by Mike Faricy
Suel nodded. “Man and a woman. Possibly husband and wife, although she’s a different surname and younger, a lot younger. Dillon gave an initial ID of your man,” Suel said, then held out the wallet displaying the Massachusetts driver’s license.
McCabe looked at Dillon. “You knew this individual?”
“Knew of him, actually. Joey Touhy, out of Boston. Not the nicest guy in town. He’s got his fingers in a number of pies, has some political connections at the local and state level. Racketeering, money laundering, insurance fraud, drug distribution, heroin and cocaine mostly. He’s done some federal time, I think four, maybe six years, sentenced back in two-thousand, two-thousand-one. I sent a text off to a contact; he’ll send me current information.” Dillon glanced at his watch. “They’re five hours behind us, so it’s just a little after midnight over there. I’ll get the information later this afternoon.”
“So this would appear to be anything but random,” McCabe said. “What about the woman?”
“There’s an outside chance it’s random, but I’d put it at about point-zero-one percent.” Dillon opened the passport. “The woman is one Geraldine Greco, age twenty-seven. A couple of questions immediately pop up. Was this a grudge or possibly some sort of payback hit? Or does it suggest the possible start of something here, maybe a war? Then, my next question is . . . .” Dillon gave a quick look around. “This is a pretty pricey area. I have a tough time thinking they just pulled over to look at the streetlights. Were they someone’s guests? Here on business? Family? Why here? We find that out, we may start to learn who pulled the trigger.”
“I think whoever did this, there’s a damn good chance they’re at the airport right now, waiting to board a flight to Costa del Sol,” Suel said.
“We’ll meet in my office at ten. See if you can’t put a rush on that information coming from the States,” McCabe said, then raised his window, nodded and drove off down the street.
“Charming,” Dillon half laughed and shook his head.
“Oh, I don’t know. Do you really want him here looking over your shoulder? Consider it a vote of confidence that he feels comfortable leaving the two of us to get on with the program. So, that being the case, we’d better get back to it,” Suel said.
“You find anything that ties him to this area?” Dillon asked. “If they had the taxi stop here sometime after midnight, I’m guessing they were either staying in, or visiting someone, probably within a hundred feet of where we are. Airbnb maybe?”
Suel looked over Dillon’s shoulder. The guy standing in the bay window wearing his bathrobe was still there, watching them intently, only now he was holding a crystal tumbler in his hand and Dillon figured it was a pretty safe guess he wasn’t drinking tea.
Chapter 6
Dillon and Suel walked up the long brick driveway toward the front door. A paved parking area, large enough for three cars, was in front of the step leading up to the door. A sporty black Porsche had been backed into the parking area at an angle, taking up two of the spaces.
The man in the bathrobe watched them approach, then rubbed a hand across his face, drained his drink glass and hurried out of the room. He opened the front door just as Suel was about to ring the doorbell. His bath robe was a gold and red paisley pattern with silk lapels and cuffs. A gold monogram with the letters JDR was positioned over the left breast. He wore navy-blue slippers with an identical monogram, only the monogram on the slippers was surrounded with red laurels.
“Well, if it isn’t Mister James Dennis Ryan. Not sure if you remember me, Detective Inspector Paddy Suel, sir. Long time no see.”
“Oh, umm, good—good morning, Detective,” Ryan said, then sort of rubbed his face and glanced nervously over at Dillon.
“Oh, forgive me, sir. Where are my manners? Allow me to present United States Marshal Jack Dillon. Sorry to disturb you at this early hour. Mind if we come in?” Suel said, then proceeded to more or less barge into the front entryway, elbowing Ryan off to the side.
“Believe me, Inspector, I don’t have any idea what went on out there. The siren and then all the flashing lights woke me early this morning. Tragic. It looks as if the taxi ran into my wall. Did you notice any damage? Good Lord, I hope the gate isn’t banged up. I just had it refinished last spring. I suppose I’ll have to pay out of my own pocket, once again, to get that . . . .”
