Night Of The Blackbird (30 page)

“I haven't?”

“You didn't mention the fact that it was your brother who last saw Seamus alive.”

“He walked him home. Seamus went inside alone.”

“So he says.”

“How did you know that?”

“It's my job to know. I'm good at my job. Now, go about your normal life. And keep your mouth shut, unless you're talking to me.”

“I'm supposed to be filming in the area.”

“Don't film in or around the pub right now.”

He rose, finished with her. “Want me to walk you back?”

“No, thanks, it's broad daylight, I'm not far, and I've got a few errands to run.”

They exited the shop together. Kyle lifted a hand to the cops at the front. They waved in turn.

Kyle watched her as she started down the street. She walked to the first corner, then turned, not sure where she was going. She didn't really have errands; she just wasn't ready to go home. She felt dull and afraid, sick at heart.

Then she knew. No matter how tough Kyle Browne might be, Seamus had died. And though it certainly appeared to be an accident, that didn't make it so.

She ducked into a drugstore and pretended to read cold remedy boxes. She purchased one, looking around all the while. Her next stop was a shoe shop, then a clothing store. She bought a blouse, watching all the while.

Finally, she headed in the direction she had determined to go.

 

“Where's Moira?” Dan asked Eamon, who was behind the bar checking his inventory again. Dan had thought she was safe enough that morning, at Flannery's with her father and sister.

“She went out with Siobhan and the kids.”

“Where'd they go?”

“Buying flowers. Of course,” Eamon said with a frown, “that was some time ago. Then I think Siobhan was taking the kids to spend some time with her folks.”

“You think Moira went with her?”

“Maybe.”

“You know, maybe I'll call them and find out,” Dan said.

Moira wasn't with her sister-in-law.

“Do you need her?” Eamon asked.

“No, not really. I just wanted to see if I could give her a hand.”

Eamon shook his head. “Well, she might be with that fellow of hers.”

“True,” Dan said, feeling something knot in his stomach. “What do you think of him, Eamon?”

“Good-looking fellow.”

“Yeah.”

“Very bright.”

“Yeah.”

“Seems willing to bend over backward for her.”

“Yeah.”

“And…”

“And?”

“He's an American. Doesn't fly in and fly out every time he gets her heart going.”

“Eamon, you know I love her. But I wasn't settled in my heart and mind.”

“Ah, well, that's life, eh?”

“You think I've lost her?”

“Well, now, you know, she's a fine daughter, but she's not quite shared her feelings with me. Looks like a good thing for her, though. The fellow is part of her business. Works for her, with her. Dotes on her. Takes her places. Like they say, what's not to like?”

“Yeah, Eamon, I guess you're right,” Dan said, turning away. He needed to get out.

“Danny?”

“Yeah?”

“There's still something in her eyes when she looks at you. Something sparks when I see you arguing with one another.”

“Thanks, Eamon.”

Dan walked out the door.

 

Moira took a circuitous route to the T station to catch the subway. Once there, she bought her ticket, wondering if she had become completely paranoid. She tried very hard to survey the crowd around her, but it was impossible. She had seldom seen the subway system this busy during the day.

When she emerged from the subway, she was certain that she hadn't been followed. She hurried along with brisk steps.

When she reached the hotel, she slipped into the ladies' room and waited a few minutes, then found a house phone. She was afraid she might have difficulty getting through to Jacob Brolin's room, but the operator connected her right away, and she was answered by a deep, very businesslike male voice with a rich brogue.

“My name is Moira Kelly,” she told the man. “Mr. Brolin said that I might stop by today.”

The man asked her to wait just a minute, then asked if she was in the hotel and if she could come right up. Brolin had an appointment with city officials soon, but he would love to see her.

Moira headed for the elevator.

 

He sat in a chair in the lobby, watching her. She didn't see him, of course, because he kept his newspaper high, blocking his face.

When she was gone, he let the newspaper fall.

It was perfect. Everything was going according to plan.

 

One of the huge men who had been with Brolin downstairs at the restaurant opened the door to the suite. “Hello, Miss Kelly, welcome. Mr. Brolin will see you in the den. Can I get you some coffee or tea?”

“Oh, no, thank you.”

“Nonsense, you must have some tea,” Brolin called from the doorway to the room. “A meeting of the Irish, from the old country and the new, we must have tea.”

Moira smiled and shrugged. “I guess I'll have tea.”

She approached Brolin, smiling and offering a hand. He took her hand, then kissed both her cheeks. “Actually, I'm a coffee man myself, but everyone seems to want the Irish to drink tea. Wherever I go, they serve tea in my honor.”

“We can have coffee,” Moira said politely.

“Which do you prefer?”

“Either. I've had a bit of coffee already today.”

“So have I. We'll stick with the tea.”

He ushered her into the den, indicating a comfortable armchair. “So, now, shall we discuss what you'd like me to do on your show?”

“I'd like you to say and do whatever you want,” Moira told him. “What I do is a travel show about the wonders of America, sometimes big events—which I think we can consider Saint Patrick's Day in Boston to be—and sometimes small events, like a quilting bee in Nebraska. I love to do shows on what makes us special in America, which includes all our different ethnic backgrounds. Of course, Irish emigration to America has been huge over the years. The Irish have certainly put their stamp on this country.” She paused as the large man came in with the tea.

