A reason to kill, p.61
A Reason To Kill, page 61
As the tape spun on, Megan remembered the first time Deirdre discovered she had a brother. Her screams over the phone wire nearly ruptured Megan’s eardrums. “A f-ing jig! may not look it but he is. My father, the royal pig, can you imagine—not only was Andrea black but a bitch!” At the time, all Megan O’Donnell could think of was thank God it isn’t Tom’s child as she tried to calm the raging teenager.
Suddenly Megan felt warm tears in her eyes as she heard the voice of Deirdre O’Neill talking to her little brother. “Hey for a desert imp, you really like the snow? Terrific! The old lady got you your own skies. Don’t ruin them brat—I’ll teach you to ski come Christmas vacation…”
As the tape ran out, Megan said. “Mike, I’m headed for Dublin on Friday.”
“Tom told me. I guess congratulations are in order.”
“Not quite yet. Well, I suppose that’s not true. But I always dreamed of a Christmas Wedding—and darn I’m going to have it.” She smiled. “I’ll talk to David Martin if I can locate him. I’m going to do some checking up with some other nasty friends while I’m there.” She gave a short sad laugh. “I’m also going to take a side trip to London. If I find out anything, I’ll call you.”
“Of course anything you find out would be appreciated; but don’t put yourself in jeopardy. This is apparently a high stake game and they won’t think twice about another casualty.”
~~~
Candace Nelson’s phone call came while Hal Dexter was trying to explain to his wife why putting in unclaimed overtime in an effort to locate William Connors’ druggie girlfriend took precedence over their time together.
The call itself hadn’t been that unusual. Candace thought nothing of interrupting Hal and Tanya’s lives whenever her grandson blessed her with a weekend visit. Although Dexter still wasn’t on the kid’s list of favorites, Gavin was nuts about Dexter’s wife.
Candace was inviting them to a dinner party. Tanya was ecstatic—you’d think the Queen of England had invited them to tea.
The lady’s other guests had been a bit of a shock—not an Eastern twang in the bunch.
Now, as he entered O’Donnell’s bar, Dexter was contemplating an opportunity his wife assured him he’d be one dumb ass to turn down. Hal Dexter Chief of Police—God it had a nice sound. Especially when he stacked it beside what he was certain the next few minutes would bring.
Sullivan had asked Dexter to join him for a drink at shift’s end. Dexter figured he knew what brought this unusual invite about. Theirs wouldn’t be the first divorce of partners in the NYPD and it wasn’t like he hadn’t seen it coming. Still, the kind of guy Terry was, he’d probably tell Hal before he made the actual request so they could talk to their captain together.
He could see no other reason. Sullivan certainly wasn’t out to advertise their friendship, or even make an effort at a bonding ritual, for when they entered O’Donnell’s at four in the afternoon the bar only had two patrons—them.
Sullivan didn’t come right out and say, ‘Lad, it’s time for a parting’, but he kept the conversation low key. They’d ordered their brews, discussed the Nelson’s case and several others they’d been helping on but skirted around the Connors’ name. His own single reference to it was cut off sharply by Sullivan. “That end of the case belongs to Vice, so why discuss it.”
Sullivan didn’t know about the proposal Dexter was sitting on. Still, when Hal mentioned it, Terry wasn’t as surprised as he should have been. “You’re not thinking of turning them down?” Sullivan said. “How often does a New York Detective get offered a Chief’s shield in another state?”
“I don’t know—it’s a big move.”
“It’s a jump from a plane without a parachute.” Sullivan drew a single finger across his own throat then raised it to his forehead in a salute. “Give me the chance I’d already be packing.”
“Like to come with me?”
This brought a sharp laugh from the Irishman. “Not if I have to call you boss.”
“That worries me, Terry. Being a black cop in New York is rapidly becoming just being a cop in New York. A black cop in a southern state sounds like an excuse for a lynching.” A gloomy frown faded as he said, “A captain with some rednecks forced to call him sir—I love it.” He snickered.
