A reason to kill, p.39
A Reason To Kill, page 39
“You won’t find anything incriminating,” a constable remarked. “Your lads gave them a fine going over. Only things beside personal stuff were a recorder and some empty cassettes, an electronic journal of sorts with an address book. Couldn’t have been important or unlikely The O’Donnell would be on this side of the border as yet.”
“A smart lad, like Seamus,” Inspector Kerry said, “you’d never catch with anything incriminating. Had a matron give the girl’s things a second shot after your people were finished. Sure, but it’s not a honeymoon trousseau.” He grinned. “Packed in a hurry, nothing newly purchased like a bride would do.”
“Good brands,” Mitchell remarked examining a faded Pendleton label. “But you’re right. It has all been laundered a number of times. A working girl’s outfits.” He held up what appeared at first glance to be a small boy’s pajama. “Just the garb for the wedding night?” He smiled as he pictured the tiny woman who wore boy’s pajamas in his mind.
And Kerry said, “Not likely the bed clothes The O’Donnell’s bride be wearing less I’ve heard wrong about the lad.”
“You haven’t.” Mitchell assured. “I followed O’Donnell around New York and it wasn’t the paper he took home at night. Can’t figure a girl like Megan mixed up with him? Shocked hell out of me when I met her. It is understandable why, as a reporter, she followed him off that plane but the rest doesn’t stack up. No big bucks for one thing. He likes women with money. And her editor swears she’s no hot blooded patriot.”
And the door swung inward. A generous smile filled the face of the young policeman who stuck his head in to inform, “She’s here. It’s a good thing you warned us or sure, it’s a hospital she’d be headed for.”
Mitchell gave a short laugh. “She still looks that good?”
Kerry said, “You’d best stay put. It isn’t likely the lass will do much confiding with a representative of the Crown in attendance.” He switched on a receiver and slid back a panel in time to catch a, “Miss O’Donnell. It is Miss?” from the adjoining room.
Megan glared but didn’t deny the Sergeant’s remark. “Now, lass,” his smooth voice went on, “according to our most recent information you have been an O’Donnell since birth. How is it you suddenly became an instant bride with the same last name?”
“I didn’t. The men who grabbed me when I fled the plane took it that I was Seamus’ wife. At the time it seemed in my best interest to let them go on believing it.”
“I see. But you kept up the charade after they released you? You used it to gain support from the American Embassy? To gain entrance to the hospital—”
“I did!” Megan interrupted. “And I’d do it again to help someone I happen to know. Do you even realize what it’s like over there? I’d have lied to the Pope!” And suddenly she worried, had that guy from the embassy tricked her into believing her luggage and car were here and there were no charges against her?
The door swung open. “Inspector Kerry, Special Forces, Miss O’Donnell,” the sergeant introduced. And Megan had to go through the whole sad tale again, while he listened patiently with only a few short questions intended to keep her talking. They offered her a cigarette when Chief Constable Johnson made his appearance and she was asked to start yet again. Tea followed Inspector Connelly’s intrusion.
When still another fresh face appeared, Megan demanded, in a grown husky voice. “Call the American Embassy. I want a lawyer—in fact a dozen before I say another word.”
“Why?” was a general reply.
An astonished, “Sure, lass, you’re not being charged with anything?” came from Inspector Connelly.
“We are only attempting to sort this mess out for your sake,” Chief Constable Johnson assured.
Megan discovered breath enough to squeal, “My sake? Do me a favor then; let me out of this chair.”
This brought a battery of instant concern, “You’re not ill? Injured? Can we get you a doctor?”
“Please,” was fast becoming a weak whimper. “Charge me or let me leave?”
“Charge you?” Again the combined surprise. “Why lass,” Kerry offered, “You can leave any time you’ve a mind too. The gentleman from the embassy only left you here by your request.”
Suddenly she thought , had the ambulance turned back? and gagged, “Seamus?”
