Now You See Her

TWENTY-FOUR


REALLY, MRS. TAGGART,” CHRISTOPHER Murphy was saying, leaning back in the chair behind his desk and cupping his hands behind his head. “We have to stop meeting this way.”

Marcy smiled, appreciating the senior garda’s attempt at levity, however strained. She knew what he probably wanted to do was lock her in a holding cell until she was due to leave Ireland, or better yet, personally escort her to the airport and strap her into her seat on the Air Canada jet back to Toronto himself. Despite his outwardly calm demeanor, she recognized the look of contained fury in his eyes that said he was this close to leaping across the desk and wrapping his fingers around her throat. She’d seen that same look in Peter’s eyes many times in the months leading up to his eventual desertion.

“I’m truly sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused,” Marcy told him.

Murphy waited, as if he’d already heard the “but” that was about to follow.

“But I haven’t done anything wrong,” Marcy said obligingly.

“Not much you’ve done right either,” was Murphy’s instant retort.

“That’s true,” Marcy was forced to concede. “But, as far as I know, I haven’t broken any laws.”

“Don’t know about that. I think a good case might be made for being a public nuisance.”

“A public nuisance? That’s ridiculous.”

“This is your third visit to this station in as many days,” he said. “Not to mention the little stunt you pulled last night.”

“The stunt …?” Dear God, had that bastard Kieran filed a formal complaint?

“I understand you spent some quality time with one of our boys in the front seat of his patrol car,” Christopher Murphy said, nodding toward the open folder on his desk.

Marcy felt her shoulders slump. “You know about that,” she stated more than asked.

“Marcy Taggart, Canadian citizen, found wandering the Cork hills at around ten p.m.,” he recited from memory, “a little wobbly on her feet, smelling of alcohol, likely inebriated …”

“I was not drunk.”

“No? What were you then?”

“I just needed some air.”

“At ten o’clock at night? In the pouring rain? Far from your hotel?” Murphy nodded, then shook his head, as if arguing with himself over how best to proceed. “Is that what you were doing this morning as well then? Just getting some air?”

Another weary shake of his head when Marcy failed to respond. “Mrs. Leary said it wasn’t the first time she caught you snoopin’ around the O’Connors’ house.”

“I wasn’t snoopin’,” Marcy replied pointedly, then immediately wished she hadn’t. Christopher Murphy wasn’t the enemy. What was the point in antagonizing him? “If anybody’s a snoop, it’s that damn Mrs. Leary.”

“She saw you peeking in her neighbor’s windows, tiptoeing around the side of their house, looking in their garage,” Murphy rattled off, carefully enunciating the final G of each verb.

“I was just trying to see if the O’Connors were still home.”

Murphy nodded. “The fact that nobody answered when you knocked or rang their bell wasn’t enough of a clue?”

“I already told the other officers—”

“You were trying to warn them,” the garda stated as the door to his office opened and Officer Sweeny stepped inside. He walked around the side of Christopher Murphy’s desk and whispered something in his ear, his pronounced belly brushing up against the sleeve of Murphy’s uniform. Murphy nodded several times, and Sweeny left the room with a knowing smile in Colleen Donnelly’s direction. The female garda was standing in a far corner of the room, one thin ankle crossed over the other, her shoulder leaning against the off-white wall, so quiet that Marcy had all but forgotten she was there.

“Yes, that’s right,” Marcy said.

“That there’s a plot afoot to kidnap their baby.”

“Right again,” Marcy said, trying to ignore the tired note of skepticism she heard in the policeman’s voice.

“And you think this because …?”

“I’ve already explained.”

“Explain it again.”

Marcy sighed, understanding the drill. Might as well cooperate, she thought, knowing there was no point in arguing. She wasn’t going to get out of here until she went over every last detail of her story again. And, very likely, again after that.

“I overheard a phone conversation,” she said, folding her arms across her chest and speaking to the floor.

“Back up a minute,” Murphy barked, his tone forcing her eyes up to his. “Where was this?”