Sullivan again laughed in a short quick tone that said it wasn’t worth the effort. “Fits your peculiar personality,” he said. “You shouldn’t last long—I’ll send white roses to the funeral.”
Dexter had followed Sullivan’s lead and only ordered a draft and now he nursed it. He hated beer. “This whole business smells a little rancid. Why would they come looking for me?”
“Don’t sweat it. Political privilege is the name of the game. I imagine there’s a lot of hunting going on for blacks with the right qualifications to fill jobs in different fields. They have quotas to meet and it’s not easy to find intelligent blacks.” Sullivan’s blue eyes squinted but he chuckled. “You just got the right skin color.”
“Screw you.” Dexter held up the middle finger needed to emphasize the correct meaning.
“So, don’t want my opinion don’t ask.”
“All kidding aside. My wife thinks I’d be an ass to turn this down. Of course she’s certain since Candace Nelson initiated the meeting—that makes it all right. I’m not so sure. Don’t get me wrong, those cowboys put on a good front. Terrific salary, lots of perks, and no one telling me how to run my office—or so they said.
“This black dude, Deputy Mayor Annis, gave me the impression he was there for show and was only tonguing someone else’s words. He made me uneasy. They’d have convinced me better if they hadn’t brought him along.”
“Hal, don’t tell me you’re getting nervous about dumping on white folk. Thought that was your big thing in life.” Sullivan finished off his beer and motioned for a refill. “If you hang in here—when Walters retires you’ll be calling me boss.”
“Not a chance.” Dexter was sorely tempted to order a whiskey. But this early in the afternoon…he shook his head in the negative as the bartender eyed his nearly full glass. “If we solved the Nelson case—maybe. But as it stand now you just ain’t no hero, boy.”
“We solved the case.” Sullivan said and then took a deep pull on his second beer that nearly emptied the glass. “Her mama killed her.”
“Candace Nelson, you’re not serious.”
“The old gal didn’t wield the weapons but she set the murder in motion—it was an abortion that came forty years late. Remember, Andrea’s body was mutilated like her killer wanted to erase her. It stands to reason that when Andrea found out who her real daddy was she would have tried to destroy him, but she didn’t. She never mentioned him in her books. Apparently she didn’t hate him, didn’t blame him, she wanted to crucify her mother. You should have picked up on that when Mrs. Nelson admitted she knew about Andrea’s journals, and was aware of her daughter’s claim that the judge raped her.”
“You figure Candace told her husband and they had their daughter killed?”
The beer suddenly felt good in his dry throat. “Then he couldn’t live with it so that’s why he committed suicide. I don’t know, Terry, I just can’t buy that. I knew Nelson, he was a puny little guy but not weak. Don’t tell me you think we should start investigating Candace Nelson? Why didn’t you ever mention this before?”
“You, pal, are the one looking for a conspiracy.” Sullivan let a frown settle over his face before he said, “Believe me if I could have come up with some evidence, I would have been on the old gal like butter on toast. As for telling you—shit man you were so obsessed with nailing Devlin’s ass to the wall you couldn’t see past that. I tried with Walters but that was the last frigging thing the captain would consider. He nearly kicked me out of his office.”
“Christ, Terry, her mother—that could be worse than the president elect’s brother. Where the hell is this thing going?”
“In the unsolved murder files. Maybe where it was destined for since the beginning and the body count wouldn’t have kept growing.” Sullivan ran the icy mug across his forehead. “I don’t know. You want to join me on a fresh head hunt without official blessing?”
“That southern move is looking better all the time.” Dexter said. Son of a bitch, he thought, when Andrea gave him those books to keep for her, he figured they were like she told him—fiction. ‘Her pathetic efforts to be a writer,’ she’d said. He had grinned his way through a few and decided she wasn’t going to make it—unless she’d settle for penning pornography. When she was murdered, he’d remembered them, and read the last few volumes. Recognizing Devlin, he only skimmed through the earlier books. Feeling the emotional pain these white bastards put Andrea through; he wanted to make them all suffer.