“Ahh, yes, the gate. Your compassion is heartbreaking. Why don’t you join us in the sitting room, Jimmy. I’ll take a tea, no milk. Feel free to pour yourself another whiskey. Dillon?” Suel said, then proceeded to walk past Ryan and into the room where Ryan had been standing and watching them for the past couple of hours.
“Tea for me would be just fine,” Dillon said, and followed Suel.
They could hear the murmur of an animated conversation coming from the kitchen while they sat in two wingback chairs, taking in the thick oriental rug and the impressionist painting hanging above the fireplace. Suel held his hand up to the side of his head, indicating Ryan was on the phone, then nodded at the security camera positioned in the corner of the ceiling. After a couple of minutes the one-sided conversation coming from the kitchen subsided and Ryan hurried back into the room carrying two steaming mugs of tea. He set them on the glass-topped coffee table, then stepped back and flashed a nervous smile.
“Here you are, gentlemen, just like you ordered, no milk,” Ryan said, then nervously rubbed his hands together.
“Maybe pour yourself a wee dram, Jimmy. Helps to calm the nerves. Then, as you might well imagine, we’ve just a question or two,” Suel said, and flashed a quick smile.
Ryan nodded, hurried over to the far wall and an antique buffet with burled wood panels and a white marble top. He grabbed a fresh crystal glass and poured a whiskey from a cut glass decanter, filling the glass a little more than halfway.
“Please, Jimmy, be a good lad, take the weight off your feet and join us,” Suel said, indicating the couch with his hand.
Ryan nervously sat down, took a healthy sip from his glass and proceeded to stare at the floor.
“So, Jimmy, you were going to tell us about your guests,” Suel said.
“Guests?” Ryan said, then looked over his shoulder and out the front window.
“Jimmy, please, we really don’t have time to play games. And, by the way, you’re in no trouble here. Well, unless you’ve neglected to pay your TV license,” Suel said, and laughed. “Now, your American friend out front, Mister Joey Touhy.”
“Oh, is that who was in the taxi? I’d no idea. I don’t really know him. Is he all right?”
“But he and Miss Greco were staying with you, correct?”
“Umm, actually, I’m not sure I should be talking to you, Inspector. See, I was doing a favor for a friend and he just asked me, actually told me, he had an American acquaintance coming over just to see the sights here in Dublin. You know, the Spire, Phoenix Park, O’Connell Street, Stephen’s Green, the Royal—”
“Jimmy, I really don’t want to take you down to one of our interrogation rooms and question you. That’s so uncomfortable, for both of us. But, if that’s the way the likes of you want to play this, well . . . .”
At the sound of a car screeching to a stop out on the street, Dillon looked out the window. Two men in suits climbed out. The larger of the two pulled the “GARDA NO ENTRY” tape apart and they hurried up the driveway. The older man had a bald head, pink with white fringe, and a mustache. His face seemed to grow a bit redder with every step he took, hurrying toward the front door. He carried a black leather briefcase.
The other man, the one who broke the tape, was stocky, with a thick neck wedged in an open-collar shirt. His arms that looked like a pair of stuffed sausages in his dark suit coat and they hung out from his side, suggesting he was carrying two large, invisible barrels. Neither man appeared too happy. A moment later the doorbell rang.
“Oh, I’d better get that,” Ryan said, and quickly jumped off the couch.
“Shit,” Suel said,
and kicked the leg of the coffee table as Ryan fled the room.
A moment later the red-faced, bald man hurried into the room. “Good morning, gentlemen. Glad I caught you before you were going to leave. Mister Ryan has no further comment to make at this time. All future conversations can be directed to me, or my firm. Thank you for your time.”
His speech was precise and Dillon had the sense this maybe wasn’t the first time he’d delivered that particular message. He set his briefcase on the buffet, opened it, took out two business cards and handed them to Dillon and Suel.
“Just asking a few general questions,” Suel said.
Baldy flashed a quick smile, exposing perfectly whitened teeth. “I know exactly what you were doing, and any further discussion can be directed to me, Tully McCabe. You’ve my number on the card you’re holding, please feel free to call and schedule an appointment. I’ll do my best to try and accommodate,” he said, then followed with a look suggesting it would likely be a cold day in hell before their appointment was scheduled.
