A reason to kill, p.25
A Reason To Kill, page 25
“Mr. Devlin your clients were present when a police officer was killed.”
“Drop that, Andrea, not one of them so much as witnessed it. The boys were already on their way in. Sullivan had Deirdre locked in a police car and Amy was unconscious. All duly sworn too.” He shoved the statements at her as if they made a difference. “By the police themselves. There was no criminal act committed by any of my clients.”
Like Devlin, the other two men were on their feet now and showing signs of the aggravation they felt. They wanted to be on the same page; Andrea didn’t so much as grin, as she thought, This Bitch is wrinkling the paper.
She said, “The O’Neill girl attacked a female officer.”
“You don’t want to press that? You wouldn’t care for me to release the pictures of a sixteen-year-old kid in the condition Deirdre O’Neill was when I got here. I have plenty of witness who will swear she wasn’t in that condition when she arrived. The arresting officer has attested to that fact. Come at me with something stronger, Andrea, or damn it drop this.”
“Cool down, Tom,” Andrea said. “You know I’m always on the side of the children. My concern is these teens need supervision their obviously not getting at home. They should be held in protective custody until an investigation into their home situations can be conducted.”
~~~
Devlin glanced at the other two men. From their expressions he concluded this argument had been taking place before he entered this office. While the men understood only too well the ramifications, personally as well as legally, that could come from this, Andrea just didn’t care. It wasn’t the circumstances involved it was who these kids were. She saw a chance to make their parents squirm and savored the idea.
“Mark,” he warned the DA. “If one whiff of this hits the papers. If the name of one underage youngster is hinted at, I’m going to file enough motions against the city, the police, and Child protective services to wallpaper city hall.”
“Hold up, Tom.” Mark Storm interrupted. “No one here, especially Miss Nelson.” His intense stare shifted to Andrea. “Is interested in infringing on the legal rights of your clients. Isn’t that correct, Andrea?” When she only shrugged, he continued. “The youngsters will be released into their guardians’ custody and the names in the records expunged. Phil?”
“Naturally,” Chief Brady answered, then asked, “You and Amy’s parents will agree to allow our investigators to talk to the girl. To see if she can recognize photos of the men who attacked Officer Reilly and threw him from the truck?”
“I’m sure there will be no objection to that. But I wouldn’t lie to you. The girl may not be too helpful. Amy sort of views those young fellows as her Robin Hoods.”
Chapter 45
New York, 1983
Several times in the past hour Jason Connors, examined his battle scars. His light wintertime complexion allowed them to show up vividly—interesting purple bruises just beginning to yellow around the edges. He finished his beer, squashed the aluminum can, and groaned. “Someone should tell those bastards, white man, he bruise easy.”
“Man?” Amy O’Neill hid a giggle behind a quickly slapped palm.
“This will ease the pain.” Brian Fitzgerald tossed a joint at his cousin.
Jason lit up, drew deeply, and allowed the smoke to fill and rest in his lungs. During this winter, Brian’s body had absorbed the final remnants of ‘baby fat’ and his skin was pulling tight over maturing muscles. Teetering at five eleven, the boy hadn’t reached his full height yet and was an inch shorter than Jason. His father was the son of Raymond Connors’ sister.
Like his dad, Brian inherited his appearance from the Fitzgeralds. The chestnut hair, umber eyes and ruddy complexion, was in sharp contrast to the Conners’ cool blondness.
Jason repeated the action twice before he offered the weed to Amy, who waved it off with the complaint, “One brews the limit of my high. Gotta be home by four. With my ass in the bucket I come in glowing I’ll be singing alleluia with the saints.”
The O’Neill girls’ relationship to the Connors’ was a very thin tread. While Jason’s mother referred to their fathers as cousins, any blood connection was amply diluted generations ago. Catherine Anderson Connors could have boasted of being a tenth generation American, if the idea became necessary.
But of course it wasn’t proper anymore, now one bragged about their ‘roots’ and if you could afford the indulgence, you maintained contact with your foreign family members no matter how distant. With a father-in-law born in County Mayo, Ireland then raised in London, England with financial investments in both countries, Jason’s Mother could fully pander to her desire to be a bit foreign.
