The In Death Collection 06-10 (24 page)

“I do.” She was already at the windows, hands tucked in her back pockets. “It’s pretty, like . . . I don’t know an animated painting. Did you see the glide-carts? Every one of them was shiny, the umbrellas stiff and bright. Even the gutters look like someone just swept them clean.”

“They still give tidy village awards in Ireland.”

She laughed at that, amused and touched. “Tidy village?”

“It’s a matter of pride, and a quality of life most are reluctant to give up. In the countryside you’ll still see stone fences and fields green enough to startle the eye. Cottages and cabins with thatched roofs. Peat fires and flowers in the yard. The Irish grip their traditions in a firm hand.”

“Why did you leave here?”

“Because my traditions were less attractive and more easily let go.” He drew a bright yellow daisy from an arrangement and handed it to her. “I want a shower, then I’ll show you.”

She turned back to the window, twirling the daisy absently by its stem. And she wondered how much more she would see of the man she’d married before the night was over.

There were parts of Dublin that weren’t so cheerful, where the alleys carried that universal smell of garbage gone over and thin cats slunk in shadows. Here she saw the underbelly of any city, men walking quickly, shoulders hunched, eyes shifting right and left. She heard harsh laughter with desperate undertones and the wail of a hungry baby.

She saw a group of boys, the oldest of them no more than ten. They walked casually, but Eve caught the cool,
calculating gleam in their eyes. If she’d had her weapon, her hand would have been on it.

The street was their turf, and they knew it.

One bumped lightly into Roarke as they passed. “Beg pardon,” he began, then cursed ripely when Roarke grabbed him by the scruff of the neck.

“Mind the hands, boyo. I don’t care for any but my own in my pockets.”

“Turn me loose.” He swung, comically missed in a roundhouse as Roarke held him at arm’s length. “Bloody bastard, I never pinched nothing.”

“Only because you’ve thick hands. Christ, I was better than you when I was six.” He gave the boy a quick shake, more in exasperation of his clumsiness than in annoyance with the act itself. “A drunk tourist from the west counties would have felt that grope. And you were obvious as well.” He looked down into the boy’s furious face and shook his head. “You’d do better as the pass-off man than the pincher.”

“That’s great, Roarke, why don’t you give him a few lessons on thievery while you’re at it.”

At Eve’s words the boy’s eyes flickered and narrowed. He stopped struggling. “They tell tales of a Roarke who used to work these streets. Lived in the shanties and made himself a right fortune off quick fingers and nerves.”

“You’ve got the nerves, but you don’t have the fingers.”

“They work well enough on most.” Relaxed now, the boy flashed Roarke a quick and charming grin. “And if they don’t I can outrun any cop on two legs.”

Roarke leaned down, lowered his voice. “This is my wife, you bonehead, and she’s a cop.”

“Jay-sus.”

“Exactly.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a handful of coins. “I’d keep these for myself if I were you.
Your associates scattered like rats. They didn’t stand with you and don’t deserve a share.”

“I won’t be after dividing it.” The coins disappeared into his pocket. “It’s been a pleasure making your acquaintance.” He slid his gaze to Eve, nodded with surprisingly dignity. “Missus,” he murmured, then ran like a rabbit into the dark.

“How much did you give him?” Eve asked.

“Enough to tickle his humor and not disturb his pride.” He slid his arm around her waist and began to walk again.

“Remind you of someone?”

“No indeed,” Roarke said with a cheer he hadn’t expected to feel. “I’d never have been caught so handily.”

“I don’t see that it’s anything to brag about. Besides, your fingers wouldn’t be so light these days.”

“I’m sure you’re right. A man loses his touch with age.” Smiling, he held out the badge he’d lifted out of her pocket. “I think this is yours. Lieutenant.”

She snatched it back and struggled to be neither amused nor impressed. “Show-off.”

“I could hardly let you disparage my reputation. And here we are.” He stopped again, studying the pub. “The Penny Pig. Hasn’t changed much. A bit cleaner maybe.”

