by Mike Faricy
“Thank you, sir,” the driver said, and smiled into the rearview mirror.
The blonde opened the passenger door without saying a word, stepped out of the back seat and looked at the figure hurrying toward her.
“Joey Touhy?"
Bang, bang! Bang, bang! Bang!
Chapter 1
US Marshal Jack Dillon pulled up and over the curb, parking his car halfway on the narrow sidewalk and halfway into the street, leaving enough room for another car to pass. He climbed out from behind the wheel, and clicked the lock button on his key. The lights gave a quick flash as the doors locked and the horn beeped. He looked up at the two-story attached house. It was light colored stucco, with the exact same floor plan as all the homes in this Dublin housing estate.
He focused on the second-floor window, the master bedroom. Candle light flickered from behind the lace curtains and he smiled, pulled out his phone and reread the text message from Brianna Fallon for the umpteenth time.
“Happy birthday, baby! Front door is unlocked. Incredible wonders await.
You’ve got thirty minutes to get here or I’m starting without you.’”
He opened the front gate, hurried past her car and stepped in the front door. The house was dark except for a series of small, battery-operated vigil lights flickering on every other step leading up to her bedroom. He locked the front door then hurried up the stairs, taking them two at a time. The smile on his face turned into a wide grin by the time he reached the bedroom door.
The bedroom was illuminated by a half dozen candles, at least one of which was scented, the room had a wonderful vanilla scent.
Brianna was naked, leaning against a pile of three pillows on the black silk bed sheet, sipping from a champagne flute filled with prosecco. She kept her dark hair in a pageboy cut and it seemed to glisten in the candlelight. A silver ice bucket with a chilled bottle sat on the end table next to her side of the bed. She wore the pearl necklace he’d given her last Christmas and a smile. She slowly ran her tongue across her full lips and, with her free hand, began to play with her navel. Dillon focused on the sunburst tattoo surrounding her navel for a moment then watched as she slowly moved her hand lower.
“I was beginning to wonder, birthday boy,” Brianna said. She raised her glass of prosecco in a toast. “Yours is waiting for you, just the way you like it.” She nodded at the cut crystal tumbler with a healthy inch of Jameson resting on the end table next to the door.
Dillon hurriedly undressed, tearing the button off the cuff of his shirt in an effort to quickly get the thing undone.
She giggled and said, “Relax, bad boy. We’ve got all night, and I intend to put it to very good use.”
That only seemed to make him more frantic. He kicked his trousers off, dropped his boxers, and half jumped into bed. He rolled toward her, gave her a long kiss, then picked up the tumbler of Jameson and clinked glasses with her.
She took a small sip, set her flute next to the ice bucket, said, “Let the games begin.” She pulled the silk sheet up to Dillon’s chest and then proceeded to slowly slip beneath the sheet, kissing his chest along the way.
Dillon placed a hand on her shoulder and began to pull her back up.
“No, you just lie back and sip that whiskey,” she said. “I’ve been waiting very patiently, so I get to do whatever I want, and I intend to take my time.” With that she slipped back beneath the sheet.
Chapter 2
The opening guitar solo to George Thorogood’s “Bad to the Bone” slowly dragged Dillon from his sleep. He glanced over at Brianna just as she pulled a pillow over her head. He shook his head a few times in an effort to clear the cobwebs, then tried to locate his cellphone in the dark. He’d kicked his trousers off halfway across the room, which meant he had to climb out of bed to get to his phone. The guitar solo started up again. Brianna gave a sleepy groan from beneath the pillow, and Dillon stubbed his big toe against the bed post. He pulled the cell out of his trouser pocket, swiped his finger across the screen to stop the noise and limped toward the door.
“What the hell,” he whispered out in the hallway. His big toe was throbbing.
“Wake you?” Detective Inspector Suel said.
“What the hell time is it?” Dillon said, as he limped down the hall, turned on the bathroom light and closed the door behind him.
“Just a little after four. There’s been a shooting.”