Bringing the books in himself, would mean he wouldn’t stand a chance of working the case. He sent them to Walters—he got the case. And what the hell had he accomplished? He’d caused a lot of irritation for some hotshot bastards, but the only one who paid big time, was Alvin Nelson. Maybe if they started fresh—hell, the judge’s wife?
The shit was going to pile even higher around the judge. “Yep, Terry.” He toasted with the beer. “No more snow and icy roads.” He sighed. “Come visit me and we can swim in December, in my private outdoor pool.”
Chapter 111
London, England, 1984
Minutes, hours, days, could no longer be sorted by a mind that drifted in and out of reality. Sunlight and darkness came and went without Stewart Sheppard being aware of the difference. He fought the drugged sleep terrified he would come awake still held in the grip of a nightmare.
One morning they discovered him huddled under his cot sobbing, his nose dripping and urine pooled beneath him. Blood was oozing from wounds on his arms; he’d taken to digging out tiny chunks of his flesh with his fingernails.
“Fuckin’ drugs!” Martin yelled as he struggled to drag the prisoner from his self-imposed confinement. “Help me!” he barked at a shocked Rory Hanlon. “Lift the bed off him!”
As they forced him back on top of it and into restraints, Martin decided. “Gotta stop the damn drugs, you got enough film.”
Hanlon admitted. “Never played much with drugs. They can be fucking bad news.”
~~~
With the proper permits posted, machinery, ladders and lumber in such abundance, honest construction activity went on all week long. Even cruising Bobbies paid no particular attention. Work clothes and hard hats serving as a perfect disguise, Jason conversed comfortably now with his weekend companions as they picked their way through the site.
“Sure, the hero returns,” Rory Hanlon chuckled as he affectionately slapped the boy’s butt. “How was the match?”
“Great.” Four days and three nights of normal activity had erased the boredom from the teen face. “Would have been better if I was on the field. But we had fun.”
“Stopped off to see the crash.” One of his companions said.
And Jason whistled. “Damn mess. Already calling it a terrorist bombing…” He paused as if wondering that he’d said the wrong thing.
David Martin answered. “Don’t let that floor yah, every plane that comes down, engine trouble or not, they claim some bloke’s put a bomb in.”
“Guess who I saw?” Jason didn’t want to think about who might have murdered a hundred some odd people. “Megan O’Donnell. You know her, Davy?”
“She didn’t see you?”
“Nah, she was going in the hotel dining room, we went in the bar. I probably wouldn’t have noticed her except for Seamus—you can’t miss him.” Jason grinned. “Must be strange for those two, already having the same last name.”
“Most likely over here covering the plane crash,” Martin decided. “She’d be what drew Seamus across the water.”
Hanlon was donning coveralls as he stopped to offer, “Come on, lad. Wife and kid left for the States this morning. Got a spanking new VCR; you can help me tote it. We’ll pick yah up some cassettes on the way back.”
~~~
Later that day, Jason complained, “Never drink tea. Don’t like tea.”
“So, try it anyway,” was a sharp order causing Jason to wonder what was apparently upsetting Martin. The man had been acting strange ever since they’d returned with the stuff from Hanlon’s place.
He said, “I’ll have a beer.”
But Rory Hanlon snickered, “Don’t fracture the bloke, lad, drink the tea, your new papa made it himself.” Then he offered, “You want a beer? I’ll get ya a beer.”
Thinking Davy was only being a pest, like he was sometimes. His big brother moods reminded the boy of RJ. Jason gulped the coppery liquid and shoved away the empty cup with a grimace at Martin. “Happy?” Stupid, he thought, what does he care what I drink?
Hanlon had returned with the beer. He was standing over him uncorking the bottle but his features were odd, they seemed to be liquefied? narrowing? spreading out? He reached for the beer but couldn’t catch the bottle. He staggered to his feet and sobbed in fear, “Davy?”
Martin shoved Hanlon aside and caught the limp body. “One hour! Damn! That’s all you get and I’m in the cell the whole time.”
“No problem, lad.” Hanlon didn’t ridicule the younger man but offered, “Help you tote him?”
“Go set up. I’ll manage him. Let’s just get this fuckin’ shit over with.”