“It could be readying for competition for the tidy village award.”

It was unimposing from the outside. The grilled window boasted a painting of a sly-eyed white pig. No flowers bloomed here, but the glass was free of smears, the sidewalk free of litter.

The minute Roarke opened the door she felt the rush of heat, the jittery flow of voices and music, the cloud of beer fumes and smoke.

It was one long, narrow room. Men were lined at the old wooden bar. Others, including women and young children, were packed onto chairs around low tables where glasses
crowded the space. At the far end at a tiny booth sat two men. One played a fiddle, the other a small box that squeezed out a jumpy tune.

High on the wall was a mini view screen with the sound turned off. On it a man struggled to ride a bicycle down a pitted lane and continued to take tumbles. No one appeared to be watching the show.

Behind the bar two men worked, pulling drafts, pouring liquor. Several people glanced over as they entered, but the conversations never lagged.

Roarke moved to the end of the bar. He recognized the older of the bartenders, a man of his own age who’d once been thin as a rail and filled with wicked humor.

While he waited for service, he lifted a hand to Eve’s shoulder and rubbed absently. He was grateful to have her beside him when he took this short trip into the past.

“Guinness, a pint and a glass please.”

“On the way.”

“What am I going to be drinking?” Eve demanded.

“The heart of the realm,” Roarke murmured, and watched his old friend build the drinks with an admirable expertise. “It’s an acquired taste. If you don’t care for it, we’ll get you a Harp.”

Eve narrowed her eyes against the smoke. “Don’t they know tobacco’s been banned in public places?”

“Not in Ireland it hasn’t, not in the pubs.”

The bartender came back with the drinks. Eve lifted hers to sip while Roarke dug more coins from his pocket. Her brows drew together at the first sip, then she shook her head with the second. “Tastes like something I should chew.”

Roarke chuckled and the bartender beamed. “You’re a Yank then. Your first Guinness?”

“Yeah.” Eve frowned at the glass, turning it slowly while examining the dark brown liquid with its foamy white head.

“And your last as well?”

She sipped again, holding the beer in her mouth for a moment, then swallowing. “No. I think I like it.”

“That’s fine then.” The bartender grinned widely, and neatly nudged Roarke’s coins back. “You’ll have the first on me.”

“That’s kind of you, Brian.” Roarke watched Brian turn from admiring Eve to study him.

“Do I know you? There’s a familiar look about you that I’m not quite placing.”

“It’s been fifteen years, more or less, so your memory might be dim even after all the times we had. I recognized you right enough, Brian Kelly, though you’ve added a stone or two. Perhaps three.” Roarke flashed a grin, and it was the grin that did it.

“Well, bloody hell, lock up your women. It’s Roarke himself.” Brian’s lips stretched in a mile-wide grin as he rammed a fist into Roarke’s face.

“Christ Jesus” was the best Roarke could do as his head snapped back. He kept his balance, shook his head to clear it.

“Sucker punch,” Eve commented, and took another sip of stout. “Nice pals you’ve got, Roarke.”

“I owed you that.” Brian shook a finger. “You never did come back with the hundred pounds that was my fair share of the cargo money.”

Philosophically Roarke swiped the back of his hand over his cut lip to blot the blood. After the briefest of pauses, both the music and the hum of conversation continued. “It would have cost me more than a hundred pounds to come back at that point with the guarda on the prowl.” Roarke picked up his pint, sipped to soothe his mouth. “I thought I sent it to you.”

“Hell you did. But what’s a hundred pounds between friends.” With a roaring laugh, Brian grabbed Roarke’s
shoulders, yanked him over the bar, and kissed him dead on his bleeding mouth. “Welcome home, you bloody bastard. You there!” He shouted to the musicians. “Play ‘The Wild Rover’ for me old friend here, for that’s what he ever was. And I’ve heard he’s got gold in great store all right, enough to buy a round for the house.”

The patrons cheered and the music turned lively.

