The Celtic Cross Killer Read online

  ‘You’re joking. Must be this watch my ex-wife bought me. Damn thing runs fast. Whenever I wear it, I always arrive on time. I ought to set it back a quarter hour. I don’t want to ruin my reputation,’ said Tooley with a healthy dose of irony, wiping a sheen of perspiration from his forehead.

  ‘Relax. I’m teasing. You arrived on time. Can I get you something to drink?’ said Pecarro, thrusting a hand forward.

  They shook hands.

  ‘I called the meeting. The drinks are on me,’ said Tooley, beckoning the waitress.

  The waitress ambled over. ‘What can I get you guys?’

  ‘I’ll have an espresso please, miss,’ said Tooley. ‘Pecarro?’

  ‘Same for me, honey. Have you eaten?’

  ‘No. You?’

  ‘No. I was waiting till you arrived. I’ll have four pancakes. Maple syrup,’ said Pecarro.

  ‘Sounds good to me,’ said Tooley, sliding the menu card into the stand, shuffling back, studying Pecarro. ‘So, tell me, are you keeping well? I understand you’ve set up as a PI? It’s probably a little too early to ask, but I’ll ask, anyway. How’s business?’

  ‘You’re right it is a little too early to ask. I collected the keys to my new office yesterday morning. I’m buzzing. The happiest I’ve been in years, now that I don’t have assholes like Johnson telling me what to do and I no longer have the responsibility of managing a team hanging over me. All I’ve got to worry about now is the wife, my son, feeding the goddamn cat and paying the bills. That said, the wife, she’s a temporary consideration…’ Pecarro’s voice trailed off. Something behind his eyes died.

  ‘I’m sad to hear it.’

  Pecarro shrugged. ‘Things change, Tooley. Eh, I’ll survive.’ Pecarro fell silent. A minute passed. ‘Anyway, enough about me. How are you? You come down off of the pedestal they put you on after the Ma’s Best case?’

  Tooley rolled his eyes. ‘I didn’t ask for publicity. I work best in the shadows. I’ve never understood why your contribution wasn’t acknowledged more,’ said Tooley.

  ‘Because of politics, that’s why … office politics. The writing was on the wall. I knew it. Johnson knew it. Despite appearances, the Chief and me, we understood one another. The department is history. As, I might add, was the Celtic cross case until last night and your call,’ said Pecarro, gaze fixed on Tooley. ‘I understand you were brought in after the second murder; I have my sources.’

  ‘That’s right, I was: the great Tooley and his mystical crystal ball. The thing is Pecarro, I’m not interested in case notes. I’m interested in the things that troubled you then, and still trouble you. The unanswered questions that bug you. Every case has them. I’m also interested in your gut feel,’ said Tooley, turning to the waitress. ‘Coffee going to be long, miss?’

  ‘Sorry. The machine’s got a fault. I’ll get it to you just as soon as I can.’

  Tooley released a long sigh.

  Pecarro leaned back, looked to the ceiling fan—a replica antique wickerwork piece with a brass centre—and collected his thoughts. He played a cigarette between his fingers. A half-minute passed. He looked to Tooley. ‘There was this one suspect.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘We couldn’t find him.’

  ‘Okay. Tell me more.’

  ‘He was an American-Irish guy. He’d been drinking in Delaney’s Irish Bar on the night of the Costa murder. He was drinking Guinness and spirits—buying drinks for everyone. We found vomit at the Costa crime scene. It smelled like stout. We also found a small amount of blood, too. It was frustrating. No matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t identify him. It still bugs me. Casey and I, we visited Delaney’s after the murder and interviewed the owner. I felt that he was holding out on us. The Irish, they close ranks.’

  The waitress appeared table-side and set the coffee down. Apologised for the wait.

  ‘You were saying…’

  ‘As I was saying… The owner said the guy was boasting about a scar across his gut. The scar could be the key to the whole case. Is this news to you?’ asked Pecarro, taking the first tentative sip of espresso.

  ‘It is, yes,’ said Tooley.

  ‘It was Casey’s responsibility to write up the interview. Usually, he’s good at capturing details.’

  The waitress returned balancing a tray with the food order. Set the plates down. ‘Enjoy, fellas.’ She strode off.

  ‘Eh, enjoy your pancakes. Don’t get indigestion,’ said Pecarro, smiling.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Tooley, collecting cutlery, placing a napkin across his lap. ‘What you’ve given me is food for thought.’