“Outside Mulcahy’s.” Marcy glanced at the temporary black tattoo on the back of her hand. It had faded only slightly from the night before, despite repeated attempts to remove it.

“And what, pray tell, possessed you to go to a place like Mulcahy’s?”

“I was looking for my daughter—”

“That would be Audrey?”

“Devon,” Marcy said, correcting him.

“Yes, right. She’s just calling herself Audrey these days. Who told you about Mulcahy’s?”

“I asked one of the housekeeping staff at my hotel if she knew a popular spot for young people.…”

“And she mentioned Mulcahy’s.”

“Yes.”

“And so you went there.”

“Yes.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“What time was that?”

“I’m not sure. Around seven, I think.”

“Mulcahy’s is an after-hours club. It doesn’t open until ten.”

“So I discovered.”

“So you decided to go for a long walk,” he said.

“No. First I went to a pub.”

“Which one?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember?”

“It was on the North Channel. There was a band playing Irish music. I don’t know its name. Why? What difference does it make? It was just a pub in the area.”

“What did you eat?”

“I don’t understand. Why are you asking me this?” Her eyes appealed to Colleen Donnelly for assistance. Colleen Donnelly’s eyes remained stubbornly blank and unhelpful.

“Just trying to get a feel for things, Mrs. Taggart. Surely you remember what you ate for dinner last night.”

“It was a ham and cheese sandwich,” Marcy said, recalling the meal she’d never had the chance to eat.

“And how was it?”

“Fine.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Have a beer with it?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Just one.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“Quite sure.”

Murphy stretched his arms high above his head before leaning forward and resting his elbows on his desk, his chin balancing on the backs of his hands. “Okay, so how long would you say you were in the pub? An hour? Two, maybe? Just trying to establish a timeline,” he explained before Marcy had a chance to protest.

She cleared her throat. Had that idiot Kieran actually had the gall to report her to the police? Was Murphy trying to trick her with this parade of seemingly innocent questions? “I don’t think I was there all that long,” she said. “I ate my sandwich, drank my beer, then I left.”

“And did what?”

“Nothing. Just walked.”

“In the rain?”

“It’s usually raining,” she told him.

“Yes, that’s unfortunately true,” Murphy said with a laugh.

Marcy sat back in her chair, trying to appear relaxed, to will the stiffness from her lips so that her smile wouldn’t appear as forced as she suspected it looked. She crossed her legs at the knees and then brought her hand up to tuck her hair behind her ear.

“What’s that on your sleeve?” Murphy asked immediately.

“What?” Marcy quickly lowered her arm, taking only a cursory glance at the dried blood that stained her sweater.

“Looks like blood.”

“Blood?” Marcy pretended to take a closer look. “No. Of course not. It’s ketchup, that’s all.”

“Take ketchup on your ham and cheese sandwich, do you?”

“It’s not blood,” Marcy said, louder than she’d intended.

“Ketchup it is then. All right.” He returned to his original line of questioning. “So, you walked around for a couple of hours in the rain until you were stopped by Officer Reagan.…”

“Yes.”

“And you sat and chatted with him awhile, until he received a call about a burglary.…”

“Yes.”

“And then instead of going back to your hotel, as I believe you promised him you would do, you headed straight back to Mulcahy’s.”

“Yes,” Marcy said guiltily. Did the Irish consider it a crime to break your promise?

“And at Mulcahy’s, you just happened to see the lad you say ran you down with his bicycle some days back.”

“Yes.”

“And he was with Shannon, the girl you fought with at Grogan’s House the other day.”

“You’re twisting what happened.…”

“And you overheard them plotting to kidnap—”

“No,” Marcy interrupted, understanding this was no careless mistake on his part. “I overheard Jax on his cell phone.”

“When you followed him outside,” Murphy stated.

“Yes.”

“And he was talking about kidnapping the O’Connor baby?”

“Not exactly.”

“What exactly?”

“He said that everything had been moving according to plan,” Marcy told him. “He made a joke about ‘Operation Baby-cakes’—”

“Operation Babycakes?” the garda repeated incredulously.