~~~
Pulling herself over the side of the indoor pool, Deirdre O’Neill eyed her cohorts. The disgust she felt for their wimpy behavior was still obvious in her expression. She was certain, when faced with the law; her Irish friends would never conduct themselves like this squealing bunch. Still, she didn’t say what she felt, she said, “Your old man won’t be home that early.”
Amy let out an exaggerated groan. “Remember the old lady? The rest of us aren’t lucky like you cuz.”
“Lucky, right, that’s me.” Deirdre stretched her long slender legs aware of the young male eyes that followed her actions. She deliberately squirmed about before she yelped, “Lucky me! Walk right into a fist first thing. Son of a bitch didn’t let me explain—just wham!” She emphasized with a mock blow at her own chin.
“Come on Dee.” Brian grinned. “He gave you a clip in the mouth but it wasn’t with a fist. The way your mouth was running off, and after what those cops did to Jas, I was damn glad to see your dad with Tom Devlin.
“Me too.” Amy giggled. “Uncle Mike sure set them heroes on their tails. If Tom hadn’t been there he would have punched somebody.”
Yanking off a bathing cap Deirdre shook out the long bright hair letting it swirl about her shoulders. She bent a knee observing the beads of water rolling down her inner thigh. In the heated room she didn’t bother to dry off. A smirk split her lips. “It’s weird, real weird how easy we got off.”
Amy tossed blonde curls, squinted, and wrapped her arms tightly around her chest as she shivered. “I had visions of jail cells, armed guards, and chains.”
“Ass! Were you going to sit there forever?” Deirdre had now taken to squashing the beads of aqua water against her creamy flesh.
Amy turned a pleading voice on the boys. “Now what were her exact words? Amy, whatever happens don’t move.”
“You did say that Dee.” Brian seconded.
Deirdre, curling Indian fashion, reached over and extracted the joint from Jason’s numb fingers. “Still, she’s stupid.” She decided in reference to Amy. “I never guessed they’d let us finish the skit.” Slowly she sucked a mouth full of smoke through sharp white teeth then let it drift out slowly, so they wouldn’t guess she didn’t inhale. The one time she’d tried, she nearly puked, so she didn’t chance it again. “The script was insulting but so what? We’re supposed to have freedom of speech. And those people watching us. The cops just began beating on everyone; shooting—”
“Come off it Dee,” Brian interrupted. “What did you expect them to do? Stand there and get dissected alive?” Laughing now the boy ordered, “Amy, come on infant, wiggle on over here. Show me your wounds, I’ll play doctor.”
Quick to accept, Amy wiggled over on her bottom and snuggled her head against the bare chest of the youth. He nipped playfully at her tiny nose.
“That Sullivan’s an all right guy.” Jason said as he reclaimed the roach.
“He’s okay for a cop.” Suddenly Deirdre’s depressed mood vanished. “I thought that black judge was neat. He was sooo little, I pictured those big words he kept spouting were sooo long they would curl around his skinny neck and hang him.” The idea brought loud laughter to the group of teens.
Then Brian said, “Sullivan, was more than okay. You see the way he talked. He told it like it was. He wasn’t scared of that half pint judge nor that poker face female from Jewvie.”
“She’s a real bitch!” Deirdre said.
Amy put in, “My dad said with a cop being killed we were damn lucky Sullivan came to bat for us. Wonder why he did?”
“Don’t give him too much credit.” Deirdre sneered. “Tom said that news story by Megan helped a lot…did you notice how none of our names were mentioned; but everybody knows who we are.” Her voice halted as Amy rolled quickly away from Brian. She spun towards the entrance that now captured the others’ attention.
Easily filling one half of the sliding doorway, Michael O’Neill sniffed the air. “This a pot party?”
Jason shoved the remainder of the joint into the waistband of his trunks. “Just tobacco.” Deirdre lied as she held up a half dead pack of Camels.”
“Buy filters!”
Brian lunged to his feet. “Robbing yours is cheaper. The girls don’t smoke much and none of us inhale.” he added, “We snitched a few beers.”