  The conversation came to a natural pause. The two men started eating.

  ‘I seem to remember that you were more of a health food kind of guy, Pecarro?’ said Tooley, pointing a knife at Pecarro’s syrup drizzled pancakes.

  ‘Like I said … things change.’

  ‘You look good carrying a few extra pounds.’

  ‘Celine doesn’t think so,’ Pecarro said. ‘You still spending time at the library?’

  ‘Yes, I am. It’s my second home. I’d recommend the local history department. It’s an invaluable resource. Marilyn, the librarian, she’s very obliging. She’s researching something for me as we speak,’ said Tooley, wiping a smidgeon of syrup from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘And she’s very obliging you say? I ought to get to know her. She sounds like a useful person to know,’ said Pecarro.

  ‘Just you remember, I’ve got first call on her services,’ said Tooley, with a wry smile. Tooley’s cell rang loud and shrill. He collected it and studied the screen. ‘Her ears must have been burning. Mind if I take this?’ said Tooley. ‘It could be important.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Marilyn, how are you?’ said Tooley.

  ‘I’m fine. I’m calling to let you know that I’ve completed that list you wanted. When would you like to meet? I’ve narrowed it down to eight names.’

  ‘That’s great, Marilyn,’ said Tooley, with a boyish grin and a wink at Pecarro. ‘I’m in a meeting right now. Can I phone you back in thirty minutes?’

  ‘You can. I’ll look forward to it.’

  71

  ‘Charlie, I need to see you urgently. There’s an important job I need doing.’

  ‘Who the hell’s this?’ said Counterfeit Charlie with cautious surprise.

  ‘You sorted a passport out for me a few years ago. You christened me, Eamonn, remember? I was travelling to Italy for the soccer world cup. You placed me yet?’ said the man seated in the black sedan.

  ‘Yeah, I got you. Did you enjoy your trip? I seem to remember Ireland lost,’ said Charlie. ‘That right?’

  ‘Yes. It was always a long shot. I had a great time. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.’

  ‘Can we cut the bullshit? What can I do for you?’ said Charlie, convinced of the man’s credentials, recognising his voice.

  ‘I want a key making. A house key. To an unusual design. I’ve got a mould ready. It’s quality. Both sides are nice and crisp. Ought not give you any problems. The thing is I need it real quick.’

  ‘How quick?’

  ‘By the weekend.’

  ‘Not a problem, I can do it. Speed has a price. It’ll be five hundred in used bills. Cash. No negotiation. Take it or leave it,’ said Charlie.

  ‘I’ll take it. I’ll meet you at the diner at Lake Hiawatha tomorrow evening at 7:00 p.m. I’ll collect the key twenty-four hours later. Same time. Same place. How does that sound?’

  ‘Seven it is. I’ll be there. Don’t keep me waiting,’ said Charlie, ending the call.

  72

  ‘Marilyn, it’s Gerard. Sorry, I couldn’t speak before. I was with an old friend. He worked on the original investigation. You mentioned a list. Eight names, I believe you said?’

  ‘That’s right. Two have the same surname. I’ll describe the process I went through when I see you,’ said Marilyn.

  ‘Excellent. You available this evening? I
’ll buy dinner. My treat. Consider it, a thank you,’ said Tooley.

  ‘That would be nice. I’d like that. Do you have anywhere in mind?’

  ‘Yes. Have you heard of The Water Street Trattoria in Dumbo? The food there is to die for. They do an amazing calamari special; if seafood is your thing,’ said Tooley.

  ‘Sounds great. I’ll give the seafood a miss, though. Me and seafood, we don’t get on. What time would you like to dine?’

  ‘How does 8:00 p.m. sound?’

  ‘Eight’s fine. I’ll meet you there. Okay?’

  ‘Okay. I’ll look forward to it.’

  * * *

  The Dumbo area of Brooklyn was so named, because it was, “Down Under the Manhattan Bridge Overpass.” Over the past 40 years Dumbo enjoyed a successful neighbourhood-wide strategy of preservation, restoration and conversion. Old and new development dovetailed harmoniously. The Water Street Trattoria—located in the basement of a converted foundry—had built itself an exemplary reputation for fine dining.

  Tooley and Marilyn faced one another across the table.

