A Turn for the Bad (18 page)

“Are yeh, now?” At least Conor looked interested—and he wasn't laughing at her. “Without the aid of the gardaí and the customs folk and all that?”

“We have to do it that way, don't we? And we've got until tomorrow, or whenever this lousy weather goes away, to work this out, which gives us the rest of today to plan. Now, who do you know who could help? Who you trust and who might do something risky for you.”

“Give me a moment to think on it,” he said.

Maura looked up when she heard the door open, and recognized Brendan. A small lightbulb went on in her head: Brendan wanted to introduce her to the guys at the distillery nearby—who he'd told her had used to be fishermen before they'd changed trades. Maybe they could help or would know someone who could. And then she'd have to buy their whiskey forever, but that was a small price to pay for John Tully's life.

“Brendan!” she said warmly. “Just the man I wanted to see!”

Conor looked at her as though she'd gone mad. Brendan,
on the other hand, looked pleased. “What is it I can do for you today, Maura?” he asked.

She waved her hand around the all-but-empty pub. “As you can see, it's a slow day. Could we take that tour of the distillery today? Now?”

Brendan looked a bit startled, but said gamely, “A grand idea. Let me call the lads and tell them to expect us. I'd warned them we might come by later in the day, but I'm sure they'll be happy to see us sooner.”

When Brendan retreated to a corner to make his phone call, Maura turned to Conor. “The guys who run the place were fishermen out of Union Hall, or so Brendan says. They can tell us how to find the ship.”

While Brendan was on the phone, Mick arrived. He looked around the pub and frowned, then walked over to the bar.

“Yeah, I know—slow day,” Maura said before Mick could say anything. “Gillian's going to hang out here for a while.”

Brendan returned quickly. “Does one o'clock suit you? Two of the lads are out making deliveries, but John and Gerard will be around at one. Good morning, Mick. It's a damp day, is it not?”

It was still pouring rain, if anything harder than before, Maura noted. Was that Irish humor? Maura wished their meeting could be sooner, but that was out of her control. “One o'clock sounds good to me, Brendan. Thanks.”

“That's grand, then. I've a couple of stops to make, but I'll come back to take you over there.”

“I'll see you later, then.” As Brendan left, Maura turned to Mick. “Can I have a word with you? In back?”

“Who'll handle the crowds?” Mick said.

More humor, but Maura wasn't in the mood. “Gillian, if a flood comes in. Won't take long.”

Mick followed Maura into the back room and raised an eyebrow when she shut the door and leaned against it. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

“I'd say so. I hate to dump this on you, but I don't know what to do. That's Conor Tully out there at the bar—you know him?”

“I recognize him. What's he doing here?”

“I don't know why, but he just told me something, and I don't know whether it's true, and if it is, I don't know what to do about it.”

“Go on,” Mick said neutrally.

Maura outlined what Conor had told her, and Mick listened intently until she was finished. “So, is he telling the truth?” she asked. “I mean, he looks like hell, but is that just because he's lost his brother or is it more than that?”

Mick turned away from her, clearly thinking before he spoke. “There's word that there's something big happenin'—but that's often the case, and the word doesn't always lead to the fact. There's plenty of shipments that pass through without the gardaí noticin'. Did Sean Murphy warn yeh that somethin' was goin' on?”

Maura ruefully recognized that she was doing a lousy job of keeping Sean's secrets. But she needed Mick's help. “He did, and I'd say he was both worried and excited at the same time. If it's big, the local gardaí would be in on it, right?”

“And so would a lot of other people, but that's neither here nor there as regards John Tully.”

“You think he's still alive?”

“I can't say,” Mick said reluctantly. “Depends on who the players are. If the shipment's comin' by ship from South America, they'd have killed him on the spot. If there's English or, God save us, Irish involvement, they're less likely to kill the man.”

Maura kept her eyes fixed on Mick's face. “So he might be alive. Clearly that's what Conor hopes. But it's been so long now, maybe he's losing hope, and maybe that's why he told me, because it can't hurt John now. Do I go to the gardaí with what Conor told me?”

“And tell them what? That Conor Tully is mixed up in the local trafficking and he saw his partners grab his brother and did nothing, to save his own sorry ass?”

