The Angel (27 page)

ning speed, as if she needed to get everything out in one breath. “Patsy and some of the other women were display

ing their collections of angel figurines. Patsy’s was the best by far. Have you seen it, Dad? It’s unbelievable.”

“She collected angels for a long time.”

“Father Palermo said some of them might be valuable. I hope… Dad, you don’t think someone was trying to rob her, do you?”

“Too early to say. Did you go to this bazaar?”

Fiona nodded, perking up slightly. “I bought two handmade angel Christmas ornaments for presents, and I had a piece of angel food cake with green frosting.”

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Her father gave a half hearted grin. “Gross.”

“It wasn’t that bad. Dad, Patsy had all of Keira’s books—she loved them.” Fiona went pale again. “I can’t believe what’s happened.”

“I know, kid. It’s a tough one.” Bob turned to Keira, his expression showing more of his anguish now and less of his fury. “Were you already in touch with Patsy when Fiona got to know her?”

Keira nodded. “Patsy e-mailed me around the same time, but she never mentioned she knew Fiona.” Keira hesitated, then added, “She never mentioned she had a daughter, either. Bob, the angels, your prom picture—”

“I need to get Fi out of here,” he said. Keira gave up on trying to pry information out of him. Now wasn’t the time. Fiona pulled away from her father, some color returning to her cheeks. “I’m meeting my friends at the Garrison house for a practice session. Dad, I just want to play my music right now. Please…”

“No problem, kid. I’ll drop you off. Keira?”

“I’ll wait for Simon.”

“Thought you might.” But his attempt at humor—

normalcy—faltered, and he said, “I know this is hard, Keira. I’m sorry you have to deal with it. We’ll talk later, okay?”

“Sure.”

“You know how to reach me if you need me.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Keira watched him walk up the street with Fiona. He was the one rock of her life—her tight-lipped, emotionally re

pressed uncle who’d never told her he’d taken his neighbor’s long-dead daughter to their high school prom. What, Keira wondered, had happened to Deirdre McCarthy? Her head ached, and she was wiped out and yet, at the same time, still keyed up, replaying in her mind walking 246

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through Patsy’s house, finding her body, then going out into the yard and seeing Fiona and Father Palermo. Waiting for the police to arrive. Noticing how Simon, who’d dealt with countless disaster scenes in his search-and-rescue work, had met the responding officers with such calm and professionalism.

She looked around for him now, but saw only cops, crime scene technicians and a few reporters setting up, trying to figure out what was going on and whether it merited full coverage.

The detective who’d taken her statement earlier joined her in the shade. He was a tall, gray-haired, serious man she didn’t recognize from any social gatherings at her uncle’s place. “I just spoke to Detective Browning,” he said, nodding back toward Patsy’s house. “She told me you ran into trouble in Ireland. Mind telling me what happened?”

As if it mattered if she did mind. Nonetheless, she ap

preciated the gesture. “Not at all. Can I ask you a quick question first? I didn’t realize Patsy McCarthy had a daughter until this morning. Do you know how she died?”

“You’re an O’Reilly, all right. You like to ask the questions.”

“Does that mean you’re not going to give me an answer?”

He sighed. “I don’t know how she died, Ms. Sullivan. It’s one of the things we’re looking into.”

Because of the prom picture and the prayer card, she thought, but before she could ask a follow-up question, the detective—Boucher was his name, she remembered now—

steered her back to the subject at hand. Ireland, and what had happened there.

South Boston, Massachusetts

10:30 a.m., EDT

June 24

Simon found the priest walking from one colorful gnome and leprechaun to another in Patsy McCarthy’s backyard, as if they had the power to tell him who had killed their owner. “I encouraged her to share her angels with the rest of the congregation,” he said, more to himself than to Simon. “We had a bazaar a few weeks ago—it was my idea. I helped her get all her angels out, pack them up, haul them to the church, unpack them, pack them up again…”

He sighed, looked up, his face shiny with tears and sweat.

“It was a chore, Mr. Cahill. I don’t understand why she’d go to the trouble of taking them out again. The police asked me—I didn’t know what to say.”

“We don’t know that it was her,” Simon said.