“And?”
“Two dead, a third in critical condition. He’s probably in the operating room at Saint Vincent’s as we speak.”
“Is he American?”
“No, a Dub, the taxi driver. But the two victims are American, a couple. You’d better get over here and have a look.”
“Now?” Dillon didn’t mean to sound like he was whining. On the other hand, he had a momentary thought about a breakfast rematch with Brianna, and since they were already dead . . . “How long will the crime scene be—”
“Dillon, get your ass over here. Chief Inspector McCabe will be here within the hour, and it would best for both of us, you and me, if you were here.”
Unfortunately, he knew Suel was right. “Oh, for Christ’s sake. All right, all right, where, exactly, are you?”
“Clontarf, not far from the castle…Seafield Road, just in front of number eight as a matter of fact. At this hour it shouldn’t take you more than ten minutes to get here from your place.”
Dillon saw no point in letting Paddy Suel know he wasn’t home, and that, in fact, he was in Coolock. But the drive time would be about the same; ten, maybe fifteen minutes. “All right, let me get dressed and I’ll see you shortly.”
“Much appreciated,” Suel said, and hung up.
“Great. Probably a couple of tourists,” he said to his reflection in the mirror. That meant he’d have to be on the line later today, contacting some family member to ID the body. Not exactly the perfect end to a birthday. He tiptoed back into the bedroom and gathered up his clothes. He gave a longing last look at Brianna, the pillow with the black silk pillowcase still over her head and that wonderful, oh so talented body hidden beneath the duvet. He caught a glimpse of the pearl necklace she was still wearing and sighed. Perfectly dressed, he thought.
He quietly closed the bedroom door, dressed out in the hallway, then tiptoed down to the kitchen and wrote a quick note explaining the situation. He placed the note next to the tea kettle where she was bound to see it. He quietly stepped outside, double-checked the front door to make sure it was locked behind him and hurried to his car.
He drove down St. Brigid’s Road which turned into Abbeyfield, from there over to Castle Avenue and down to Seafield Road. At this hour he only passed two cars along the way, both taxis. As he turned onto Seafield he saw the flashing lights from a couple of squad cars and an emergency vehicle up ahead. He thought the drive would take him fifteen minutes, but even after waiting for a red light he’d made it in eight.
He parked behind Paddy Suel’s car, a sliver Omni. He tried to wipe the lingering image of gorgeous Brianna Fallon from his mind as he opened the glove compartment and pulled two latex gloves from the box. He sat for a few seconds, then took a deep breath and climbed out from behind the wheel.
Chapter 3
White plastic tape with blue letters that read “GARDA NO ENTRY” was tied from the wrought iron fence on top of the short wall to one of the squad cars with the flashing lights.
Behind the fence rested a large, well manicured lawn with neatly trimmed shrubs, a paved driveway, and a large, two-story white stucco home with a red tile roof. The front door to the home was positioned in the center of the structure with large, curved, bay windows on either side of the door.
The house was dark with the exception of a lamp in one of the bay windows. A man in a dark bathrobe stood in the windows, sipping tea or maybe coffee from a white mug while he stared out at all the activity in front of his home. Dillon raised the plastic “GARDA NO ENTRY” tape and ducked underneath. He walked toward a taxi bl
ocking the sidewalk at an angle. The taxi rested up against the brick column that held the gate to the paved driveway. The engine wasn’t running and the lights were off.
The passenger door on the street side was open. A pair of female legs hung out of the door. The right foot, in a red stiletto heel, rested at an odd angle with the toe of the shoe wedged against the pavement. The left foot was bare. The stiletto for the left foot was maybe fifteen feet away, lying in the street. A number of brass cartridges were scattered around the stiletto. Little white plastic tent structures, six in all, numbered and maybe four inches high, had been placed next to each cartridge. A female technician in a white hazmat suit was crouched down in front of the open car door, taking photographs. Three other hazmat suits looked to be discussing something on a clipboard.