“Thanks for this,” Suel said, waving the card. “I’m sure we’ll be in touch.”
“I look forward to it. Enjoy your day, gentlemen. Oh, and my kindest regards to your boss,” Tully McCabe called as Dillon and Suel walked out of the room.
The muscular guy had remained out in the entryway, standing at the door. He was even larger close up and he held the front door open for them as they approached.
“Gee, thanks,” Suel said, in a tone that suggested he meant anything but.
The guy didn’t react, but just closed the door behind them. Two steps later they heard the snap of the lock clicking into place. Dillon glanced back into the sitting room window as they walked down the driveway. Jimmy Ryan appeared to be attempting to explain things to Mr. Tully McCabe, and failing miserably.
“Shit. That wingey bollocks Tully McCabe, pure shite,” Suel said.
“Why do I know that guy, or at least his name?”
“Tully McCabe?” Suel said, as they headed down the driveway. “You were best pals with his only client, Eamon Boyle.”
“Eamon Boyle? The guy whose brother was killed in that cash-in transit van robbery at that small airport?”
“Yeah. Weston Airport. One and the same. Didn’t he send you a case of whiskey or something after that?” Suel said.
“Actually, it was a mirror and a bottle of wine. The mirror was just like the one that was smashed in the room at the Sherbourne Hotel where they grabbed Eddie Fleming, the guy who we think robbed the van.”
“An American, right?”
“Fleming? Yeah, we were on him, it’s just that Boyle and his gang got there first and grabbed him. Beat us by about ten minutes. We found Fleming and a woman, or what was left of them, locked in the trunk of a car. Still don’t know if Boyle kept that two point five million or if he returned it to his customer, whoever that was. Probably never will know. God, so that means Joey Touhy had to be working something with Boyle. That does not sound good.”
To be continued…
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The Office
Mike Faricy
Prologue
I’d stopped in for just one at The Spot with my attorney and officemate, Louie Laufen. That was two hours ago.
“God, I can’t believe it,” Louie said. He was off his stool, patting down his trouser pockets and his wrinkled pinstriped suit coat. “I thought for sure I put my wallet in my pocket before we came over.”
Mike the bartender shot me a look. We were both just as sure he purposely left it in his desk drawer. It seemed to be almost second nature.
“I suppose I could run over and grab it, if I can find it,” Louie said, giving me the look as he spoke.
“Relax, I’ll get it. Go on, you better get out of here if you’re going to make that meeting. You can catch me next time.”
“You sure, man?”
Like I had an option. “Yeah, I’ll get it, no sweat. Hey, Mike,” I said to the bartender. “As long as I’m buying, maybe just one more beer, then cut me off so I get home in one piece.”
“See you tomorrow, dude, and thanks,” Louie said. “Hey, I’ve got a court appearance first thing so I won’t be in until ten, maybe eleven if things go my way.”
“Safe drive home,” I said, grabbing the fresh beer Mike slid across the bar.
As Louie walked out the door, an attractive looking woman stepped in. She was dressed in white shorts that looked like they had been spray painted on and a halter top that looked a size or two, too small. Her dark hair was pulled back in a pony tail.
“Dev Haskell?” she said looking at Mike and me. We were the only two people in the bar. It was league play night for The Spot softball team and the regulars wouldn’t be here until sometime close to 9:00.
“Yeah, that’s me,” I said, and took a sip. It looked like my luck was beginning to change.
“Hi, Mr. Haskell. A friend said I should find you, but well, it’s kind of a personal matter. Could I maybe talk to you outside?”
“Mike won’t listen in, and even if he did he wouldn’t remember,” I said.
“It’s, ahhh, of a very personal nature. You might find it enjoyable,” she said and sort of looked embarrassed, as she fiddled with her thumbs and index fingers.
I was off the stool in a second and standing next to her at the door. She had bright blue eyes that seemed to sparkle, pearly white teeth and a gorgeous complexion. The rest of her wasn’t all that bad either.