O’Neill moved in to stand over Jason. “Obviously.” He nudged the youth in the butt with the toe of his shoe. “What did you get into? The paint thinner?”
Amy whimpered, “Uncle Mike, it’s a bitch. There’s nothing to do.” Raising her knees to her chest she rested her chin on them and finished her tale. “We’re so ostracized! We’d be better off if they locked us up.”
~~~
The big man, glancing down at his pathetic niece, suddenly burst out laughing. He was only too aware of the overworked stereo blasting from four hidden speakers into the large airy space, with its kidney-shaped pool glistening from warm blue water; the endless array of expensive games, the overstocked bar and so much more. O’Neill’s mirth changed to a near growl. “Poor mistreated urchins.” He lifted Amy so her feet kicked at air. Then he threatened, “I should break your asses.”
Lacking fear of her giant relative, Amy continued to complain even as he set her on her feet. “You don’t know how bad it is. We’re isolated. None of our friends can come near us.”
Deirdre parked her bottom against her heels and kept her mouth shut.
“You can’t blame their folks. But it will pass, a week, two, you’ll be big shots again. Trouble is you might get more fancy ideas.” O’Neill’s angry eyes roamed over the four culprits as he warned “Don’t! Got you out of this mess. Next time you might not be so lucky.” His large hands formed fists at his sides. “Even if you are, you’ll still have me to contend with.” Again he used his toe to nudge Jason. “Bri,” He said in disgust, “dump this idiot in a cold shower. Sober him up. I’m taking you all to the club for dinner.”
Amy sniffled. “I have to be home by four.”
“I’ll tend to your mother. Not doing anybody any good pretending you brats don’t exist. The less ta do, the quicker it will be forgotten.” Unexpectedly he reached down and hauled Jason up by the trunks. Brian moved quickly to aid his cousin and the girls, babbling in relief, ran for the house door.
“I’ll help him,” Brian yelped too late. O’Neill had slapped Jason’s clutching hand away and yanked the boy’s waistband.
Bending, the man retrieved the mutilated roach. His fingers dug into Jason’s upper arm as he snarled. “Next time I catch you with this shit in my house I’ll shove it up your ass!”
“It was mine,” Brian quickly admitted. “I brought it in. Some kid gave it to me and we were curious to try it. We won’t do it again.”
“Like to believe that. Get his butt moving.” He gave Jason a shove that landed him against Brian. “Have to call your parents.” Then he promised, “Don’t worry, you give them enough grief, I’m not going to tell them about this.”
Chapter 46
London, England 1983
Night spreads quickly over England, reminding one that what is seen by the naked eye to be a huge sprawling country is in fact only a small island on the giant globe of the Earth. Its ever-changing seasons discarding winter to be followed by a rainy spring while Richard Quinn, long forgotten in an unmarked grave in Canada, walked the streets of the land of his birth in the body of Rory Hanlon.
Hanlon watched as the old man lit the antique gas stove; he had given up offering to buy an electric one. While he couldn’t bring himself to think of the ancient rebel as a father, he has developed a strong fondness for Jock Quinn. When the arthritic fingers advertised difficulty in steadying the kettle under the tap, he offered, “Let me get that, Jock, the fire’s fading and I’m too young to play with matches.”
Grumbling aloud over the worthlessness of the younger male, Jock Quinn set the kettle in the sink and shuffled back to the stove where the fire still roared. When the filled kettle was brought to him, he made no comment about the fire only said, “Don’t ya go trustin’ ‘em Jews too far?”
Hanlon, alas Richard Quinn, stifled a laugh, shrugged, and said, “They’re not Jews. Lord, man, how long they been fighting the Jews?”
“Same thing. Stack ‘em up end ta end couldn’t tell one from another no how.”
Which caused Hanlon to smirk. “Bare-assed, with their mouths closed, suppose you could pick me out a Limy from a parcel of Irish?”
“Same thing,” was admitted then followed by a dry coarse laugh. “ ‘cept if their eyes be open ain’t no humor in an Englishman’s eyes.” Shuffling to the cupboard Jock toted back the teacups one at a time. While the old man was occupied, Hanlon slipped an extra measure of dry tea into the strainer. His back still turned he offered with a concealed smile. “You want to hang in for the meet? See they don’t cheat me out of my back teeth.” Turning he caught the rare grin creasing Jock’s lips.