Dillon walked maybe five feet behind the technician taking pictures and peered inside the vehicle. The female wore a short black dress that rested above her thigh, revealing a black thong. Her body was positioned across the seat. Her left shoulder, left arm and her head were hanging off the seat. What looked like a large diamond ring was on her left hand. The right wrist had a sparkling bracelet wrapped around it. More diamonds.
Her blonde hair appeared to be about shoulder-length and hung across her face, covering all but her chin. Two wounds were apparent. One, on the left side of her chest, looked like it could have hit her heart; the other had torn away a front portion of her throat. A pool of blood had collected on the floor of the taxi beneath her head. Based on the condition of her arms and hands, plus the little bit of chin he could see, she appeared fairly young; late twenties, maybe early thirties. She was large-breasted and looked to have been in fairly good shape. A stud earring, possibly another diamond, was in her right ear. A large pendant, again possibly a diamond, hung around her neck, and the one hand Dillon could see sported a fancy ring that appeared to be an emerald surrounded by more diamonds.
The second body in the back seat was that of a male. Dressed in a grey suit and an open-collar white shirt, it looked like he may have been neatly groomed although what remained of the face and head after taking multiple rounds made that rather difficult to determine. He had grey hair, neatly trimmed. His right arm rested in a strange position, almost looking like someone had twisted it behind his back. The rear window and the passenger window on the far side of the interior were sprayed with blood, bits of skull, and brain matter. Dillon wondered if the couple might not be a father and daughter.
“Not the best way to start our day, or for them to end their evening,” a voice said from behind.
Dillon turned around and there was Paddy Suel, sipping from a steaming paper cup. “Oh, and before I forget, happy birthday,” Suel said, flashed a brief smile, then handed Dillon a paper napkin. “Jaysus, you might want to rub at least some of the lipstick off, ya gobshite.”
Dillon smiled, took the napkin and rubbed it across both cheeks.
“Back on the left side, closer to your ear. Yeah, okay, you got it. Who was he?” Suel said, and grinned.
“No one who’d admit to knowing you. I’d just like to state for the record that I gave up everything I’d planned for later this morning just to come out here and join you tonight. You wouldn’t happen to have another one of those teas, would you?”
“Yeah, waiting for your Lordship in the car. Come on, we might as well get comfortable until the tech team is finished,” Suel said, then headed back across the street to his car.
Dillon took a moment to study the two bodies in the taxi, made some mental notes, then followed Suel.
Chapter 4
Dillon climbed into the passenger side of the car. Suel handed him a paper cup of tea from the console, then glanced back across the street at the taxi.
“What makes you think they’re American?” Dillon asked then took a sip of tea. It was hot, and he’d been in Dublin long enough to not really mind it, the tea.
Suel continued to stare out the window at the taxi. “One of the techs told me. Apparently there’s a billfold on the floor of the backseat, a couple of hundred-dollar bills hanging out of it and a driver’s license, from your state of Massachusetts.”
“You get a name?”
Suel shook his head no, took another sip of tea and turned to look at Dillon. “What do think?”
“About the scene?”
“No, about the unfortunate woman you were sleeping with. Yes, about the scene.”
“At least six shots, I’m guessing from a smaller-caliber weapon. Someone was pissed off. At first glance, given the location, the number of rounds, it certainly doesn’t appear to be random.”
“I wonder who in the hell they are?” Suel said, and took another sip.
“Clothes look expensive. Hell of a rock on the woman’s finger, plus a bracelet and a pendant. The guy’s billfold is still in the taxi, so maybe robbery wasn’t the primary motive. I’m guessing husband and trophy wife.”
“Politicians? Business? Gangsters?” Suel said, almost to himself.
“Guess we’ll find out soon enough,” Dillon said, as a guy in a hazmat suit turned and began walking toward them. Suel drained his cup, Dillon took another sip, placed his cup back in the console and stepped out of the car.
“Inspector Suel, you can have at it. Need gloves?”
“No, I’m covered. Dillon?”