  ‘Have you eaten here before?’ said Tooley, thinking how attractive Marilyn looked in the low-cut crimson dress, trying hard not to stare at Marilyn’s voluptuous cleavage.

  ‘No, it’s a first for me. How about you?’ said Marilyn, taking a first sip of rich red Barolo.

  ‘Yes, I have, several times. I’m having steak. I find it difficult to resist. The fillet is excellent,’ said Tooley, their eyes meeting. ‘Medium rare, it melts in the mouth.’

  ‘Sounds wonderful. I’ll join you. By the way, this wine is sublime. It will be the perfect complement for steak,’ said Marilyn, raising her glass. ‘How about a toast?’

  Tooley’s eyes widened. ‘A toast?’

  ‘To you, Gerard. I’ve been a naughty girl. I did some research on you, behind your back.’

  ‘You did, did you?’

  ‘I did. I found out that you’re just about the most successful detective in New York. I hope you don’t mind, only, I read an article about the role you played in the baby food poisoning extortion case. It’s a privilege to be in the company of such a renowned and respected detective,’ said Marilyn, with a broad smile.

  ‘Don’t,’ said Tooley. ‘You’ll have me blushing.’

  They chinked glasses. A small amount of red wine sloshed onto the virgin white tablecloth.

  ‘Oops, I’m sorry! Clumsy me.’

  ‘That’s all right, don’t worry about it. Accidents happen,’ said Tooley, dabbing the stain with a napkin. ‘Police work is a job; a job just like any other. Somebody has got to do it. Sometimes, it’s carried out in the full glare of the media spotlight. Thankfully, more often than not, I get to work in the shadows. I try to steer away from publicity.’

  ‘I understand. All the same … it’s a valuable job you do. One that you do well. Unselfish people like you, give people like me, faith. You’re a brave man … a special man. You ought to be very proud of yourself.’

  ‘Brave? Me? I doubt it. I do what I’ve got to do. What I’m compelled to do. I enjoy the work. It pays the bills. Anyhow, let’s not dwell on me. I’m embarrassed. This list, the one you’ve pulled together?’

  ‘I’m sorry, it wasn’t my intention to embarrass you. Yes. I have it here,’ said Marilyn, handing Tooley a quarter-inch thick, bound document.

  ‘You’re probably wondering why it’s so thick?’

  ‘I was, yes.’

  ‘I included both the long and the short lists. They detail all registered deaths in Brooklyn from 1928 to 1935. I’ve written the title of each page along the top. The first one relates to All Deaths. It contains the names of all individuals with Irish surnames that died in Brooklyn during that period. It totals near to a thousand names. The second sheet lists Irish Deaths for persons aged 18–30. As you might expect, it’s much smaller. It has sixty names.’

  Tooley turned pages, scanned names.

  Marilyn continued. ‘The top sheet—All Deaths—took longer to prepare. I prepared a list of hospitals operational during the period. Contacted the respective Hospital Boards’ archive departments. At first, they were reluctant to help. They mellowed when I explained the reason for my request. I hope you don’t mind, only, I mentioned your name.’

  ‘No, not at all,’ said Tooley, scan reading the list of names on the top sheet.

  Irish Deaths, Aged 18–30 (Sudden death with no prior hospitalisation/not gang-related)

  Dermot McNally

  Brendan McAuley

  Ciara Nolan

  Tom O’Shea

  Connor O’Shea

  Shane Robinson

  Eileen McCourt

  John Curley

  ‘As the title suggests, those are persons aged between 18 and 30 years of age who died with no prior record of hospital admission, and no record of gang-related violent death reported in the newspapers of the time,’ said Marilyn, studying Tooley’s face, gauging his reaction.

  The waiter arrived table-side carrying two steak dishes balanced along one arm.

  ‘This is excellent work, Marilyn. I hope you don’t mind, but I’m starving,’ said Tooley, placing the typed sheets to one side, collecting cutlery. ‘Bon appétit.’

  ‘Bon appétit.’

  They ate in silence.

  Finishing up, Tooley crossed his cutlery over an empty plate.

  ‘Can I suggest we research the O’Shea family tree? Relatives dying at the same time without explanation is suspicious. I’ll make a detective of you yet, Marilyn.’

  ‘There’s more,’ said Marilyn with an affectionate smile and a wink.

  ‘More?’

