill before, I assume,” Scanlon said.
“All too frequently,” Doyle sighed. “All the time spent struggling with these heavy carry-ons could undoubtedly be better spent awaiting the checked items at the carousel inside.”
Scanlon checked his watch as they waited in the aisle. “So, Mr. Doyle, are you here for business or pleasure?”
Doyle smiled as the line finally advanced. “Pleasurable business is what I hope it will be, Mr. Scanlon. Great meeting you.”
***
The Cork Airport Customs Line for non-European citizens moved more briskly than its Dublin counterpart, Doyle thought. The heavyset, middle-aged woman examining his passport looked up and smiled, “You’re back quite quickly now, are you not, Mr. Doyle?”
He leaned forward to peer at her identification badge. “Aw, Maeve, you just can’t keep me away from this treasure of a country.”
She stamped his passport and pushed it through the slot. “On with you now,” she said with a laugh.
***
His suitcase retrieved, Doyle bought a bottle of water from the first concession stand he saw. His flight had landed almost thirty minutes prior to the arrival time he’d given Barry Hoy. He found an empty bench near the Arrivals Entrance where Hoy said he would look for him. Ignoring the happy chatter of travelers being enthusiastically greeted in this foyer area, he unpacked his laptop and reviewed once again Nora Sheehan’s e-mail.
“Here’s the Shamrock information you wanted,” she’d written. “Hope it helps. Hope to see you soon.”
The detailed report that followed was what had so quickly caused Jack to return to Ireland, seriously fearful for Niall Hanratty’s life. The previous failed assaults on the bookmaker had not stimulated in Doyle the level of concern this document had.
Nora�
��s research revealed that Niall’s bookmaking empire Papers of Registration had not been changed since the original filing at the inception of the company fifteen years previous.
At Shamrock’s inception, Hanratty owned eighty-eight percent of the privately held stock in this now extremely prosperous firm. Two percent had originally been assigned to Barry Hoy “in perpetuity.” The remaining ten percent had been designated for Anthony X. Rourke, with a codicil stating that Rourke’s percentage would be increased by five percent to be deducted annually from Hanratty’s after every one of the company’s first five profitable years. Also, as Nora had bold-faced, “Anthony X. Rourke was to be made a partner with ownership in one-third of Shamrock if and when the company recorded ten profitable years in succession. In the case of Niall Hanratty’s passing, managing control of Shamrock Corporation would go to A.X. Rourke.”
Nora emphasized at the end of her e-mail, “This ‘managing control’ bit is the stick-out item. That could lead to the ‘managing controller’ transforming the setup completely. I can’t believe this thing is so loosely written. I guess because it was based on a great deal of trust between Hanratty and Rourke. Always, from what I’ve observed, a mistakenly way of doing business.
“Obviously,” Nora concluded, “Niall Hanratty had enormous faith and trust in Tony Rourke when this document was signed. And, vice versa. But the papers were never amended to show that Rourke received his full partnership.”
Doyle turned off his computer. Could anything in this document represent a motive for murder? Sure, he thought, if the promise to Rourke of a full partnership was not for some reason kept. A talented man’s ambition thwarted? Hell, yes, that could develop into a motive for revenge.
So lost in thought was Doyle that he turned only an instant before Barry Hoy’s hand gripped his shoulder. The big Irishman was grinning. “Must be the jet lag that’s slowed you down so, Jack. For a man usually so wary, you caught nary a glimpse of me sneaking up behind you.”
They shook, Doyle’s right hand nearly disappearing into Hoy’s grasp. Neither of these two former boxers was at all interested in macho hand shaking. Too many past busted knuckles involved. “I didn’t see you coming, Barry. I was lost in what for me counts as thought.”
Hoy snatched up Doyle’s bag. “We’re over this way.”
“I don’t know how you ever lost a bout with those huge mitts you’ve got, Barry,” Doyle said as they walked out of the terminal.
Hoy laughed. “Hands of Stone I was called in my early boxing days in Dublin’s fight clubs. Like a Hibernian version of the great Panamanian fighter Roberto Duran. And there was at least a bit of truth to that. I could flatten them if I could hit them. What observers failed to add, and I had to take in from painful experience, was that ‘Hands of Stone,’ in my case, also was found to have ‘Chin of Glass.’”
Doyle smiled as he looked at the rueful expression on the big man’s face at these recollections. “You’ve got to laugh a bit, Barry, having a ring career that could be summed up on the slips of paper in a couple of fortune cookies.”
They walked to where Hoy said he was parked in a marked area that was being watched over by a youthful airport traffic officer.
Hoy waved at the man. “That’s a cousin of mine. I got him the job here.”
Settled into the front seat of the black Ford Escort, Doyle buckled up as Hoy sped onto the airport exit ramp.
“I’m not positive that our man is going to be off to Dublin. I think so, but I’m not sure. That’s why I want to watch for him up on the E-20. Outside our Kinsale office the other day, I heard him whispering into his cell phone about an afternoon meeting today up there. He mentioned the exact time, and I remembered it. He never noticed my overhearing. He’ll have to go out of Cork on this road to get there.”
