He sighed now, and Eve said nothing, asked no questions, let him gather it up in his head.
“They’d fought again in the car,” Leary went on, “and she’d told him she was good and done and to take her on to her ma’s, or just let her out. They’d been drinking, the both of them, and probably that added to the temper of it. He said he pulled over, and they shouted at each other more. It got physical. Him slapping, her scratching, then he said he just snapped. Hit her with his fists, and she kicked and hit and screamed. He claims he doesn’t remember putting his hands around her throat, and it might be the truth. But he came back to himself, and she was dead.”
Leary shook his head at the waste of it, scooted up a bit to hunch over his tea. “He told how he tried to bring her back somehow, how he just drove around a bit, trying to make it all not so. Then he pulled off at the wood, you see, carried her in—her other shoe was still in his car when they picked him up. He says he said a prayer over her and left her.
“He’s very sorry for it,” Leary added, with a hard bitterness in the tone that told Eve he’d lost a lot of his innocence that day. “He said, more than once, as if that would make it all right and tight again. He was very sorry for choking the life out of the girl because she didn’t want him. Bloody gobshite.”
He flushed a little. “Beg your pardon.”
“I’d say that’s a pretty good description.” Gobshite, she thought. She had to remember that one. “You did good work.”
“If I did, it was because you told me how.” His gaze lifted to hers. “The worst of it all was standing on her mother’s doorstep, saying what you’d told me to say. Watching that woman break apart that way. Knowing, even though it wasn’t you who’d done what was done, you brought that pain to her.”
“Now you’ve given her and her daughter justice. You did the job, and that’s all you can do.”
“Aye. Well, I could live my life easy with never having to break a mother’s heart again. But the rest . . .”
“Felt good.”
“It did, yes. And does. Does it still for you when you’ve done it?”
“If it didn’t, I don’t think I could knock on another mother’s door.”
He sat another moment, nodding to himself. “All right then.” He rose, held out a hand. “Thank you for all your help.”
“You’re welcome.” She shook.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll just go out the back and not disturb your family again. Would you tell them good night for me?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“It was fine meeting you, Lieutenant, even under the circumstances.”
He went out the back, and Eve shoved aside the tea she had no desire for. Like Leary she sat for a moment in silence. Then she pushed to her feet and went back to where the family gathered. The music stopped.
She walked to Sean, waited while he stood up.
“His name is Kevin Donahue. They’d come this way to go to a party, and had a fight. In the car after they’d left, they had a bigger fight and he killed her in what he claims and probably was what we call a moment of passion.”
“Just . . . just because he was mad at her?”
“More or less, yes. Then he got scared and sorry, but it was too late for sorry. Too late for I didn’t mean to or I wish I hadn’t. He’s weak and stupid and selfish, so he took her into the woods and left her there, and ran away. You found her less than twelve hours after he’d done that. Because you did, the police were able to find him, arrest him. He’ll be punished for what he did.”
“They’ll put him in a cage.”
“He’s in one now.”
“For how long?”
Jesus, Eve thought, kids were merciless. “I don’t know. Sometimes it doesn’t seem long enough, but it’s what we’ve got.”
“I hope they coshed him first, good and proper.”
Eve struggled back a grin. “Kid, if you want to be a cop, you have to learn not to say that out loud. Bad guy’s in a cage. Case closed. Have some cake or something.”
“A fine idea.” Sinead moved in to take Sean’s hand. “Help me slice up what’s left of it, that’s a good lad.” She sent Eve a quick smile. “Eemon, get that fiddle going. Our Yank will think we don’t know how to have a ceili.”
Eve started to sit as the music flew out again, but Brian grabbed her, gave her a swing. “I’ll have a dance, Lieutenant darling.”
“I don’t do that. The dance thing.”
“You do tonight.”
Apparently she did. And so did everyone else until the middle of the night, when her legs were rubber and barely carried her to bed.
Where the rooster woke her at dawn.
They said some good-byes over breakfast. Good-byes included a great many hugs, a lot of kissing. Or, in the case of Brian, being lifted right off her feet.
“I’ll come courting the minute you’re done with that one.”
What the hell, she thought, and kissed him back. “Okay, but he’s got some miles in him yet.”
He laughed, turned to slap hands with Roarke. “Lucky bastard. Take care of yourself, and her.”
“The best I can.”
“I’m walking you to the car.” Sinead took Roarke’s hand. “I’m going to miss you.” She smiled at Eve as they walked through misting rain. “Both of you.”
“Come for Thanksgiving.” Roarke squeezed her hand.
“Oh . . .”
“We’d like all of you to come again, as you did last year. I can make the arrangements.”
“I know you can. I would love it. I think I’d be safe in saying we’d all love it.” She sighed, just leaned into Roarke for a moment. Then she drew back, kissed his cheek. “From your mother,” she murmured, then kissed the other. “From me.” Then laid her lips lightly to his. “And from all of us.”
She repeated the benediction on Eve before blinking her damp eyes.
“Go on now, go enjoy your holiday. Safe journey.” She grabbed Roarke’s hand another moment, spoke in Irish, then backed up, waving them away.
“What did she say?” Eve asked when they got into the car.
“Here’s love, she said, to hold until next we meet and I give you more.”
He watched her in the rearview until they’d turned out of sight.
In the silence Eve stretched out her legs. “I guess you are a pretty lucky bastard.”
It made him smile; he sent her a quick, cocky look. “As they come,” he agreed.
“Eyes on the road, Lucky Bastard.”
She tried not to hold her breath all the way to the airport.
4
IT WAS GOOD TO BE HOME. DRIVING DOWNTOWN to Cop Central through ugly traffic, blasting horns, hyping ad blimps, belching maxibuses just put her in a cheerful mood.
Vacations were great, but to Eve’s mind New York had it all and a bag of soy chips.
The temperature might have been as brutal as a tax audit, with sweaty waves of heat bouncing off concrete and steel, but she wouldn’t trade her city for any place on or off planet.
She was rested, revved, and ready for work.
She rode the elevator up from the garage, shuffling over as more cops squeezed in on every floor. When she felt the oxygen supply depleting, she pried her way out to take the glides the rest of the way up.
It smelled like home, she thought—cop, criminal, the pissed off, the unhappy, the resigned. Sweat and bad coffee merged together in an aroma she wasn’t sure could be found anywhere but a cop shop.
And that was fine with her.
She listened to a beanpole of a man in restraints mutter his mantra as a pair of uniforms muscled him up the glide.
Fucking cops, fucking cops, fucking cops.
It was music to her ears.
She stepped off, angled toward Homicide, and spotted Jenkinson, one of her detectives, studying the offerings at Vending with a hopeless expression.
“Detective.”
He brightened slightly. “Hey, Lieutenant, good to see you.”
He looked as if he’d slept in his clothes for a couple days.