“Well, if that's what he did, he seems to regret it now. And he doesn't see it that way: he was too late to stop the guys that took John, so he made a deal to keep him alive, or so he thinks. Yes or no to calling the gardaí?”

“Back off a moment, Maura, and think this through. Yer sayin' that yer pal Sean told you there's a big bust goin' down—isn't that what they'd say in Boston? Sure and the kidnappin' of John Tully is a part of it, but would you be askin' the gardaí and all the other folk that're watching fer this to drop their big plans just to rescue Tully, who may not even be alive?”

“But he might be!” Maura protested. “And if he is, and if they knew, would law enforcement sacrifice one dairy farmer in order to make their big drug bust?”

“They could do. They have their own priorities. Can you not see that?”

“I can see it,” Maura grumbled, “but I don't have to like it. So what do I do now? What do I tell Conor?”

“Sean Murphy asked you to keep yer eyes and ears open, did he not?” Mick asked.

“Yes. But you just said that telling him was a bad idea, didn't you?”

“It may be.” Mick paused for a moment, then said slowly, “You know where the delivery place is to be, assuming they haven't changed it.”

Maura thought for a moment. “You're saying the cops and all don't know where the delivery is going to happen?”

“Maura, there are a lot of coves hereabouts. And they may not know what ship they're lookin' fer. I'd wager they've spotted the likely candidates that've arrived recently and been hanging around Glandore or Schull or maybe Baltimore, where a boat of the right size would not be out of place, but they may not know which boat they're after yet. If the cove where John was taken is off the table—too many eyes on it now—they'll have picked a different place, and Conor will be told where, sooner or later. He may even know now.”

“Do we trust him? Do we believe his story about John? He's not just a coldhearted bastard trying to misdirect us while the real deal goes down?”

Mick studied Maura's face. “I've not spoken to the man. What's yer sense of him?”

Maura remembered Conor's haunted expression and how much he'd changed since they'd first met earlier in the week. Was he faking? Was he mourning his dead brother while going ahead with whatever the plan was, figuring since it was too late to help John, he might as well collect his money? For all she knew, he was plotting some kind of
revenge, like blowing up the boat, once he knew where to find it. Or planning to kill the men from the boat—after all, someone had to come ashore and make the delivery, and they wouldn't be expecting trouble.

What about the other dead man—the one they knew was dead? Where did he fit? Did Conor know anything about him and how he'd died? Odds were he was one of the crew hired to help with the delivery—one of the ones who panicked when they found John Tully on what they thought would be a deserted beach. But why was he dead?

What if Conor was lying only about parts of his story? That he'd confronted the man on the beach and somehow killed him, but hadn't said anything to anyone? Did that make any sense? How many men had there been in the small boat? At least two, probably—one to navigate in unfamiliar waters, the other to run the boat. They'd seen John as they landed. There'd been a struggle. Maybe John had killed the other man, and Conor had witnessed it.

“Maura, what're you thinking?” Mick asked.

“That I'm the wrong person to handle any of this crap!” she burst out. “International drug dealers, murder, kidnapping, smuggling, whatever. I want to tell the gardaí, but I can't swear that won't just make things worse. And if there's any chance that John Tully is alive, I want to do something, but I don't want to risk his life by stumbling into the middle of things. The gardaí or the navy or whoever is handling this have to be told that there may be a hostage on board or else the drug dealers may use Tully to get out of their own mess. Or Tully may have been dead for a week and all we'd be doing is messing up a very big operation, which would piss off a whole lot of people. But I can't just stay here and
wait and see. For whatever reason, Conor Tully came here and told me this, and maybe he's asking for help. What am I supposed to do?”

Maura all but held her breath, waiting to see how Mick would react. She was aware that he knew more about the shady side of things around the area than she did—which wouldn't be hard, because she knew almost nothing. Maybe she was naive: she'd known plenty about crime in Southie, back in Boston, and so did most people there. She'd known who was allied with whom, who worked for whom—and she knew better than to talk about any of it. Was it like that here in Cork? The crime figures in her part of Boston had been Irish, but did that carry over to Irish crime?