Inspector Reilly smiled. “Last we knew O’Donnell was resting comfortably at his home in Bray. It was a bit of an ordeal for the lad. But you see, Megan, the unfortunate incident at the plane left Seamus unable to communicate properly, and the RUC was holding him on the mistaken belief he passed something of value to you. If you’d been able to come forth immediately with the truth, they would have realized much sooner they had the wrong man. And they would have been given an opportunity to apprehend the real criminal.”
Megan said, “The northern police weren’t holding Seamus. It was the British Army.”
The man corrected, “He was in police custody. If only you both had stayed on that plane none of this would have happened.”
Megan shivered with guilt as she realized, if she had stayed on that plane several men might not be dead. Still she couldn’t bring herself to give up those who apparently tried to rescue her and Seamus—even if the whole charade had occurred because of mistaken identity.
Escorted to the Royal Dublin, with the assurance her rental car would be delivered, Megan O’Donnell and her battered suitcase approached the desk. She received her key, and ignored the unpleasant look of the porter who hefted her abused bag. The way she looked, she should have tipped him before he was forced to touch her belongings.
She jumped when she felt the hand on her arm. “What are you doing here?” She didn’t attempt to pull away as Dan Mitchell turned her towards the lounge only expanded on her question, “Aren’t you on the wrong side of the border?”
“Drove over. Curious to see how you were fairing?” He grinned and offered, “A drink might help?”
“Oh, I’m terrific.” She groaned. “When I move every muscle complains. So, think I’ll settle for a hot bath.”
Mitchell said, “You’ve only yourself to blame; running with those lads.”
“Running! You English do put things mildly.”
“You need some sleep. Give you a better perspective. What say? We discuss this whole nasty business over dinner—say seven?”
“No guns, whips, or drugs?”
Mitchell grinned down into her angry pout. “If you promise no film or tapes—your weapons can be as diabolical as mine.”
She found a touch of laughter. “You got it. A truce not even a pencil.”
~~~
Megan O’Donnell entered that pleasant second floor room with its homey atmosphere and slightly washed out bedspread—where an ocean breeze blew gently through the open windows. Suddenly reality came crashing down. The hot Gaelic blood of her ancestors cooled and left her a trembling mess of law-respecting Yankee nerves. She threw herself across the bed. She pounded the pillow in disgust and cried. When her door flew open, Megan rolled over ready to defend herself as her exhausted brain cursed her stupidity in forgetting to slide the bolt.
“Howdy Scribe.”
“Dede!” She was shaking and tried to hide the fact by wrapping her arms around bent knees. “No one teach you to knock?”
“So lock your door.” The teenager plunked her butt on the bed. “Jesus, what are you so uptight about. Gardaí couldn’t have been that bad?”
And the older female, settling back against the pillows, said in a nasty tone, “You could say, they were most considerate. Dede, how long did you know that the law wasn’t after me?”
Swinging off the bed, Deirdre made for the dresser. Uncorking the bottle of White Label on the dresser, she complained, “You could’ve ordered Irish whiskey. Want a drink?”
“It was in the room…leave that alone kid and answer me?”
“Screw it!” Deirdre gulped some scotch. “You didn’t get arrested! Big deal! It was the film that saved your butt. You don’t think they’d admit it. You saw what they did to Seamus? Lay ya odds if the Army got their mitts on you, you’d look worse than you do. Come on wash your face. We’ve got some driving to do.”
“Not tonight kid, go play your games alone.”
“Wish I could.” A pout settled on the attractive young features as Deirdre did an exaggerated shuffle and exclaimed, “Can you believe? With a willing lass like me at hand he’s looking for his little Megan.”
“Seamus?” Megan took a guess. “How is he?”
“Sore.” The teenager giggled. “Maybe in the wrong places but he’ll survive ta screw a multitude more.”
“Dede!”
“What’s your problem? He’s a real stud. You didn’t know that?”
“No, and do you?”
“Hold on, love, I haven’t laid him.”
“You’re too much kid. Do me a favor and get lost.”
“I told you, Seamus wants to see you. Davy had me drive into Dublin just to drive you to Bray.”
“Why?”