“Thank you, Peter,” Brolin said.

“Yes, sir, my pleasure.”

Peter left them.

Moira leaned forward. “Actually, Mr. Brolin, I didn't come to see you about the show.”

“Oh?” He arched a brow, offering her a deep smile. “I never met your father, but I know many people who have. By all accounts, he's a truly fine man. I never had an affair with your mother, if that's what you've come to discover.”

Moira stared at him for a moment. “Oh, no! I didn't come to quiz you about my mother, Mr. Brolin.”

“Ah. Well, that wasn't much of a fine moment for a politician, eh? Offering information where none was requested.”

“Mr. Brolin—”

“If you'll be good enough to call me Jacob, I'd be delighted to call you Moira.”

Moira nodded, taking a breath. “Jacob, I want you to know you're in danger.”

A slight smile curled his lips. “I've been in danger, you know, from the day I was born.”

He wasn't being patronizing. He was reminding her gently that he knew his business and his life very well. He saw the distress on her face and knew that she was genuinely concerned. “Strange, but peace is a dangerous way to some. But I'm grateful, truly grateful, that you would come here to say this to me.”

“Mr. Brolin—Jacob—I'm afraid that something may be going on in my father's pub. There's a rumor going about that it was to be…a meeting place, I guess, for people arranging to assassinate you while you were here in Boston.”

He set down his tea and leaned forward, hands together, listening intently. “What have you heard?”

“I can tell you what I've pieced together—which I'm afraid seems totally vague. We have a house band, a very good band, which plays Irish music. Pop, as well, but a lot of Irish music. They're called Blackbird. We also have a drink called a blackbird. My dad invented it years ago, though I hadn't heard an order for that drink in a very long time. Apparently, the word was to be used between people when they came into the bar to connect with other people. If someone made a mistake in looking for a contact, it could be easily solved, since the word also signified the drink and the band. My father had a very good friend who died the night before last. He fell down a flight of steps, trying to help the man who lived beneath him, or so the police assume, since they found both men dead.”

“I'm assuming autopsies were done?”

“Yes,” Moira said, a little frustrated. “And Mr. Kowalski, the man living downstairs, died of a heart attack. Seamus died of a broken neck.”

Brolin was silent.

“But you see, Seamus had been muttering about hearing strange whisperings in the bar, about the name Blackbird the night before he died.”

“I see.”

“I really believe that someone, and I'm afraid it might be someone I know, might be part of a plot to kill you. And, it isn't just me. There's a government man who has been coming into the pub, watching people.”

“A government man, you say.”

She nodded. “I've spoken with him.”

“And what has he told you?”

“To be careful, really careful. To stay around friends who aren't Irish.”

“Ah, that's difficult, when your father owns the pub.”

“Yes.”

“So this man told you to be careful, and you came straight to me?”

“I thought you had to be told. Of course, I don't really know anything solid at all, it's just that…that I felt you had to be warned. Maybe you shouldn't ride in the parade.”

Brolin's smile deepened. “There may be many people walking around Boston right now who would like to kill me.”

“I know.”

He leaned back in the sofa, still watching her with a half smile.

“You're a very brave young woman.”

“Not at all.”

“You're here.”

“Yes, but everyone knows that I want to interview you for the show.”

“True.”

He leaned forward again. “Moira, I agree with what the government man told you. You must be very careful. Stay close to good friends and family, preferably in groups. And keep quiet about your suspicions regarding the death of your father's friend. And…” He hesitated, but only for a moment. “We'd had word about the rumors. Actually, there are several possible danger zones in the city. Comes with the territory. We Irish like to be dramatic. What more noticeable than an Irishman killed on Saint Patrick's Day? I'm afraid that the situation is prime for people who still believe that terrorism is the only way. Naturally we've looked into many rumors regarding trouble here. We're watching your father's pub, as well, and though a man such as myself is always vulnerable, I have some strong support behind me. We have computer technology to trace people and the friendship of the government to help us. This is a free country, and no one can make your dad's place into an inquisition chamber. Again, I thank you sincerely for coming to me. Now, I want you to pretend that you know nothing, and watch out for your personal safety. You must behave as if everything is completely normal. Go about your business, but be wary. Most important, watch out for yourself. For me, will you take care to do that?”

She nodded, not really feeling assured, just colder. Brolin had heard that there might be a conspiracy.

Stemming from Kelly's.

“When is your father's friend's funeral?”

“Thursday morning.”

“What time?”

“The church service is at nine. We'll be at the graveyard around ten.”

“Ah. The parade starts at eleven,” Brolin mused. “Will it work for you if I give you that interview you want right after the parade? I believe that I get off the float at about one in the afternoon.”

“I would love the interview whenever you have time to give it.”

“You're frowning, Moira. You're afraid that I'm not going to live long enough on Saint Patrick's Day to spend time with you.”

“Oh, no! You've got to live.”

“I will,” he promised her. “I will.” He rose. “Come, we're going to give you an escort downstairs and pretend that all we've talked about is the interview. We'll do it at Kelly's. As soon as I'm free from official duty, I'll come to the pub.”