And why did she care so much? She had never met John Tully. She'd never had dealings with any local criminals, much less smugglers. That she knew of, at least. She hadn't realized until recently that Mick was involved, but peddling cigarettes was a far cry from transporting large quantities of drugs between countries. But she couldn't stand by and do nothing if that meant that John Tully would die.

“You want to save the man,” Mick said. It wasn't a question.

Thank God he understood, at least partly. “Yes. If it's possible. But I have no idea how to do it. Am I crazy to even think about it?”

“Mebbe. But yer heart's in the right place. Can I have a bit of time to think on it?”

“Conor says nothing's going to happen until the weather improves, so we've got some breathing room, but not much.”

Mick nodded once. “You've asked Brendan fer a tour of the distillers, right?”

“I did. It was the only way I could see to get in touch with any fishermen. Do you know anybody?”

“What would it be that yer askin' them?” he asked, avoiding her question.

“Where to find a ship that doesn't belong around here. That's all. They must all know each other.”

“You think the gardaí and their friends aren't doing that?”

“Of course they are, but they aren't going to share that with us.”

“Right, then, say you find the ship. Yer plannin' to row out there and ask nicely if they'd give John Tully back?”

Maura glared at him. “You're making fun of me, Mick. I don't have a boat and I don't know how to row. Or use an outboard motor or anything larger than that. Obviously I need to involve someone else. Or a bunch of someone elses.”

“So how is it yer goin' to get John off the boat, assuming he's alive, and do it without gettin' yerself killed, and anyone who's daft enough to go along with yeh?”

Maura's shoulders sagged. “I have no idea.”

“This is dangerous business, Maura,” Mick said softly. “Did Sean not tell you that?”

“He did,” Maura admitted. “Silly me, to believe that Ireland was a peaceful place. Hell, I never got into this kind of stuff back in Boston, which has a whole lot more crime than Ireland does.” She sighed. “What now?”

“Like I said, let me think.”

Fair enough, but Maura still had questions. “Do you trust Brendan?”

Mick nodded. “He's been known to skirt the law now and again. But he'd side with us over the smugglers.”

Us?
“Is it wrong to ask whatever fishermen we can find if they've seen any boat that shouldn't be where it is?”

“I think that might be safe enough—most likely the gardaí have already covered that ground. Yer not after askin' them to do anything more, are you?”

“I don't even know what ‘more' would be.”

There was a moment of awkward silence before Mick asked, “Are yeh askin' me to help?”

Maura fumbled for an answer to his unexpected question. She'd asked for his opinion about what she should do, but that wasn't the same as involving him in some insane plan—although she did realize that he might be able to help. But she hated to look weak and ask. “I . . . don't know, Mick. I don't know what I'm going to do, or should do. If you have any brilliant ideas, I'd love to hear them. And thanks for listening. We should get back to the bar—maybe some customers have finally showed up.” And she realized she had never actually answered his question.

He nodded. “We should.” Still, Maura wondered if he looked disappointed. Did he want to play hero? Or was it that he wanted her to ask him to do it?

They emerged from the back room to find that all of two more people had arrived, and Gillian was behind the bar talking to one of them. Conor had retreated to a corner, where he was nursing a pint—the same one or yet another one? And Billy had arrived and settled himself next to the fire, which was glowing cheerfully.

“You okay for now, Gillian?” Maura asked.

“I'm fine. It's still slow.” Gillian's eyes flickered between Maura and Mick, but she didn't say anything more.

“Then I'll talk to Billy for a moment.” Maura made her
way over to Billy's chair and sat next to him. “How are you today, Billy?”

“Ah, this weather and my joints don't get on, but I'll manage.” He lowered his voice. “Yeh've talked with Conor, then?”

“I have,” Maura said absently—then realized the meaning of what Billy had said. “Wait—you had something to do with that?”

“I thought he might have something he wanted to share,” Billy said.

Once again Maura marveled at how Billy managed to get the word out to a wide range of people. Did he know Conor? Or friends or relatives of his? How had he gotten in touch with him to persuade him to come in and talk to Maura? Billy had nothing as modern as a mobile phone; in fact, she wasn't even sure he had a landline. Certainly no computer. How did he do it? She leaned closer to him. “Is he a good man, do you think?”