  ‘I thought you’d say that. In this envelope you’ll find a report with diagrams showing the O’Shea family tree for the past seventy years. My niece prepared it. She majored in genealogy. She handed it to me just as I was stepping out of the door. I haven’t had time to read it. She did a similar report for our family. She told me it’s comprehensive.’

  Marilyn handed Tooley a sealed brown envelope.

  ‘Amazing,’ said Tooley, rolling the envelope into a tube, placing it into an inside jacket pocket. ‘Marilyn, you’ve just earned yourself dessert.’

  ‘I was hoping you’d say that.’

  73

  A grinning Tooley slumped into the back of the cab.

  Marilyn, what a woman, he thought. Beautiful. Intelligent. Resourceful. Good-humoured. She excelled at research, too. Tooley tortured thoughts meandered to the future. Fuelled with alcohol they gathered momentum.

  Maybe … just maybe … she’s the one…

  At the end of the evening, he’d kissed Marilyn on the cheek and promised to call her back within a week.

  Maybe…

  After delivering Marilyn home, Tooley leaned towards the cab driver. ‘Holler when we’re close to … home … chance … I … might … fall asleep…’ slurred Tooley slurred, brain balanced on the edge of consciousness.

  Under the soporific rhythm of dark and light cast by streetlights, Tooley fell asleep in less than a minute.

  Twenty minutes later, the car braked to a halt outside Tooley’s modest home.

  ‘Hey, buddy, wake up. We’re here,’ said the driver. ‘Home sweet home.’

  Tooley slept on. Snored.

  The cab driver mumbled an expletive, reached over his shoulder and shook Tooley by the shoulder. ‘Buddy… Buddy… Time to wake up.’

  Tooley’s eyelids stuttered open. He raised up. Swung his feet to the floor. Came to.

  ‘That’ll be twenty bucks.’

  Tooley rubbed bloodshot eyes. ‘Sorry … I fell asleep.’

  ‘You did. I said … the fare … is twenty bucks.’

  Tooley took out his billfold. ‘Here’s twenty-five. Have a drink on me.’ Tooley passed the crisp bills forward to the driver, dragged on the door handle and emerged from the cab into the freezing cold, star-flecked night.

  ‘Good … night…’ Tooley said, fumbling for his front door key, pocke
ts stuffed with crumpled lists. ‘You drive careful,’ Tooley said, waving the cab off from the kerb, cursing under his breath. ‘Where the hell … is it?’ His fingers alighted on metal. ‘Ah … there you are…’ Tooley recovered the key and pressed it into the lock. Twisted it. Pushed on the door. Staggered inside. Dragged the door closed behind him. Threw the bunch of keys onto a side table. Stumbled along the hallway.

  Opposite Tooley’s home, a dark-coloured sedan stood against the kerb. It had been stationary for two hours. The solitary occupant sat hunkered against the driver’s door and rolled a newly-cut key between his fingers. Realising his wait was over, he smiled a thin smile and pushed up in the seat.

  74

  With the dexterity of habit, Tooley tapped the access code into the answerphone and recovered one message.

  ‘Tooley, it’s Casey. The Chief is on my goddamned ass. He wants my progress report urgently. I can’t complete it without your input. When you get this message, call me. I want to talk to you. Don’t you ever dump on me like this again. My patience, Tooley, is wearing thin. Scrub that. My patience has expired. Goodbye.’

  Tooley slammed the phone into the cradle. Mumbled unintelligible expletives.

  ‘Whiskey…’ he stumbled forward, searched cupboards, found a half-drunk bottle of five-year-old Bushmills. ‘There you are my little beauty … come to daddy.’ Tooley slumped into an armchair, reclaimed the remote and switched on the TV. Poured a generous double.

  Two minutes later, his snores and the white noise of the TV echoed from the walls.

  As the nightmare playing inside his head became real, Tooley bolted upright.

  Tooley floated over a funeral. Johnson and Casey aided by four pallbearers carried a coffin towards an open grave. Tooley’s name was etched on a brass plaque attached to the lid. The pallbearers wore pinstripe suits, fedoras and patent leather brogues; sported slicked back hair and thin moustaches. Marilyn—in a black skirt and overcoat—wept at the graveside. A loose gossamer veil covered her face suspended from a wide-brimmed black hat. Abrahamsen offered a tissue. Marilyn smiled. Blew her nose. Pushed the tissue inside a jacket sleeve. Abrahamsen took Marilyn in an embrace. Tidied the hair from her face. Settled a hand around her waist.