The Angel Tapes (26 page)

“In cell four,” Duffy said. “But I'd rather you didn't talk to him for the time being. Let him cool his heels for a day or two, until we've got this other thing out of the way. Will you do that for me?”

“No, sir, I can't. And if you were in my shoes, you couldn't either.”

“Blade, I don't want you going in there. Please don't force me to order you to stay out.”

“Five minutes.”

“No, Blade.”

“For fuck's sake, sir—sorry about the language—it may have a bearing on the investigation. In fact, I'm bloody sure it does. Don't you see, sir? It's Gerry's daughter we're dealing with.”

“I know. And I still can't believe it.”

“Just five minutes, sir; that's all I ask. There'll be no rough stuff, I promise you that. Word of honor.”

Duffy laughed without humor.

“And the Slattery character? Come on, Blade; I know you too well. If he files a complaint, then don't expect my full and unbiased support. My God, what did you
do
to the man, reverse your car over his head?”

“I promise you, sir, I won't lay a hand on Charlie.”

Duffy sighed and looked at his watch.

“Very well. Five minutes, and not a second more. I'll have two men posted outside the cell—and the door stays open. If you so much as lay a finger on—”

“I won't.”

“You better not, Blade; I'm warning you.”

He thanked Duffy and strode down the corridor while the assistant commissioner telephoned the front desk.

*   *   *

The cells were located one floor lower and Blade took the steps two at a time.

Duffy was mistaken: this couldn't wait. For Blade suspected that Charlie Nolan held the key to Carol Merrigan's capture. He wasn't sure why. And yet he felt certain there was more than just coincidence involved.

Nolan, Roche, Merrigan—and Merrigan's daughter: each knew—or, in Gerry Merrigan's case, had known—something that Blade did not. The pieces of the puzzle were rapidly clicking into place on this, the eleventh and penultimate day of Angel.

The cell door was opened.

He hadn't expected that Nolan would be so bloody
meek.
His demeanor took Macken aback. The detainee was seated on the narrow bed; he looked up blankly as Blade was let into the cell. His eyes were red and puffy, in contrast with his skin, which appeared to have already assumed a prison pallor. This, Blade thought, is what they called a “broken man.” A cliché; but sometimes clichés spoke the truth better than anything he himself could dream up.

Blade had steeled himself for this encounter. You cannot banish ghosts easily; they have a habit of coming up behind you and tapping you on the shoulder when you least expect them. The murder of Gerry Merrigan haunted him as no other of “his” unsolved slayings.

Gerry had been, Blade always thought, the only genuine human being he'd ever had the privilege to share his life with. Gerry had been tough, had taught Blade about the fine line between compassion and understanding, and letting the bastards know that you weren't to be fucked with. He'd been gentle, too, a side of his personality he'd shown to few men other than Blade. Perhaps some part of Gerry Merrigan lived on in his protégé.

“Charlie.”

“Blade.”

“I don't like seeing you like this. Really I don't.”

Nolan managed a weak smile. “Nor me, Blade. I've made a right fucking cock-up of things, eh?”

“Listen, Charlie: Duffy's only let me have five minutes. He thinks I'm going to beat the living crap out of you. But I'm not. I wouldn't.”

“I know, Blade.” He looked around him. “I'd offer you a chair but as you can see there aren't any. Makes you think, doesn't it?”

“I'll stand. Look Charlie, is there anything you want to tell me?”

“About Roche?”

“For instance.”

“He's bad news, Blade. Bad fucking news.”

“Ah, tell me something new. Did he screw you as well?”

Nolan inspected a thumbnail. It had been chewed.

“You may as well know—it'll all come out sooner or later anyway—you may as well know I've been putting business his way for years now.”

“I hope you were charging the cunt plenty.”

“I was. But Blade, it wasn't for me! If
you
don't believe that, no one will.”

Nolan reached into his inside pocket and produced a wallet. He riffled through its contents.

“It's okay, Charlie.”

“No, I want you to see this. Listen to me, Blade. Listen now. It's important.”