“Child, you are the dumbest. Maybe he wants to say thank you?” Was followed by a nasty giggle.
Ignoring the insinuation Megan remarked, “He was so bad off…”
“Hell, Davy said he’s only banged up.”
“Dede, I saw him.”
“He was drugged. And sure, just after being worked over, nobody looks too healthy. But he’s got a tough hide.”
A quick glance in the mirror decided Megan. “I can’t go now.”
“We have to leave shortly. My papa’s due home tonight and I have to be there. Besides,” Deirdre said. “The traffic is only heavy till six. We’re in the South but you never know?”
“What are you spieling now?”
“Nothing, you got maybe twenty minutes to make yourself beautiful.” She said and shook her head like it was an impossible task.
Heading for the bathroom Megan warned, “Don’t drink anymore.”
The teenager grunted under her breath, but only sipped her drink.
Megan came out of the shower serenaded by Deirdre’s personal rendition of Irish-English history coming from the bedroom.
Lizzy, Lizzy, old and worn, saw O’Donnell, young and warm
Locked him in her private cell, tried her best but he laughed like hell.
Megan O’Donnell smiled into the mirror at the words and wondered what Elizabeth The First of England would have thought of being called Lizzy—for that matter she couldn’t picture the present one being thrilled. A touch of color on her cheeks, some lipstick, and instantly she noticed the result; she looked much better.
Deirdre had gone on to a second verse.
O’Neill’s hair was bright as gold, Old Lizzy longed for his body to hold
Young Irish Earl spurned the English Whore, Old Lizzy screeched, ‘To war! To war!’
Megan was coming from the bathroom and the singsong died as the songster picked a pale-melon-plaid on tan silk blouse with matching solid tan slacks from Megan’s supply of clothing. “Wear theses, they’ll look the best.”
“You still dressing me?” Megan yanked the outfit from the girl’s grasp. After a quick scan of the meager wardrobe that Deirdre rescued from the single suitcase to lay across the bed, she conceded the decision.
~~~
They came down the stairs into the lobby whispering like two schoolgirls.
Unseen, Dan Mitchell stood in the shadow of the stairwell and watched. He had noticed Deirdre O’Neill’s earlier entrance but had not linked the two. Guess I eat alone, he thought as he glanced at his watch and stepping outside, saw the little green Ford pull away from the curb. Although the car was up to date, it seemed strange, to him, that the wealthy youngster chose such an insignificant vehicle.
He signaled to the driver of a surveillance car with a wave. The motor was already idling, so apparently they had spotted O’Donnell. Fairly certain the young ladies were not headed to immediately bomb or burn anything on the island, he figured he’d let the Irish Special Forces tail them. He was hungry, tried, and more than disgusted, all he’d gained from his trip to New York was exhaustion.
He had to admit Seamus O’Donnell had kept things interesting. He’d introduced Mitchell’s group to expensive restaurants and hotels. Unlike his shadows, the son-of-bitch had much more attractive company and his evenings didn’t end at the completion of dinner.
O’Donnell’s masculine cronies had easily recognized faces. They showed up regularly in “Who’s, who” in the New York News political pages. The women however were a mystery. Hampered by time and orders he hadn’t felt that learning their identity was a priority—now he knew that was a mistake.
Chapter 72
Southern Ireland, 1984
The knob slipped in Megan’s sweaty palm. Her face ached from a nervous smile as she obeyed the responded, “Come on in,” to her rap.
“Megan.” Seamus grinned up from the king size bed. “Sure, but for a mite you’ve a man’s spunk. Sit yourself.” He patted the side of the bed. “Let’s get a look at you.”
“You’re recovering?” She attempted to sound casual. “Ready to give the English another shot?” Now that she was this close she found it difficult to look directly at him. Her glance fluttered as she gingerly parked her small rump on the edge of his bed.
“‘Bout fit. With a lot of thanks to you, lass.” His hand covered her clenched fingers and he gave a soft chuckle. “I’ll not be lookin’ up trouble for a bit though. Seems you took a few blows.” He gently touched her bruised cheek.
