I stared him down. “You mean sexually? She seemed pretty happy sexually?”
“Uh, yeah.” He blushed hard. “You asked if she was depressed.”
“Okay, so she was so happy. Why didn’t you go out with her again?”
That smirk again. “I rang her. Called her. I didn’t really care. I wasn’t going to beg her or anything. I’m not exactly hurting for, uh, a social life.”
I was trying to think what to ask next when he blurted out, “She was a crazy girl, you know. I mean, I know you’re her cousin, but I gotta tell you.” He looked away, his face transforming into a small boy’s for just a second. “She liked it rough, if you want to know the truth. Who knows who she was mixed up with. Some freak. I bet that’s where she is.”
“Rough? As in, rough sex?”
“Yeah.” He blushed again.
“Are you American? Is that why you and Erin started talking?”
“I’ve lived here since I was ten, but yeah, maybe. I heard her accent. We talked about Long Island a little. My family summers in Bridgehampton.”
I thought of something then. “How did you know she was missing?”
There was something there. I could see him looking for the words. “I saw it on the news. I have to go now.”
He was gone before I could get another word out.
Erin had been missing for three weeks now and I was no closer to figuring out what had happened to her than I’d been the day I arrived. All I had were a bunch of dead ends.
I stood in the forecourt for a long time before I pulled the collar of my jacket up around my face and set off into the wind.
22
MONDAY, MAY 30,
2016
It’s a cloudy morning, a wind from the east whipping paper and dust into small tornadoes on Grafton Street. Niamh Horrigan’s been gone nine days. I can’t get Roly on the phone and there’s nothing on the news about an arrest in Wicklow. That makes me think it’s something minor, someone in one of the door-to-doors who had a big pile of pot on his dining room table when the Guards knocked on his door, a guy on probation who wasn’t where he was supposed to be. Every homicide investigation has a few of these arrests, collateral damage, the not-so-innocents who have nothing to do with the actual crime but get caught up in the nets we cast when we’re looking for a killer.
But how did Stephen Hines know about it, and what’s he doing trying to bring me onto the investigation?
I have generally good relationships with the press back on Long Island. I know when to throw them something and I know when to clam up and reveal nothing. There’s something about Hines that puts me on edge.
I stop at a café on Lemon Street for an espresso and carry it through to Parliament Square in Trinity, standing under the Lecky statue for a moment and then walking over to the stairs to the library. I’m ridiculous, a forty-five-year-old woman stalking a grown man who probably hasn’t thought about me once in twenty-three years. Finally, I stand right in front of the Arts Building, checking my phone.
No Conor.
When I finish my coffee, I head back to the hotel. I send some emails to my team so they’ll have them when they get in. There’s a message from Emer apologizing for the delay in getting back to me. She’s been traveling in Singapore and Hong Kong but she suggests a time for coffee midweek. I lie on the bed watching CNN and looking through the old notebooks and files I brought from home. At nine a.m., I turn on RTÉ news. The announcer says that officials in Wicklow are searching a new area at this hour. There’s nothing about Drumkee and that line of the investigation. Nothing about an arrest. Niamh’s parents have offered an increased reward for any information about her disappearance. Her uncle asks the public to think hard about whether they saw anything that might help bring her home.
They interview a retired detective garda, looking for a theory on what’s happened to Niamh. “Certainly, at this stage of an investigation, the concern is that she has been abducted,” the white-haired man says. He’s standing in front of an elaborate flower garden. “The location, sure it makes you think it could be connected to the American girl, Erin Flaherty, and Teresa McKenny and June Talbot. With every hour that goes by, the chances of her being found alive continue to decrease.”
I shut it off.
At loose ends, I go for a run along the quays. It feels good to move my legs and I go out fast, full of ambition. I’m still amazed at all the changes on the riverfront. There are huge new buildings on the north side, a giant glass-and-steel structure that looks like a barrel tipped onto its side and new office buildings gleaming along the river. I’m running past the Ferryman when I remember walking past it with Conor. It’s now surrounded by tall, gleaming office blocks. It feels like it’s been moved to a completely different part of the city. When I turn onto Cardiff Lane, the facade of a sleek modern building with the Facebook logo comes into view. I can see what Laura was talking about. Erin’s old neighborhood has gone ritzy.
The day is so beautiful, I don’t want to be back in the hotel, so I try to remember the way to the strand. I run straight out past Irishtown along Sandymount Road and then along one of the pleasant little streets lined with prosperous-looking bungalows to the park right on the strand. It’s just the way I remember it, the sand and the gleaming water in ripples across it, reaching so far out toward the sea I can’t tell where it ends. I run hard on the path out to the nature preserve, thinking of Conor, and then turn around, all my limbs feeling loose and strong, my head clearer. On the way back, I take a few pictures of the harp bridge and the view down the Liffey toward the Four Courts and text them to Lilly. I write, Miss you so much, Lillybean! Love you! I can smell her all of a sudden, her hair and her skin.
I’m almost to the hotel when I look up and find Roly and Griz coming my way on the sidewalk. I stop and watch them for a moment before they look up and see me. Roly looks exhausted, his hair and clothes the most rumpled I’ve ever seen them, his eyes baggy and bruised. Griz seems thinner, old mascara crusting in the corner of her right eye. She’s wearing a bright yellow wool coat and she’s the only colorful thing on the sidewalk.
“D’arcy,” Roly says. “We need to talk to you.”
“What did they find in Wicklow?” I ask them. “It must be a piece of clothing, right? I was thinking phone, but the way they covered it, it made me think it was a piece of clothing. I was trying to read between the lines in the stories.”
Roly sighs. Griz is trying not to smile.
“All right,” Roly says finally. “They found a fucking button. Let’s go inside and sit down.”
Of course. I should have known. A button, a medium-sized wooden button from the neck of a fleece pullover like the one Niamh Horrigan was wearing when she disappeared, and wrapped around it are three brown hairs, similar in length and color to the ones in a hairbrush obtained from her flat by her family. They have a picture of Niamh, on a mountaintop somewhere, wearing a green pullover fleece jacket with a hood and two wooden buttons at the neck, exactly like the button that was found.
I can see how hopeful it’s made them. Something as small as a button, but it’s significant. Instead of a vast mountainous area to search, they now have a neat little pin to put in the center of the map, a radius to draw. They can look for tire tracks, CCTV footage.