“No, I’ve got a pair,” Dillon said, pulling the latex gloves from his pocket and slipping them on.
“Let’s get to it,” Suel said, and they headed over to the taxi.
They stopped by the red stiletto heel lying in the street. Dillon bent down and picked up one of the brass casings on the street. He reflexively smelled it, then looked at the end. The casing was small, and stamped with the image of a hummingbird on the end. “Maybe a .22LR, long-range,” Dillon said.
“Have a look,” Dillon said, handing the casing to Suel.
Suel looked at the end of the casing, then placed it back down in the street, shaking his head. “Bollocks. Reloads?”
Dillon nodded and said, “At least that would be my educated guess.” Dillon picked up the red stiletto. The name MANOLO BLAHNICK, in black letters on white was delicately stitched on the instep of the insole. He flipped the shoe over. The beige leather outsole was stamped “Manolo Blahnick” along with the line “Hand made in Italy.” The shoe size, 37, was stamped just after the name. The little bit of wear apparent on the sole suggested the shoe was barely worn, possibly new, maybe purchased within the past few days.
“These things probably go for a couple of grand a pair,” Dillon said.
“For shoes? Humf, so much money they don’t know what to do with it. I’ve gotten cars for less than that,” Suel said, and walked around to the far side of the taxi.
Dillon walked over to the woman’s legs hanging out of the car. He lifted the toe of the shoe on the right foot and examined it. The red leather had been worn off when it scraped across the pavement and the odd positioning of the taxi suddenly made sense. He stood, and noticed for the first time two blood-soaked twenty-euro notes on the console.
“So the driver pulls over, waits to get paid with his foot on the brake,” Dillon said. “She climbs out, or starts to, when someone runs up, puts two in her, three in your man next to her and one into the driver. The whole thing probably took less than five seconds. When the driver’s shot, his foot comes off the brake, and the car rolls across the sidewalk and into the corner of the brick wall.”
Suel didn’t give a reaction. He cautiously opened the rear passenger door, ready to stop the male body from falling out of the vehicle, but the seat belt and what was left of the head, wedged in the corner of the seat, prevented it from falling out. Suel reached in, picked the wallet up off the floor, then gently closed the door.
“Half dozen credit cards, couple of grand in euros, and . . . .” He moved his lips, counting for a moment. “Twelve hundred in American dollars,” he said, then looked up at Dillon. “I’m guessing they probably didn’t fly economy
-class.” He turned the wallet to read the drivers license as Dillon walked around the back of the vehicle to have a look. “Yeah, Boston. Hmm-mmm, Marlborough Street, in Boston. Ever hear of it?”
“Marlborough Street? Yeah, about as pricey as it can get. One of those neighborhoods where if you have to ask, you can’t afford. Couple of million easy. What’s the name?”
“Touhy. Joseph Xavier Touhy. Ring any bells?”
“Jesus Christ, you gotta be kidding me, Joey Touhy? Let me see that,” Dillon said, then looked at the drivers license photo. “God, it really is him. Joey Touhy. I don’t believe it.”
“You know the guy?”
Chapter 5
Detective Chief Inspector McCabe arrived about fifteen minutes later. Dillon gave the heads-up. “Looks like that’s McCabe pulling up now,” he said, and stepped back from the taxi.
The woman’s body had been lying on top of her purse, a black leather thing with gold studs and a gold shoulder strap. The words “FENDI” and below that in slightly smaller letters, “ROMA,” were embossed in gold. Dillon hung onto the woman’s passport, set the purse down next to her feet, and walked over toward McCabe’s car. Suel followed a moment later, holding the man’s wallet.
McCabe lowered the driver’s window and said, “How bad is it?” before either one could offer a greeting.
“There seems to be more than a little stench of the criminal element. The victims, at least based on their clothes and the money they carried, certainly weren’t hurting. Robbery doesn’t seem to have been the motive. It’s still early in the process, but right now it’s got all the markings of a gangland hit,” Suel said.
“Americans?”