“Wasn’t much.” She snatched a side-glance. The bandage, encircling his head, had allowed several crimson locks to escape giving an impish appeal to his handsome face. Upwards from the edge of the blanket at his lower chest was nothing but naked flesh. Dark bruises stood out defiantly on the fair skin.
“Hear tell, you got in a few licks.” He began caressing her arm.
She didn’t pull away. What is there about him that mesmerizes me so, she wondered for the zillionth time. She laughed softly to hide her mounting desires. “Pure survival instinct. Dede’s your female warrior not me.” She fought a nervous giggle. “I’m for taking to the heels and run bit.”
“Dede’s a wean.” His fingers reached the top button of the sweater she’d thrown over her shoulders. “Warm in here,” he suggested as he eased it off. She made no complaint as he rolled over to toss it on a chair. Her eyes focused on the extreme broadness of his back that tapered to a narrow waist. The thin covering slipped down nearly to his belly with his movement and when he laid back he didn’t bother to rearrange it.
Something didn’t add up. She’d expected to find him like she’d left him when they loaded his unconscious body into the ambulance. But here not a half-a-day had past and he apparently had recovered remarkably. Okay—Mickey baby, she asked herself, how do you play it this time? Now what was that promise you made to yourself? Never, damn it! Never to become intimate with him again.
“How’s a drink sound?”
“Great.” She was nearly gagging. “Scotch?”
“Only in times of duress.” He grinned. “Red Breast? You’ll like that,” he decided and apparently was prepared to swing from the bed. She pushed him back.
“Wait! You stay put. You’re injured, remember. I’ll play host.” Quickly she was on her feet. “Just point me right.”
His features formed into a comical grin as he yanked the blanket up to his chin and accused, “Lass, I think you have evil thoughts of me?”
“Never,” she laughed. “Just don’t want you taxing yourself. Where do I find the whiskey?”
Only uncovering a single hand he pointed to a dry bar. “Glasses and water in the bottom but no ice.”
“I can survive without it.” Opening the elaborate setup, she rescued the properly labeled bottle from the multitude of others and commented, “You’ll never die of thirst here.” Adding a good bit of water to the drinks, she brought the glasses back to the bed. She held out his as she sampled the other.
The blue eyes twinkling with mischief, he spoke with exaggerated seriousness as he said, “Will ye be shocked, lass, if himself uncovers an arm?”
Megan erupted with laughter as she set his drink on the end table and tugged at the blanket. He held on as if in self-defense. Their fingers met around the rim of the glass she still held and their play died. Taking control, he set her drink next to his and pulled her to him. Cupping her chin in one hand his smile remained teasing as he said, “Here tell you’ve been my wife of late?”
“Truly a marriage of convenience.” She tried hard to put a snap in the words but they came out as a husky whisper.
“Convenient for this poor hide.” His lips pressed lightly into the bruise on her neck. “Not such a bad idea,” he mumbled into her throat. “Not at all.” Then his warm breath was mixing with hers and his tongue gently forced entrance into her mouth. His arms drew her body close to his body.
She stiffened as she felt him harden against her thigh. Ass, she reprimanded herself, grow up little Megan this doesn’t have to be permanent. God, it’s the eighties. His hands traveled causing her flesh to tremble beneath them. Now she worried—how does one strip enticingly? The last time she’d simply worn a robe.
He’s got the advantage—he’s got nothing on. He was prepared? Was he that sure of me? Damn! Why did I wear slacks?
The problem of disrobing ceased to be hers as his adventurous fingers moved quickly.
Chapter 73
London, England, 1984
“Not much on fancy speeches,” Rory Hanlon alias Richard Quinn, admitted. “With Jock’s…” Wrong thing to bring up, he mentally chastised himself. He tried again. “Maybe this isn’t the right time?” He hesitated mistaking her silence for displeasure. Then he decided she’s got to know what I’m about? Then he blurted out, “Damnit! Sally, help me.” Calling her, Sally nearly paralyzed his tongue.
