by Steven Henry
Vic's snort let the room know what he thought of Carlyle's personal gratitude.
The rest of the squad had turned up as soon as news of the shootout percolated through the Dispatch network. They joined the paramedics, a whole lot of Patrol officers, and the recently-arrived Bomb Squad.
“Hey, Erin,” the bomb tech said, raising a hand.
“Hey, Skip.” She gave him a wave, glad of the momentary diversion from her pissed-off commanding officer.
Skip Taylor was a former bomb-disposal soldier. He'd talked Erin through defusing a homemade bomb at the Corner earlier that summer. He was way more cheerful than anybody had a right to be when their job involved taking apart booby traps and explosive devices.
“Hey, Cars, how's it going?” Skip said, extending a hand. Carlyle smiled and shook with him. Skip knew all about Carlyle's history with the IRA. It didn't make him hate the Irishman. Instead, he treated Carlyle with the courtesy and respect of one professional to another.
“What've we got here?” Skip continued, walking over to the blasted door. “Shaped charge, looks like. It's a breaching charge, absolutely.”
“Certainly,” Carlyle agreed. He stood just behind Skip and to one side, watching with interest. Webb glared at them but didn't interrupt.
“No sign of casing fragments,” Skip said. “I'd say plastic explosive.” He put on his gloves and opened his equipment case, pulling out a sample kit. He swabbed several surfaces on and around the door. “Remote detonation?”
“Wire,” Carlyle said, pointing. A thin filament of copper, bright and shiny, lay just around the corner by the restrooms.
“Good eye,” Skip said. “What do you figure?”
“The lads likely laid their charge, then went into the washroom,” Carlyle said. “They'd be protected from the blast there, in case their shaping of the charge didn't go precisely as planned.”
“That how you'd do it?” Skip asked.
Carlyle gave him a look. “This pub is my pride and joy. I'd not go blowing bits off it for love nor money.”
Skip smiled. “Yeah, but suppose it was a competitor's bar?”
“What do you take me for?”
“An old dog who knows all the tricks,” Skip replied. He was working with his test kit while they talked.
“Well, it would depend what I was trying to accomplish,” Carlyle said. “They could have blown the whole building, if they'd enough explosive. But it's a brick structure, very sturdy. It appears they were attempting to gain entry to my private apartment.”
“Right. So, that how you'd do it?”
“Aye,” Carlyle said thoughtfully, “were I expecting an armored door. If not, I'd merely bring a prybar and a sizable henchman.”
“Right,” Skip said again, but he was a little distracted. He muttered, “Thymol, sulfuric acid, ethyl alcohol... come on, you little bitch, tell me your secrets.”
The detectives drew closer, waiting.
“Got it!” the bomb tech exclaimed, holding up his sample vial. The liquid had turned rose-colored. “C4.”
“Can you tag it?” Webb asked. Government-issue explosives were chemically marked at manufacture, to make them easier to trace.
“Maybe,” Skip said. “It's definitely military in origin. You don't make this shit in your bathtub.”
Webb motioned Erin to the front door. She followed him outside, letting the bomb guys do their thing.
“O'Reilly, what were you doing here?” he asked once they were on the street and out of earshot of the folks inside.
“What do you mean?”
“You know damn well what I mean. This place gets hit with you in it? Okay, I'll buy that. Once. But twice? What's going on?”
“Nothing!” she said loudly. Then, lowering her voice, “I recognized the missing cases of whiskey. They were the same as the house brand here at the Corner. It's a really rare label. I thought maybe there was a connection. I was bracing Carlyle about it.”
“Jones said you were talking to a CI,” Webb said, speaking in a near-whisper. “Carlyle's middle management in the O'Malleys. Guys that high up in an organization don't spill to the cops. Not over chickenshit like this.”
“He's been useful before,” she said.
“All right. Who did this, then?”
“Hans Rüdel.”
“Who the hell is Hans Rüdel?”
“A German mercenary.”
“You know this from...” Webb said, cocking his head toward the Corner.
“Yeah.”