Chapter Forty-six
Hoy pulled off into a rest area eight kilometers north of Cork. He got out and stretched. “C’mon. We can see the highway from over here.” They walked to an empty picnic table that sat on a slight ridge overlooking the motorway. Hoy said, “You told me when you phoned me from the States that you’d explain your coming here once you got here. You’ve been here a half-hour. This would be a good time, am I right?”
Doyle plunked himself down beside the big man on the bench. He thought for a few moments before replying, “Part of it, Barry, was your suspicion that you mentioned to me back at Lough Inagh. The bigger part was the documents I’ve seen since then about the Shamrock Corporation. They were very informative. And when you told me our man, usually a ten-hour-a-day workaholic, had begun scheduling more and more days off, acting strangely with people he’d worked with for years, I wanted to see what you and I might find out if we worked together. I’m sure you know what I’m getting at, right?”
Hoy nodded. “I do. At first I was kind of torn about bringing you into this, Jack. But Niall has been so grand to me over the years, we’ve been in and out of so many scrapes together, I just felt that I had to. Even if I told him what my thinking was, what I suspected, he’d just laugh me off. He’d say, as he has many, many times in the past, ‘Not to worry. I’ll handle this.’ I’m not the mental marvel that man is, and I know it, and he knows it. That’s fine. But I figured he wouldn’t brush you aside, especially if we had some evidence to present to him.
“When I heard Niall talking to him the other day, and Niall being surprised at our man’s request for yet another day off, but not inquiring why, I felt more uneasy. That’s why I was glad when you called to say you were coming over here again. Whatever we find out, and it could be nothing at all, you’ll be the sort of witness Niall respects. I thank you for flying over on such short notice.”
The big man got up to say, “Niall will hardly listen to anyone else on this subject, not even Sheila, much less me. The man can be as stubborn as Corrigan’s donkey.”
Hoy glanced at his watch. “If what I think is going to happen does happen, it’ll be in the next fifty, sixty minutes. According to what I’ve been able to learn, our man’ll be leaving for Dublin during that time. So, we’ll wait here.” Hoy reached into the back and extracted a thermos. “Would you like some tea, Jack?”
“Thanks, no. Now, what kind of car are we on the watch for?”
Hoy said, “He drives a four-year-old brown Volvo. It’s not in his nature to be flashing along past us. He’ll be well within the speed limit. We should easily spot him if he comes.”
“If we pick him up and follow, he’ll know your car, won’t he?”
“Sure, and he would, Jack,” Hoy smiled. “But we don’t have my car. It’s a rental.”
The morning sun had briefly fought its way through the Cork cloud bank twenty-eight minutes later when Hoy suddenly sat up and snatched the car key out of his jacket pocket. “That was him! Our man’s on his way.”
It was a time-consuming trip, taking nearly three hours to cover the one hundred sixty miles. They stayed three cars back of the brown Volvo, both of them bored by the inaction. “He drives like an old woman,” Hoy said.
On the Dublin outskirts, they encountered heavy traffic, but had no trouble keeping the Volvo in view. “Traffic like this,” Hoy said, “is a leftover of the grand Celtic Tiger days. When the money was flowing back then, a lot of it went into Ireland’s auto market. Of course, by now, many of those grand vehicles have been repossessed or taken over by the banks. Not all, of course. And, Jaysus, not that one,” the normally undemonstrative Hoy shouted, yanking the steering wheel to the right. “Look at it!”
A dark-blue Chevrolet SUV crossed over in front of them, driven by a woman in hair curlers, housecoat, and sunglasses, the two rear seats of the speeding vehicle full of children dressed in junior hurling team uniforms. Steering with her left hand, holding the cell phone to her ear with her right, she signaled a right turn before careening around the next corner to the left, a cacophony of pounded horns in her impervious wake.
> “Another menace to society,” Hoy grunted. “Our roads are full of them. Did you know that you can fail your driver’s road test in this country and still continue to drive, on a provisional license? Failures at the wheel! Like that woman, probably. As far as I know, we’re the only country in the world that allows such nonsense. It’s a wonder the curbs aren’t littered with casualties.”
***
They trailed the cautiously driven brown Volvo for another fifteen minutes, always three or four cars back. Finally, it pulled up next to the curb on Raglan Road. Hoy slid the Focus into a parking place a half-block back. They watched as Tony Rourke slowly got out, locked the door, looked cautiously about, then walked toward Moynihan’s Ould Times Pub. His hat was pulled down and raincoat collar pulled up. He was back outside of the pub within two minutes in the company of a small, cocky looking senior citizen who had his cap on and jacket collar raised against the suddenly arrived drizzle. The little man peered up and down the street before he began talking rapidly to Rourke, occasionally reaching forward to jab fingers into Rourke’s chest.
“Jaysus,” Hoy said. “That’s old Billy Sheridan with him!”
“Who is that?”
“One of the old-time hard men from the IRA’s glory days. My Da grew up with him. Billy did his years in Mountjoy, which they say he came to run like it was his front parlor. Once out, the troubles pretty much over by then, he cleverly converted to straight ahead civilian-type crime.”
The rain increased. Hoy started the motor and put the wipers on low. He said, “Billy now has a little gang of his own, mostly dimwitted brutes he runs like a chieftain. No patriotic airs there, just bad business for its own sake. High-end burglaries, muscle work for hire, intimidation with leg breaking and extortion. That’s what I hear. Billy’s a feckin’ menace. Always has been no matter what side’s he on.”