Nolan found what he was looking for and passed it to Macken with a trembling hand. It was a color photograph, taken in a small room with floral-patterned wallpaper. The flash had cast a black shadow behind the subject and the wheelchair he sat in. It was difficult to guess the man's age: he could have been twenty, he could have been twice that. The hair was gray yet the face held a boyish look.

“That's Fintan. My youngest brother.”

“Handsome devil.”

“Ah, a real heartbreaker he was—until the illness got him. Muscular dystrophy.”

Blade continued to gaze at the photograph.

“Is that something like MS?”

“It's similar. Except with MD it's only the muscles that're affected. They just waste away, slowly, until the patient is bedridden. It won't be long now until Fintan reaches that phase.”

“I'm sorry,” Blade said, returning the photograph.

“I'm all he has. There's no one else. And I did it for
him,
Blade. Jesus Christ, the kid's been in and out of hospitals half his bloody life, had every specialist in. They cost a
fortune.
The money had to come from somewhere, y'know.”

“I understand, Charlie.”

“No, Blade, you don't. Why do you think it was so important for me to make promotion, to head the unit? It was the pension! They'll be retiring me in less than three years' time.” He closed his eyes. “At least, they would have been, if I hadn't a been so fucking stupid. I needed every penny of that pension, Blade. For Fintan. God knows what'll happen to him now.”

Macken was silent, uncomfortable. He noticed then that Nolan's shoelaces were missing.

“You have to understand me, Blade. I'd never anything against you. It was never anything personal. Christ, you helped me out of some scrapes in our time, you really did.”

Nolan looked pensively at the armored glass of the cell window, remembering.

“But I
had
to get there first, and when Duffy put you in charge of the Angel investigation, I saw my whole world caving in. I was desperate.”

Blade nodded. Then he said: “We'll work something out, Charlie. I'll speak to Duffy. I'll go to the commissioner himself if needs be. Christ, thirty-two years' service must count for something.”

An officer poked his head in.

“Sir, I'll have to ask you to leave now. Mr. Duffy was very specific about that.”

“Tell Duffy it's okay, Dan,” Nolan said.

“Are you sure, sir?”

“Very sure. Give us five more minutes, will you?”

The cell door was left ajar again.

“Listen, Charlie,” Blade said, “you know something that I don't. About Roche. About Gerry's murder. I can't guarantee it'll let you off the hook completely if you tell me, but I'll do my best on that score, I promise you.”

Nolan nodded. “I believe you. You're a good sort, Blade. Get Roche for me, will you? That's all I ask.”

“What was his part in the murder? Why didn't you want us to reopen the case?”

Macken unwrapped a Hamlet and lit it. Nolan the censorious nonsmoker hardly seemed to notice.

“He had me over a barrel, Blade,” he said. “The fucker had tape-recorded every transaction we'd made—going back years. I was afraid … But that's all in the past now. I've nothing to lose by telling you. Would you mind blowing the smoke in the other direction?”

“Sorry. I'm listening.”

“Roche has any amount of contacts in the underworld. It's natural in his line of work. If you're dealing with new alarm systems, new types of safes, then you get them tested by people who know what they're doing.”

Blade nodded. Then Nolan gave him a brief account of the facts surrounding the BMM file.

“So Roche hired the heavies, did he?”

“There wasn't supposed to be any rough stuff, Blade. Roche was as shocked as I was. Those two fuckers were either new to the job or they were a pair of homicidal maniacs. Jesus, poor Gerry!”

“I'll find them, Charlie; don't you worry. I'll beat it out of Roche if I have to.”

“You do that, Blade. And while you're at it, give him one for me.”

*   *   *

One of Roche's salesmen was demonstrating to a customer a Truth Phone, a device that monitored stress in your caller's voice, when Macken pushed through the door of Centurion Security.

“Is Roche in?”

A mask of professional, icy detachment descended like a visor over the salesman's features. “
Mister
Roche is not available.”

Blade pointed upward. “Is he in or isn't he?”

The man caught the menace behind Macken's words and gesture. It unnerved him.