“And you believe him?”
“Yeah, I do,” Erin said. “We've got a guy in custody who speaks German. These are the guys who hit the Loch Druich.”
“Is this a theory, or do you have proof?”
Erin almost snapped at the Lieutenant. She could feel her habitual defensiveness rising up in her, linking up with her residual adrenaline. Then she remembered what Kira had said. Webb's a medium-large asshole sometimes, but you think he doesn't trust you? Erin, he's got you working point on your own case. She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself.
“Something Carlyle said in there, just a minute ago. How guys would bring explosives, but only if they knew what they had to break through. He's right. Perps don't use breaching charges. They use crowbars and kick in doors. But Carlyle's door was steel-core. Bulletproof. They must've known what they had to deal with ahead of time.”
Webb nodded. “There's wood paneling on the door,” he said. “So they wouldn't have known just to look at it. Okay, I'll buy that they had inside info. But that doesn't prove a connection between the ship and this hit.”
“There's the C4,” she said. “And the Germans. And the whiskey. Sir, there's too much lining up for this to be coincidence.”
“And they just happened to hit the place while you were there? Another coincidence?”
She shrugged. “Had to happen sometime.”
He shook his head. “O'Reilly, you're gonna give me a heart attack.” He took a drag on his cigarette and stared morosely into the Barley Corner's windows. “You want to watch out. You're gonna get yourself killed one of these days.”
“And here I thought you didn't care,” she said.
“I don't. But the paperwork would be a pain in the ass.”
“Okay,” Erin said. “So, we need to talk to the guy I tagged. I don't think he's hurt too bad. He should still be conscious and able to answer questions. We'll need someone who speaks German, and—”
“I'll handle it,” Webb said. “You're off duty.”
Erin was rendered momentarily speechless. “I'm... what?” she finally managed.
“You just shot a man,” he said patiently. “You were standing right next to a bomb when it went off. And you got shot at. You are not coming back in to the office like nothing happened. You're turning in your gun to the Forensics guys, you're getting checked out by the EMTs, and then you're going home for the rest of the day.”
“I'm fine,” she protested.
“I don't care if you have three character witnesses, a note from your doctor, and an Old Testament prophet telling me you're fine.” He looked her in the eye. “You can't possibly know that yet. You're still reacting. That happens to every officer in a situation like this. I wouldn't trust myself to think straight after a gunfight. This isn't about you. I know you're tough. Stop trying to prove it to me. Or to yourself.”
In spite of Webb's instructions, Erin went to the vet before going home. Rolf didn't seem hurt, but he'd been standing pretty close to a sizable bomb and she didn't want to take chances. They sat in the veterinarian's waiting room for a quarter of an hour, Erin trying to read a magazine. She couldn't concentrate. Her eyes kept skipping words and she had to go back and reread the same sentences over and over.
She told herself she was fine, that worse things happened to cops all the time. She called herself weak, knew she should be stronger than this, but it didn't do any good.
An elderly white-haired woman moved into the seat next to hers.
The woman had on an ancient floral-print dress and a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. A gray cat with long, silky fur was resting in the crook of her arm. She reached out and patted the back of Erin's hand.
“There, there, dear,” she said in a kindly voice. “Everything's going to be all right.”
“Huh?” Erin flinched and stared at the other woman.
“I can see that you love him,” the woman continued. “He's a beautiful dog, and so well behaved. I'm sure there's nothing to worry about. He looks very healthy.”
“Oh. Uh, yeah,” Erin said. “He is.”
“You're trembling, dear. Don't you worry. Doctor Halverson is very good.”
“I know,” Erin said. She looked down at her hands. The old lady was right; she was shaking.
“What's the matter, dear?” the lady asked, peering at Rolf.
Rolf stared back. He didn't understand civilians.
“He got blown up,” Erin said.
The old woman blinked through her glasses. “I'm sorry, dear. What was that?”
The receptionist saved her from an explanation. “Erin and Rolf? Next.”
Rolf's prognosis was good. The vet said he might have some temporary hearing loss, but didn't think it was anything to worry about. The nosebleed was superficial.
