* * *
I’m heading out of my hotel room, my bag slung over my shoulder, my key in my hand, when a man waiting in the hallway surprises me, clearing his throat and smiling sympathetically when I jump and whirl around.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to give you a fright. I just thought I could see if you were here.”
It’s the reporter with the ponytail from the other day. In the dim hallway he seems freakishly large, his shoulders twice the width of me, his legs thick under his suit pants. His forehead is dotted with beads of moisture and I take in his sharp sweaty smell from two feet away. He’s older than I thought, closer to my age.
“Stephen Hines?” he says. “We met the other day.”
“How did you know where my room was?” I ask. I’m still holding my key in my hand and I point the sharp edge of it out.
“I didn’t. I’ve been trying every floor.” He shrugs and smiles. “I got very lucky.”
“It’s creepy,” I tell him. “Please don’t do it again.”
He says, “Look, I’m sorry to bother you, but I just want to get your sense of the investigation. You’re not just a family member, you’re a highly skilled homicide detective, with apparent expertise in serial murder. What do you think about this find in Drumkee?”
“My sense is that the Garda Síochána is doing an excellent job,” I say. I put my room key into my bag and zip up my jacket.
But he’s still standing there, his body a barrier between me and the elevator. “A number of people have mentioned to me that they’re not sure why the Guards aren’t using you more, using your expertise. Would you like to be more involved in the investigation, Detective D’arcy?”
I look up at him. “The Guards are doing an excellent job,” I say. “I have a lot of confidence in them.”
“Have you been told that Niamh’s family wants to meet you?”
Now I’m interested. “Are you making that up?”
“No, no,” he says. “I wouldn’t make up something like that. They want to talk to you. They want to meet you. Why are the Guards keeping that from you?”
I watch him for a moment. He’s got an angle, but maybe I do, too. “Okay, what’s your theory?” I ask him. “You seem to really want to talk to me. What’s your theory on my cousin? On Niamh?”
He smiles kindly, a favorite college professor getting ready to answer a question. “I was just starting out when your cousin went missing,” he says. “They had me writing stories about cattle auctions and traffic. I’ve only read my colleagues’ stories in the archives. But I think whoever took your cousin never stopped taking women and I think he took Niamh Horrigan and I think whoever it is there in the trees at Glenmalure was taken by him, too. Don’t you want to help find him? It must be driving you mad, with all your expertise. I mean, you bested the fecking FBI.”
“Is that what you told the Horrigans?” I ask him.
He only appears a little embarrassed.
“I’m just looking for some information,” he says. “I’m a journalist. This is quite a confusing situation, as you know. My editor, like, he thinks I’m not working hard enough on this.”
I feel the rage build up inside me. “Don’t do that. I know who you are. Are you kidding me? Do you know how many hours I’ve spent reading every fucking article about this case? I’ve read everything you’ve ever written, Stephen P. Hines, for the Independent. You’re a good reporter, you’re a dogged reporter. You’re obsessed with these cases. I can tell. So don’t pretend you don’t know what you’re doing.”
“All right,” he says. He’s smiling. This is just what he wanted. “Thanks for that. Really, very flattering. I can show my appreciation by giving you a little scoop. It’s not public. They’re just about to arrest some guy down in Wicklow.”
Everything stops for a minute. I can hear a low buzzing coming from the emergency exit light on the wall.
“Who?” I want to shake him and demand he tell me what he knows. Everything narrows down to his face, the dim hallway. Suddenly, I realize what he’s saying, what he’s doing. I take a deep breath. “I would be happy to meet with the Horrigans,” I tell him. “Of course I would. And I would be happy to aid the investigation in any way I can. But it’s delicate. I’m a civilian when I’m here.” I keep laying it on. “They would have to believe that the Horrigans really want me involved. The Horrigans would have to demand that I help with the profiling, really. Perhaps they might threaten to go to the press if I didn’t. I’d need access to a lot of case files and interviews. That’s not strictly legal. And it would have to be very clear that they were asking for this. That it’s not me who’s trying to get in on this.”
Stephen Hines smiles angelically and spreads his hands at his sides.
“I think we all just want to find Niamh safe and sound,” he says. “I think that’s what we all want. I’m sure someone will be in touch, Detective D’arcy.”
I stand there, breathless, for a few minutes after he walks away.
I’ve just played the only card I have.
I’m sorry, Roly.
I don’t feel nearly as guilty as I should.
20
1993
I caught up to Byrne and McNeely outside the Irishtown Garda Station that next morning to tell them about Erin and Niall from Arklow.
October 8. She had been missing for three weeks.
They didn’t look happy to see me but they stopped and listened to me while I told them about the men at the Raven.
Byrne looked up at the sky for a minute, then pinched the bridge of his nose as if he had a headache. “That’s interesting. He really said that?”
“Yeah. What does that mean? I know it’s for Provisional IRA, but I don’t really get it. Do they dress a particular way or something?”
“Well, it might mean that your man from the bar is a prejudiced git and he thinks anyone with a northern accent is a terrorist, but it also might mean that they’re actually Provos. He’s right. There’s a sorta look, an energy. Can’t really explain it.”
Bernie sighed but didn’t say anything.
I said, “The town where Erin and I grew up on Long Island? It’s a regular suburb, but it’s Long Island, and there are a few Mafia guys living there. They don’t come into the bar a lot—I guess ’cause it’s an Irish bar—but I always know when they do, even if I’ve never seen them before. Is that what you mean?”
“Yeah, I guess it is. Were they real Mafia guys? Like The Godfather? That sorta thing?”
“Yeah. They had these shirts they always wore. Silk. I’ve never seen any other man wear a shirt like that.”
He grinned. “‘I’m gonna make him an offer he can’t refuse,’” he said, in what was supposed to be The Godfather but didn’t quite hit the mark.
Bernie rolled her eyes.
“You sound more like Vincent Connelly than Vito Corleone,” I said.
Roly and I grinned at each other. “Very funny,” he said. Foony.