“Ah. I see what you’re suggesting.” His skin turned even more ashen. “You mean her killer could have done it.”

“I mean her killer almost certainly did do it.”

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“That’s…” Palermo swallowed visibly. “That’s hard to accept, Mr. Cahill, isn’t it?”

“When did Mrs. McCarthy start collecting angels?”

“Her daughter started the collection as a little girl. After Deirdre’s death, Patsy kept adding to it as a way to stay close to her daughter. I wasn’t here then, of course, but she told me. She loved all her angels, but the ones original to Deirdre’s col

lection were her particular favorites.” Palermo patted the head of a three-foot-tall gnome and tried to smile. “Did you ever wonder who actually buys these things and puts them in their gardens? Patsy had such a sense of mischief about her.”

“That’s what I understand,” Simon said.

But the priest’s eyes filled with tears, and he turned away.

“We all enjoyed the bazaar. It was a fine day. Patsy made Irish bread and apple crumble. It was as if…I’m not sure I can explain. It was as if her daughter was there with her.”

“Father—”

“Deirdre was murdered, Mr. Cahill.”

Somehow, Simon wasn’t surprised.

“It’s a horrible story. Patsy never told me. I looked it up. Deirdre was kidnapped on her way home from work. She was missing for several weeks—her body washed ashore not far from here.” Palermo moved on to a small figure of a lithe pink fairy. “She was tortured and sexually assaulted.”

“Her killer?”

“A road worker named Stuart Fuller. He’d moved in a few blocks from here not long before he kidnapped Deirdre—he didn’t grow up in the neighborhood.”

“He was caught, then?”

Palermo shook his head. “No. As it turns out, he com

mitted suicide before the police could arrest him. Patsy didn’t like to talk about what happened, except to say she believed with all her heart and soul that Deirdre is an angel.”

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“Did she tell you she was in touch with Keira Sullivan?”

“Patsy adored Keira’s illustrations and couldn’t wait to meet her.” He smiled suddenly, some of his color return

ing. “She loved the idea of being part of one of Keira’s books. I think she enjoyed the attention, to be honest.”

“She never discussed her daughter’s murder with Keira, either.”

“That doesn’t surprise me, frankly,” Palermo said.

“Patsy believed Deirdre had the gift of prophecy—that angels spoke to her and guided her throughout her short life. There’s a famous story about Saint Ita—Deirdre’s namesake—and Saint Brendan, another famous Irish saint. Do you know it, Mr. Cahill?”

Simon shook his head, and he noticed Keira on the concrete walk, motionless.

“Brendan was one of Saint Ita’s students—he came to her convent in Ireland as a tiny boy. She was like a foster mother to him. Even after he left, he would come back to visit and ask her advice. He was an explorer. Some say he came to North America a thousand years before Columbus.” Palermo choked up, then smiled through his tears. He seemed unaware of Keira’s presence. “He’s known as Brendan the Navigator. Doesn’t that have a nice sound to it?”

“My father’s name was Brendan,” Simon said, just to break some of the priest’s tension. “He was something of a wanderer himself.”

“Was he?” Palermo took a breath, got hold of himself.

“Brendan once asked Ita what were the three things that most pleased God, and she told him a pure heart, a simple life and generosity.”

“Not a bad answer.”

Palermo smiled suddenly. “Yes, indeed. Then Brendan 250

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asked what three things most displeased God, and Ita said a hateful tongue, a love of evil and greed.”

“What do you think, Father?”

“I think that Saint Ita was a wise woman, but I hope she never knew the kind of person who could do what was done to Patsy, or to Patsy’s daughter that terrible summer thirty years ago. How can we even comprehend such acts of depravity and evil?” But he didn’t wait for a response. “I haven’t been in this parish that long, but sometimes I feel as if I knew Deirdre myself. Her murder lingers in the lives of the people she knew, but so does her spirit.”

Simon saw Keira turn pale and knew she’d put it all together—that Deirdre McCarthy was murdered the summer Eileen O’Reilly came home from Ireland pregnant. He started to go to her, but Keira bolted back toward the street.