“But take care not to have him near any explosions in the future,” the vet said.
“Right,” Erin said, trying not to roll her eyes. “Next time I'm planning to blow up a bomb, I'll leave him home.”
Back at her apartment, Erin found herself at loose ends. A thousand things needed to be done, but she wasn't allowed to do them. She wanted to talk to Carlyle again. He knew something about the Loch Druich that he hadn't told her. He'd been the target of the same guys who'd whacked Garrity and Carr. That connected the O'Malleys to the ship, which meant...
Erin didn't know what it meant. But she knew it was important. And on top of that was the search for Janice Barnes's killer. Her squad was spread pretty thin. Why had Webb benched her? She was fine, damn it.
Except she wasn't. She was jumpy as hell. She couldn't think clearly. She kept wanting to reach for her gun. When she closed her eyes, she could still see the masked gunman coming around the corner.
Rolf was staring at her, head cocked to one side. She realized she'd been standing just inside her door for half a minute without moving.
“It's all right, boy,” she said, wondering if she was telling the truth.
She decided to spend the rest of the day training Rolf. He needed several hours of it every week, and this way she felt like she was at least giving the NYPD some value for her salary. They practiced tracking and detection. His nosebleed didn't seem to have impaired his sense of smell. He went straight to every target as if he was following lit-up signs.
Working with him, Erin felt her equilibrium coming back. There was something about the K-9 that strengthened her. She remembered hearing that soldiers who handled military dogs had lower rates of PTSD than other veterans.
Her phone went off in her pocket. Pulling it out, she saw an unlisted number. She answered on the third ring.
“Hello?”
“Hello,” said a quiet, polite man's voice. She thought she should recognize it, but didn't right away. “Is this Erin O'Reilly?”
“Who is this?”
“Trevor,” he said. “Trevor Fairfax. We spoke earlier today.”
Erin's memory caught up with her. “Yes, Mr. Fairfax. I'm Detective O'Reilly. Did you come up with something?”
There was a short pause. Then Trevor replied, “Not exactly, ma'am. But I've been thinking a great deal. About you.”
“What do you mean?” she said sharply.
“Your face,” he said. “I can still see you, as clearly as if you were standing in front of me. You're a very attractive woman, Erin.”
“So?”
“I'd very much like to see you again,” he said. “You're more than attractive. You're truly beautiful. I expect men tell you that all the time. But not everyone knows how to appreciate true beauty. You are extraordinary. I can't stop thinking about you.”
“Mr. Fairfax,” she said, “You just met me this morning. It's a little early for that sort of thing.”
“I wouldn't want you to get the wrong idea,” Trevor said quickly. “A lot of men, they only say a woman is attractive because they want to... to... well, you know. But I'm not like that.”
“Mr. Fairfax,” she said. “Thanks, but I'm not interested. It wouldn't be appropriate.”
“I don't understand, Erin. I haven't said or done anything improper, I'm sure.”
“That's not the point. I met you in the course of an investigation. I keep my work and personal life separate.”
“With the long hours you work, you must lead a solitary life,” Trevor said. His voice was warm, persuasive. “Even a lonely one. It's not like I'm your coworker, or an eyewitness, or a suspect. I'm just a man you met while you were shopping. I hope I didn't offend you in some way.”
“No,” she said. “But I'm not looking for a boyfriend right now.”
There was an awkward pause.
“Maybe I'll see you again sometime,” Trevor said, and he hung up.
Erin looked at her phone and wondered whether she ought to be having second thoughts. He wasn't a bad-looking guy, and he was polite. But she remembered her last relationship with a civilian. It hadn't ended well.
While she was staring at the phone, it buzzed in her hand, startling her so badly she almost dropped it. She expected to see an unknown number, Trevor calling back to try to change her mind. Instead, it was her sister-in-law.
“Hey, Shelly,” Erin said.
“Hi, Erin,” Michelle said. Her voice was flustered, distressed. “Look, I know you're busy, and it's an awful thing to spring something like this on short notice, but I need some help.”