“I’ll stand the house for a round, Bri, if you’ll give me and my wife a few minutes of your time back in the snug.”

“Wife, is it?” He roared again and pulled Eve forward for a hearty kiss. “Blessed Mary save us all. I’ll give you a few minutes and more, for I own the place now. Michael O’Toole, you come on back and give Johnny a hand with the bar. I’ve got some catching up to do.”

He pressed a button beneath the bar and had a narrow door at the far end swinging open.

The snug, Eve discovered, was a tiny private room fitted out with a single table and a scattering of chairs. The light was dim, but the floor gleamed like a mirror. Through the closed door, the music piped.

“You married this reprobate,” Brian said, sighing as he lowered himself onto a chair that creaked beneath his weight.

“Yeah, well, he begged.”

“You’ve got yourself a pretty one here, boyo. A long one with eyes the color of the best Irish.”

“She’ll do me.” Roarke took out his cigarettes, offered one to Brian.

“American.” He closed his eyes in pleasure as Roarke lighted it for him. “We still have a hard time getting these here.”

“I’ll send you a case to make up for the hundred.”

“I can sell off a case of Yanks for ten times that.” Brian grinned. “So I’ll take it. What brings you to the Penny Pig? I hear you come to Dublin now and again on your
rich man’s business, but you don’t wander our way.”

“No, I haven’t.” Roarke met his eyes. “Ghosts.”

“Aye.” Brian nodded, understanding perfectly. “They’re thick in the streets and alleys. But you’ve come now, with your pretty wife.”

“I have. You’d have heard about Tommy Brennen and the others.”

“Murdered.” Brian poured from the bottle of whiskey he’d taken from beneath the bar. “Tommy would come in now and again over the years. Not often, but now and again, and we’d have a song out of him. I saw him and his wife once, and his children, strolling on Grafton Street. He saw me as well, but it wasn’t the time to speak to the likes of me. Tommy, well, he preferred keeping certain parts of what had been from his family.”

He lifted his glass more in resignation than toast. “Shawn now, he was a rare one. He’d send word back from New York, always claiming he was making a fortune, and when he’d finished counting all his money, back he’d be. A fine liar was Shawn,” he said and drank to him.

“I’ve brought Jennie’s body back with me.”

“Have you?” His wide and ruddy face sober, Brian nodded. “That’s the right thing. She’d have wanted that. She had a sweet heart, did Jennie. I hope they catch the bloody bastard who did her.”

“That’s one of the reasons we’re here, hoping you can help.”

“Now how could I do that, being an ocean away from where the deed was done?”

“Because it all started here, with Marlena.” Roarke took Eve’s hand. “I didn’t properly introduce you to my wife, Brian. This is Eve. Lieutenant Eve Dallas, New York City Police and Security.”

Brian choked on his whiskey, thumped his chest to help
the air into his lungs. His eyes watered. “A cop? You married a bloody cop?”

“
I
married a bloody criminal,” Eve muttered, “but nobody ever thinks of that.”

“I do, darling.” Amused, Roarke kissed her hand. “Constantly.”

Brian let go another of his rollicking laughs and poured another shot. “Here’s to the pair of you. And to the icicles that are forming in Hell.”

He’d have to postpone the next.

He prayed for patience. After all, he’d waited so long already. But it was a sign from God, he understood that. He had veered from the path, acted on his own desires, when he had planted the bomb in her car.

He had sinned, and so prayed for forgiveness as well as patience. He had only to listen to the guiding force. He knew that, and was repentant. Tears blurred his vision as he knelt, accepting his penance, his punishment for his conceit and arrogance.

Like Moses, he had faltered in his mission and tested God.

The rosaries clinked musically in his hands as he moved from bead to bead, from decade to decade with a practiced ease and a deep devotion.

Hail Mary, full of grace.

He used no cushion for his knees, for he’d been taught that forgiveness demanded pain. Without it, he would have felt himself uncleansed. Votive candles, white for purity, flickered and carried the faint smell of wax pooling on wax.