“I-I'm sorry, but Mr. Roche left instructions that he's not to be disturbed.”

Blade smiled. “Thanks for answering my question.” He headed for a door marked
PRIVATE
to one side of the store.

“You can't go in there!”

“Watch me.”

“I'll call the Guards!”

“I
am
the fucking Guards.” The door swung shut behind him.

Weak daylight filtering through the landing window gave a feel of faded glory to the upper floor of Jim Roche's apartment. Specks of dust on the black carpet reinforced the impression of neglect. Macken made straight for the bedroom and flung open the door.

Roche had been reading, sitting up in his four-poster bed. His jaw fell.

“Hello, Cock,” Blade said pleasantly. “How are the balls? Jockstrap not too tight, is it?”

“Keep away from me, Macken!”

Blade sat down on the bed. Through the comforter he grasped one of Roche's feet, but gently. Roche gasped.

“There there, Cock. Nothing to be afraid of. You know I wouldn't kick a man when he's down.” His voice hardened. “That is, not unless you give me reason to. You follow me?”

“Wh-what do you want?”

“Names, Cock. Who killed Gerry Merrigan?”

Bombshell. Roche's jaw became slack again.

“I know you know, Cock. Nolan told me all about it.”

“Nolan…?”

“He's down in the cells. And he's willing to swear on his mother's walker that you were behind it.”

Blade casually turned back the comforter, exposing the soles of Roche's feet, swollen and discolored. Roche flinched and tried to move farther up the bed. Blade caught him by an ankle.

“You think your feet are sore now, Cock,” he hissed. “By Jesus, you don't know what
real
pain is. Ever heard the expression ‘opening old wounds'? Believe me, you wouldn't want me to do that.”

“Please, Blade…”

“The names.”

“I can't. They'll
kill
me. They'll find me, no matter where I am, and they'll kill me. You don't know what you're asking.”

“No they won't, Cock, I promise you that. You see, when I'm through with them they won't be in any state to kill anyone. Now: the names.”

“The Price brothers. Paddy and Dominic Price.”

“Where can I find them?”

“I don't know. They move around a lot.”

“You're not being very cooperative, Cock. We could play a bit of footsie again, you and me.…”

“Christ, Blade, that's all I know. I swear it. All I had that time was a phone number. It was probably disconnected ages ago. They may not even be in the country.”

“All right.” He let go of Roche's ankle.

If there had been any fight left in Jim Roche, then not a trace remained now. He heaved a deep sigh and closed his eyes.

“You're going to arrest me now, aren't you? Well, fucking do it and get it over with.”

Blade smiled. “No, Cock, I've no intention of arresting you. No, you're the man who likes to do deals. Ever since I've known you, you never stopped going on about the deal-to-end-all-deals. Well, Cock, I've got good news for you: You're finally going to do it. And when you've done it, I don't want to hear about any other rotten deals you make, 'cause if I do, I'll see that you're banged up in the Joy for the rest of your life. You follow me?”

“Yes.”

Blade took a folded paper from his pocket and smoothed it on the comforter. It was police stationery, regular Harcourt Square issue. The typed text comprised a single, short paragraph. It began with the words:
I, James P. Roche.

“You're going to sign this, Cock, and I'm going to witness it. Perfectly legal. In it you state that you're cohabiting with Joan—
and
supporting her financially.”

Roche read the words, and Macken was intrigued to see that his lips moved at the same time.

“That's all?”

“That's all, Cock.”

“And there won't be any comeback?”

“No. Not for me—and by Jesus not for you either.”

Roche signed. It was not his best or most assured signature.

Thirty-three

Elaine de Rossa, on returning from a long lunch, found an unusual E-mail waiting for her. It was from a company in Buenos Aires.

She frowned. Only when she'd scrolled down to the sender's name did she see it had come from her father.

Dear Elaine,

Don't give anybody this address, right? I don't want people bothering me here. I've little enough time to myself as it is and Carlos is being a right pain with his bloody haggling about the stallion. I wouldn't bother you either love except that there's something I think may be of interest to you. Give me a ring will you?