Erin's police experience flooded her imagination with a rich menu of possible catastrophes.
“What's the matter?” she asked sharply.
“I'm at Urgent Care with Patrick,” the other woman said. “I'm sure it's nothing serious, but he's been throwing up all day. He just can't keep anything down. And now he's spiked a fever. And Sean's in surgery, and I couldn't get a sitter on short notice. I didn't want Anna here, and I was in such a hurry. I left her in front of the TV. Oh, God, I'm such a lousy mother—”
“Shelly, breathe,” Erin interrupted. “Anna's a good kid, she'll be fine for a few minutes. I can be right there. Fifteen, twenty minutes, tops.”
“Erin, you're a lifesaver,” Michelle said, and Erin heard some of the tension fall away. “Anna's upset. You know how much she loves her kid brother. If you could do something to take her mind off it...”
“I'll take her to a movie,” Erin suggested.
“Perfect! Thanks again, sis. I owe you.”
Erin dropped Rolf inside and headed to Sean and Michelle's house. Sean O'Reilly Junior was her oldest brother and a trauma surgeon. Michelle was a sweet, kind woman who'd decided to be a stay-at-home mom. Her children, Anna and Patrick, were eight and six, respectively. Erin loved the whole family.
She tried not to worry about Patrick while she drove. Kids got the occasional bug. He'd be well cared for, and he'd probably be fine once they got some fluids in him. Her job was to take care of the other kid.
She had a spare key to the O'Reillys' brownstone. It was in an eye-wateringly expensive part of Midtown Manhattan. Sean Junior made five times Erin's salary, and it showed. Erin parked in a police space at the corner and jogged to the front door.
“Hey, Anna!” she called as she let herself in. “Where you at, kiddo?” Her question was immediately answered by the sound of the TV from the living room.
She made it a step and a half into the room before Anna wrapped herself around Erin's legs.
“How you doing, kiddo?” Erin asked.
“Mommy's at the hospital,” Anna said in that super-serious voice only small children knew. “Patrick's going
to have to have an IV and a saline drip.”
Erin took a second to reflect on the unusual vocabulary a surgeon's kid developed. “Your mom thought you'd be bored here all by yourself,” she said, keeping her voice light and cheerful. “And I was bored, too, so I thought I'd go to a movie. You want to come?”
“Can we see Evil Dead?”
Erin opened her mouth. Then she closed it again.
Anna giggled. “I'm just kidding, Auntie Erin. Mommy would ground me forever.”
“She'd ground me, too,” Erin laughed. “Tell you what. Anything that's G or PG.”
“How about Despicable Me 2?”
“Works for me.” Erin hadn't seen the first one, but didn't figure it'd matter.
“Where's Rolfie?”
“He doesn't go to movies.”
“Why not?”
“Because he needs to rest so he can chase the bad guys tomorrow.”
“Oh.”
The movie was surprisingly enjoyable. Erin was more of a gritty action-flick fan, but it was a pleasure to step out of her own world for a little while. It was good to watch a movie with a kid every now and then, to keep from getting too jaded. Anna laughed and smiled and munched popcorn. Erin found herself wondering about having a kid of her own someday. Now there was a crazy thought, but it still made her smile, watching her niece. She put an arm around the girl's shoulder and let her snuggle in close.
Chapter 12
Erin woke up suddenly, sitting up in bed. She stared wildly into the darkness and groped for the light switch. She knocked the lamp over. Cursing, she fumbled on the floor. Rolf was on his feet beside her. She felt his snout against her shoulder.
She finally found the lamp and flicked it on. Her breathing slowly began to return to normal as the dream retreated. It'd been the same one she'd been having, all chaos and gunfire. She sat for a minute, one hand resting on Rolf's comforting bulk. The clock read 4:30. She got up and went into the bathroom.
Her eyes were dry and burning. Her neck, shoulders, and jaw ached. The face that stared back at her from the mirror looked like a ghost. Her interlude with her niece had been a nice break, but she was back in the grind.