As David Martin lay the drugged youth out on the raised gurney that had been added to the cell, he had to keep reminding himself, this was necessary. Devlin said it was a necessary part of the game. In a hurry to get it over with, he quickly undressed Jason.
“Leave the panties on,” Hanlon instructed over the intercom, “makes him look more like a nipper.” Martin rigged up the plastic tubing, hung the plastic bottles, and continued to assure himself, they were not harming the youth. He won’t know what happened right away. Before we send him home, I’ll do the explaining myself and maybe we’ll even laugh about it.
He inserted the catheter and the kidneys immediately voided so yellow fluid colored the clear plastic bag. Dressed in camouflage gear like Martin had donned, the newcomers stalked into the cell. Hanlon continued to set the stage with barked instructions that added intensity to the plot while stilling the humor the two rather short, stocky, men had been expressing. Now, in English, corrupted by thick Semitic accents, they began discussing the prisoner on the gurney. “I hadn’t thought the youth would be so attractive?”
“What’s his looks got to do with this?”
“Christ!” Hanlon yelped into the speaker. “Yah can’t keep the fuckin’ conversation so pure. You gotta pretend like that piece of meat is nothing but a commodity at an auction. Argue! Bargain! Put your paws on the kid; we’re making an X-rated movie not a nursery tale.”
“Keep your hands from touching him.” Martin’s own hand blocked the Indian’s. “Fake it!”
“That’s better. Davy, turn him a bit, more this way—good. Okay we’re taping again. Hold it! I don’t wanna do too much cutting. Hang in there with that pose a minute.”
And Martin yelled back at Hanlon, “A minutes about all you got left.”
~~~
Jason Connors came slowly awake. Groggily he rolled over, saw David Martin beside his bed and groaned, “What happened?”
“You blacked out. Scared the shit out of us. You been sick lately?”
“At the academy,” he suddenly remembered. “I starved myself—shit my arm stings?”
“I gave you a shot of Compazine,” Martin said. “Christ you were puking all over. Maybe something you ate this weekend?”
Coming fully awake, Jason felt other sensations that he didn’t admit too. When he rubbed his hand across his groin, realized his clothing was mostly gone, he snapped, “Why’d you take my jeans off?”
“I told yah, you had vomit all over you.” Martin snorted, “Maybe you caught a bug. You still sick in the morning we’ll call a doctor in.”
Jason’s eyes lock on a patch of blistered paint on the ceiling. His throat and nostrils burned and he could smell the stink of left over vomit. He had definitely been puking, he found a bit of reassurance in that. Still, leery, he mumbled, “Dave? You’d never do the same crap to me that you did to Stew?”
“What gave you that stupid idea?”
“I feel awful weird?”
“Probably the medicine, hell I ain’t no doctor, I might of given you too much. Won’t hurt ya none; you’ll sleep it off. Now put those crazy ideas out of your head. I wouldn’t abuse you nor would I let anyone else.”
“I went to the viewing room,” he admitted. “The cell was empty. Where’s Stew?”
“Damn!” Martin was rising as he barked, “How many times I gotta tell you, the cell’s only a prop. We don’t keep the ass there. A couple days, when you’re feeling better, you can go play cards with him,” was followed by a quick laugh.
“Now go back to sleep.” He tossed a quilt over the boy as he threatened, “Or I’ll give ya another shot-in your ass.”
~~~
Leaving Jason, Martin made his way to the Englishman’s prison. Donning the required uniform, he stepped into the small room. Stewart Sheppard was recovering. As the door came open he bolted upright into the straps that held him then fell back. Even though they were always masked, he has picked up on certain mannerisms that he associated with each of his captors.
“Feeling some better?”
“Just chipper old sport.” Then wisely, Stewart submerged the nasty ring in his tone as he said, “These straps? They’re a blasted nuisance and uncomfortable as hell.”
“Suppose,” Martin agreed, “I turn you loose? No more trying to peel your hide?”
“That wasn’t intentional, believe it. And the results are far too uncomfortable for a repeated attempt.”
“You want something for the pain?” Martin undid the restraints.