She looked me up and down then said, “Mmm-hmm, my friend wasn’t lying. Come on outside, honey, and lets talk.”
I quickly followed her outside. She walked over to a black Mercedes, an AMG G-63. The windows were tinted so dark I couldn’t see inside. “Here this will give us some privacy,” she said.
My immediate thought was things were really going my way until the rear window was suddenly lowered and Tubby Gustafson stuck his red nose, the size of a baked potato, out the window. As he did so the driver’s door swung open and Fat Freddy Zimmerman hurried around the front of the car waving a twenty-dollar bill.
“Here you go, Cindy, thanks,” he said, and handed the twenty to the woman.
She shoved the bill into her halter top and said, “Not a problem, happy to help.” She didn’t take the time to give me as much as a second look and just walked away.
“Get in,” Tubby said to me, then raised his window.
As Fat Freddy led me around to the driver’s side, I said, “Hey, what’s this about?”
“Come on, man. You should know better than to ask that, just get in,” he said, and opened the rear door.
I climbed into the backseat next to Tubby. Fat Freddy slid behind the wheel and put the car in gear.
“Hey, wait, guys, not so fast. I got a tab going in there and a fresh beer on the bar.”
“Amazing. Not.” Tubby said. “And by the way, you’re already trying my patience here. Now, buckle up, Haskell, and please, don’t touch anything.”
“But . . .” The look from Tubby pretty much put a stop to any questions I may have felt like asking.
Chapter One
Fat Freddy pulled into a secluded scenic parking area overlooking the Mississippi river. The parking area was surrounded by a three-foot-high limestone wall and then a thick hedge maybe another two feet higher directly behind the limestone wall. I knew from experience years back that the place was popular after dark with the high school crowd. Freddy parked at the far end, jumped out and ran around the car to open Tubby’s door.
�
�Pleasure me with your attention, Haskell,” Tubby said, and slowly oozed out of the backseat.
I figured that meant I should join him and I opened the door then walked around to the rear of car. At the moment, we were the only vehicle in the parking area. A black SUV, I think a Cadillac Escalade, pulled across the entrance, effectively blocking anyone’s attempt to enter. Not that anyone was going to try to drive in with the two muscle bound thugs sitting in the front seat.
“Let’s enjoy the view, Haskell,” Tubby said, and walked toward the bluff. A solid rock wall dropped straight down for maybe thirty feet with a handful of large boulders scattered around the bottom. As a sixteen-year-old, I’d had an unfortunate encounter with root beer flavored schnapps one night in this very spot. I’d never quite recovered, avoiding any and all contact with the stuff for two decades.
“Lovely view, isn’t it?” Tubby said. From this distance the river appeared to flow gently around the bend and then on through the downtown area. “Come over here, Haskell, don’t tell me you’re afraid of heights.”
“No sir, not at all, I just don’t like to tempt fate.”
Tubby nodded like this made sense. “Here’s the thing, Haskell. Against my better judgement, I’m going to send some business your way. No, no, no. No need to thank me. It’s the least I can do. In the past you’ve never seemed to fail to disappoint, but foolish me, I’m going to give you yet another opportunity.”
“What kind of business are we talking here?”
“A distant acquaintance of mine, a gentleman by the name of Ozzie Frick, will be contacting you tomorrow. Let me thank you in advance for helping him.”
“What does he want?”
“That’s one of the many reasons you remain so unsuccessful, Haskell. You ask too many questions. You just take care of him and things will work out.”
“But I don’t even know what—”
“Haskell, take a look at this,” Tubby said, and stepped right up next to the edge of the cliff. There was a small rock close to the edge, Tubby kicked it up into the air and we both focused on it as it sailed off the cliff, then arched downward and bounced off one of the boulders below. “It’s such a long way down, and then there’s all those boulders, not at all what I’d call comforting. Now, any questions? Good,” he answered for me. “Maybe stay here and study the view until it begins to resonate somewhere in that thick skull of yours. I’ll expect a full report once you meet with Ozzie. Thank you,” he said, then proceeded to walk back to his car.