“Sure, but they’d get me false ones.” Quickly the humor faded. “Ain’t never been one for the bargainin’ table. Just watch yourself, lad.” Jock buttered the bread before laying it on the plates. He always buttered the bread. He told Hanlon his wife started him doing it years ago because of too little money and five hungry sons.
Once this flat over the old market had vibrated with noise. Now Jock kept the windows shut to block out the noise from the houses around and loudly cursed the small wretches who made it. Hanlon quickly learned to understand the intolerance of the old man. He discovered it wasn’t the children Jock hated it was the memories they brought back.
Often the old man complained. “Ain’t right for a bloke ta live as long as me an’ leave nobody after. Damn your lazy hide, lad, at least I gave it me best. You’re not of a mind to even try.” He accused now on an average of once a week. “Your daddy thought like ya, you’d not be here now.”
Since life in general wasn’t something Hanlon was overly taken with, he didn’t figure his pa did all that grand by him. He retained only two memories of his father. In the first he remembered a big man; though he’s aware that wasn’t true. Yet, at a mere seven, wetting your trousers in terror as you watched your pa kicked and punched as he came stumbling down the stairs, then tripped up so he fell to his knees only to regain his feet and spit in the constable’s face—
Hanlon remembered a big man. He also remembered himself as that small tike who knelt in the dirt as the police lorry drove away. Knelt there sniffling while fingering what the law left him of his pa—warm wet blood.
The other memory was dominated by a simple picture of a pockmarked face so shrunken it appeared devoid of flesh. The black hair had a startling effect against the white silk pillow of the coffin. Rory had clutched his mother’s hand while from her other side, his older brother made weird faces at him. He knew Packy was trying to get him to laugh—trying to get him punished.
“Innocent as a wean.” Their ma had sobbed loudly. “You remember this my boys, the law bloody well murdered your pa.”
Hanlon put the stored memories away now as the kettle set to whistling. He poured their tea while Jock measured out the sugar. “I’ll watch my back,” he said.
But Jock Quinn only snorted. “Ain’t your hide concerns me. Can’t see ‘em a cheatin’ us. Nonsense, bloody nonsense, is what it is.”
“Times change, Jock. I’ve a much better liking for a gun in my mitt and a bullet in the other fellow. This playing games grates on a man. But if it works so much the better.”
“Won’t work, no how. Do the job right. Turn the whole dang island into a blooming grave yard.”
“Clean the Brits up in a hurry. Take a whole lot of Irish with them—including you.”
“No great loss, these sell-out Irish or me.” The old man slurped loudly at his tea. “Lived a sight too long already. Kept them hell fires waiting. Seein’ how I got no belief should be stone cold by now. Be worth findin’ out if I took the ‘ole of England with me.” He found a reason for a raspy chuckle. “Hell would be one damn sight. Fill ‘er right up.” He picked several crumbs from his plate depositing them in his mouth.
“Must be a few the Lord’s wanting.”
Jock shook a thinning white mane as he corrected. “Lord! God! Nonsense! Way I see it, lad, them Jews built heaven then sold it to the wretched Christian. Them selling us their bloody religion was the biggest farce they ever played on us.”
“You’re a bigot, man, a real blooming bigot.”
“Ain’t no such thing.” Jock hunted more crumbs. “Knew me some fine Jews and Englishmen, time or two. More a man hates more exceptions he finds.” Shoving away from the table, he paused to announce. “Best I turn in ‘fore your friends get here. Might say somethin’ they’d take offense at; seein’ as how they’re totin’ another religion.” He snorted and shuffled off to the rear of the flat.
Hanlon was aware the old man wasn’t bound for sleep. Jock, he knew, would wait with his door ajar; a rifle, as old as himself, propped between his knees listening until the visitors left.
Hanlon cleared away the remnants of their tea and set out a bottle of Powers. He sat silently for the remaining time as he prepared so for next few hours he could shed the identity of Richard Quinn.