Simon turned to Palermo. “Excuse me, Father—”

“Of course,” Palermo said. “Please tell Keira how sorry I am.”

“I will.”

By the time Simon reached the street, Keira had jumped into her car and sped away. He dug out his cell phone. Abigail Browning and Bob O’Reilly had left, and no way was Simon asking one of the other cops for a lift. He called Owen. “I could use a ride.”

“I heard about Patsy McCarthy. Simon, Abigail called—”

“She’s onto me, I know. She won’t care that I’m in law enforcement or that I work for her father. She’ll care that I’ve been like a son to him since I was a kid and he never told her, and she’ll care that you’ve known for eighteen months and, likewise, haven’t told her.”

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“She’s not just suspicious, Simon,” Owen said calmly.

“She knows.”

Simon tried to smile. “Not one to underestimate, that Abigail. All the more reason to set your wedding date. Get her thinking about picking out flowers instead of whether or not she should trust you.”

“She can trust me. That’s not an issue. None of this is anything you need to worry about right now. What about her father?”

“No worries. I’ll deal with Director March. Just come pick me up.”

“Where are you?”

Simon told him and disconnected, then dialed Will Da

venport in London. “Up for a trip to Ireland?”

“I can leave in ten minutes.”

“You didn’t even ask what’s going on.”

“All right. What’s going on?”

Simon gave him the short version. “When you get to Ireland, talk to a Garda detective named Seamus Harrigan. Find Eddie O’Shea. Do this, Will, and we’re even. I mean it.”

“This Keira Sullivan—”

“Don’t go there.”

“I looked up her Web site. Very pretty. You can always use my place in Scotland for the wedding.”

Will’s place in Scotland was a castle. “Keep me posted on what you find out in Ireland.”

Simon tucked his cell phone back in his pocket. His calls were done.

Now it was time to learn more about the murder of Deirdre McCarthy thirty years ago.

Back Bay

Boston, Massachusetts

11:00 a.m., EDT

June 24

Keira ran up the three flights of narrow stairs to Colm Dermott’s office in an ivy-covered Back Bay building over

looking the Charles River. His door was open, and she burst in, set the Ireland sketches on the corner of his desk and forced back tears. “I’ll explain everything,” she said,

“but first I need to borrow your phone.”

“Keira, dear heaven—”

“Patsy McCarthy’s been murdered. Colm…” She was breathing hard after running up the stairs. “It’s bad.”

“Here.” He thrust his cell phone at her. “Call whoever you need to.”

She went to the window, watching a lone sculler on the river as she dialed Simon’s number. He’d insisted on giving it to her as they’d waited for the police to arrive at Patsy’s house, never mind that she didn’t own a phone herself.

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He picked up on the first ring, but she spoke before he could. “I can come get you.”

“Too late,” he said. “Owen beat you to it. I dropped him off on Beacon Street and borrowed his car. I figure if you and I are going to be hanging out together, it’s easier if I have my own car.”

“I’m sorry I took off—”

“Don’t,” he said, surprising her with his intensity. “I just want to know you’re okay.”

“I am. I’m at Colm’s office.” She noticed the sculler lift his oars out of the water and sit back, coasting a moment, as if he just wanted to enjoy the perfect Boston June morning. “I didn’t know about Patsy’s daughter.”

“So I gathered.”

“She was killed the summer my mother went to Ireland. They were the same age. My uncle took Patsy’s daughter to the prom. They all grew up together, Simon, and I never had a clue. I didn’t know Deirdre McCarthy even existed.”

“It sounds as if it was a particularly horrific murder,”

Simon said, as if that explained thirty years of silence. Keira turned away from the window. Colm nervously held the sketch of the black dog in midair, but he was looking at her, as if she might suddenly crack into little pieces. She tried to relax some of the tension in her muscles as she continued speaking to Simon. “I keep thinking there’s a subtext to everything Patsy told me over the past few weeks. Something I’ve missed. I videotaped her telling the story—Colm has a copy.”

“The police will want it,” Simon said.

“I brought the original with me to Ireland. I don’t know if this is on the tape, but I remember Patsy saying she was worried she was talking too much, trusting too easily. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. I assumed she meant 254

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