“Can you tell me how, the best way?”
“Quick. Take a grief counselor, or,” she said, remembering where she was, “maybe a priest. Maybe the mother has a priest you could take with you. Then you say it, get it done, because when she sees a cop and a priest, she knows it’s bad news. You identify yourself—rank, name, division, or whatever it is around here. You’re sorry to inform her that her daughter, Holly Curlow, has been murdered.”
Leary looked at the body again, shook his head. “Just like that?”
“There’s no good way. Get her to tell you all she can, and tell her as little as you can. When did she last see or speak to Holly, did she have a boyfriend, who did she hang with, what did she do. You have to have a feel for it, you have to guide her through it.”
“Christ save us,” he murmured.
“Use the priest or the counselor, offer to contact someone to come be with her. She’ll likely ask you how, and you tell her that’s being determined. She’ll ask why, and you tell her you and the investigative team will do everything possible to find out, and to identify the person who hurt her. That’s the only comfort you can give, and your job is to get information.”
“I wonder if I could ask if you—”
“I can’t go with you,” she said, anticipating him. “I can get away with what I’m doing here because I’m a wit who also happens to be a cop. It makes me, unofficially maybe, an expert consultant. But I can’t investigate or interview or notify next of kin. It’s over the line.”
She stuck her hands in her pockets. “Look, you can contact me after you get some of this done, some of it lined up. Maybe I can give you some angles if you need them. It’s all I can do.”
“It’s been a great deal already.”
“You’ve got my contact information. I’m due to leave for Italy tomorrow.”
“Oh.” He looked pained.
“You get an ID from what’s under her nails, Leary, and you’ll have a suspect before nightfall. I’ve got to get back.” She took one last look at the dead. “You’ll do all right by her.”
“I hope I do. Thank you.”
She started back to the park, a little uneasy about walking through that green wood—not of killers or maniacs, but of fauna and the stupid faeries she didn’t even believe in.
So she pulled out her ’link to contact Roarke. She’d asked him to go on back rather than wait.
“There you are,” he said when his face came on-screen.
“I’m heading back. I can’t do any more here.”
“Difficult.”
“On a lot of levels. The local’s okay. Not much confidence but a decent brain. She has trace under her nails, blood and skin. If he’s in the bank, they’ll ID him quick enough. Leary’s got to notify the mother, and with any luck she’ll give him a name or two. It has the smell of a slam-dunk to me—impulse, stupidity, panic. The killer may try to run, but they’ll get him. He’s as green at this as Leary is.”
She scanned the area as she walked, just in case something four-legged and furry made an appearance. “Got some cops coming down from where she was living. I expect they’ll knock on some doors first, get a sense of her.”
“What’s your sense?”
“Young, maybe a little wild, more tats showed up when the ME started his exam. More piercings. Sexy panties, but they were still on her so I’m doubting sexual assault. But I’m betting the murder had its roots there. She left with the wrong guy, or she flirted with somebody, and the guy she was with didn’t like it. Argue, slap, scratch, punch, passion and fury, he chokes her out of that fury or to shut her the hell up—and kills her before he pulls it together again. Panic. This can’t be happening to me. Self-preservation. Get rid of her, get away from her. Go home and hide.”
“Did you run probabilities?”
“Maybe.” She smiled just a little. “To pass the time. I guess this kind of screwed up the day.”
“It certainly did for Holly Curlow.”
“You’ve got that right. If you come pick me up, we can go back and do whatever it is we’re supposed to do with the rest of it.”
“Happy to.”
When she stepped out of the woods seconds later—with only the slightest shudder of relief—she saw him. He sat on the lip of the fountain, looking toward her.
“You made pretty good time,” she said into her ’link.
“No reason to dawdle.”
“What’s a dawdle exactly? Is it more than a pause, less than procrastination?”
Now he smiled. “Somewhere in that vicinity.”
She shut off the ’link, slipped it into her pocket as she approached. “People should be able to dawdle when they’re on vacation.”
“So they should.” He took her hand, drew her down to sit beside him. “This is a fine spot for dawdling.”
“It didn’t spoil it?”
“No.” He draped an arm over her shoulders, pressed a kiss to her temple. “Who knows better than we that death happens even in good places? You wish you could finish it for her.”
“I can’t. She’s Leary’s. Technically,” she added when he kissed her again.
“Then know that she was lucky you were here. And that if it doesn’t go as you think it will, we can easily spend a few more days in Clare.”
Part of her wanted to agree, to hold him to the offer. But the rest, what had evolved between them, had her shaking her head. “No. This isn’t my case, and this is our time. Let’s go back to the farm. I think I could use a pint.”
Leary contacted her three times, with information and for advice. She tried to be discreet about it, easing her way out of the room to take the transmission. And she kept the updates to herself even though the family—including Sean, who’d wheedled his way into an overnight—stared at her on her return.
By moonrise, he was on the doorstep.
“Good evening to you, Mrs. Lannigan. Sorry to disturb you, but I wonder if I could just have a word with the lieutenant.”
“Come in, Jimmy. How’s your ma doing then?”
“She’s well, thanks.”
“How about a cup of tea?”
“Sure I could use one.”
“Come on back to the kitchen.” Without looking around, she pointed a finger at Sean when he got to his feet. “Sit where you are, lad.”
“But, Gran, I—”
“And not a word out of you. Eve, why don’t you come on back? You and Jimmy can have a cup and talk in private.”
Removing his uniform hat, Jimmy stepped in, looked around. “How’s it all going then?”
“Well enough,” Aidan Brody told him. “You’ve had a hard day, lad. Go have your tea.”
Sinead fussed a little, setting out the tea, adding a plate of the cookies they called—for reasons that eluded Eve—biscuits. She gave Leary a motherly pat on the shoulder.
“Take all the time you need. I’ll keep that lot out of your way.”
“Thanks for that.” Leary added sugar and milk to his tea, then with eyes closed took a long sip. “Missed my supper,” he told Eve and grabbed a cookie.
He looked tired, and considerably less green—in complexion and experience—than he had that afternoon. “Murder usually trumps food.”
“I know that now, that’s for certain. We have him.” He let out a little breath, almost a surprised laugh. “We have the one who killed Holly Curlow. I wanted to tell you in person.”
“Boyfriend?”
He nodded. “Or one who thought he ought to be the one and only for her, and who she’d decided to shake off. They’d been at a party in Ennis last night, got into a bit of a spat. They’d come, it seems, as a kind of reunion for her with some mates from that neck. They’d—Kevin Donahue is his name—been seeing each other for a few months with him more serious about the thing than she. I went up to Limerick myself when we got the DNA, and they’d picked him up. She’s scored both his cheeks like a cat would, and good for her, I say about that.”
He took another sip of tea. “It just tumbled down from there, you could say. They had me sit in on the interview, but it was quick. Three minutes in and he’s bawling like a baby and telling all.”