“I know it sounds ridiculous.”

“And you naturally assumed he was referring to the O’Connor baby.”

Marcy decided to ignore the inherent sarcasm of the word “naturally.” “Not right away, no. I had no idea what he was talking about at the time.”

“When did you figure it out?”

Marcy hesitated. This was the part she’d been dreading, the moment she went from nuisance to nutcase. “Later.”

“Later? What happened … later?”

“I had a dream.” She admitted it reluctantly, already picturing the bemused looks of condescension on the faces of the two gardai.

“So this epiphany came to you in a dream, did it?” Christopher Murphy asked as Colleen Donnelly pushed herself away from the wall and buried her growing smile behind the fingers of her left hand.

“That’s not what I said.”

“I’m sorry. I thought you did.”

“The dream just helped me put the pieces together.”

“Perhaps you’d be good enough to explain how.”

“Jax said that everything had been moving according to plan,” Marcy repeated yet again, her voice rising. “He said he was starting to feel like James Bond and that maybe they should call their plan—”

“Operation Babycakes,” both gardai said together.

“Yes. That’s right. But now everything was going to have to be delayed because the O’Connors were going away for a few days, and he was upset because he could already taste the money.”

“The money they were going to collect as ransom?”

“Yes.”

“Did he actually ever use the word ‘ransom’?”

Marcy shook her head. “No.”

“You just assumed that’s what he meant?”

“Bit of a leap, don’t you think?” Colleen Donnelly interjected.

Marcy glared in her direction. “What else could it mean?”

“If you thought there was a plot to kidnap the O’Connor baby,” Murphy asked logically, “why didn’t you call us?”

Marcy took a deep breath, pausing for several seconds before answering. “Because I was afraid that Devon might be involved. I didn’t want to get her in trouble, and I thought if I could just talk to the O’Connors—”

“So, you rushed right over to their house to warn them?” Murphy asked probingly, his tone indicating that he already knew the answer to his question.

Shit, Marcy thought. Shit, shit, shit. “No.”

“You didn’t try to warn them?”

“Not right away, no.”

“You waited ’til this morning?”

Marcy nodded.

“And why is that, Mrs. Taggart?”

“I already told you. I needed time to figure things out.”

“Because you weren’t sure.”

“I was tired.…”

“Tired and confused,” Murphy added.

“I just needed some time.…”

“To sleep on it.”

“Yes.”

“So you went to sleep and had a dream.…”

“It’s not as simple as you’re making it out to be,” Marcy insisted. “My subconscious was obviously trying to piece everything together.”

“So it was your subconscious that told you this Jax person had been possibly conspiring with your daughter, Devon or Audrey or whatever she’s calling herself these days, that same daughter who everyone else, including your ex-husband, insists is dead, that these two people conspired to seduce the O’Connor nanny in order to kidnap their baby.…”

“Believe me, I know how crazy this must sound,” Marcy said.

“It does sound a trifle far-fetched,” Colleen Donnelly said.

“I’m not crazy,” Marcy told them.

Crazy bitch! she heard Kieran shout.

This is crazy, she heard Judith mutter.

“I’m not crazy,” Marcy repeated, tears falling the length of her cheeks.

Christopher Murphy came around the front of his desk, perched against its side, and leaned in toward her. “Mrs. Taggart, I don’t doubt for a minute that you believe everything you’ve told us. I also believe your intentions are honorable and pure.”

“It’s just that you don’t think what I’m saying has any merit,” Marcy said.

“Can you try to look at it from our perspective?” He took a deep breath before continuing. “You’ve suffered two terrible losses in as many years: Your daughter was presumed drowned almost two years ago in a tragic accident, and your husband left you. You’re alone in a strange country; your imagination is working overtime; even you have to admit you’re not behaving rationally. You’ve already been hauled down here twice before for creating a disturbance; you’ve been tossed out of your hotel and picked up for wandering the streets; you’ve been sleeping with virtual strangers—”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound judgmental. Of course you’re free to sleep with whomever you like.”

“I’ve slept with exactly two men in the last quarter of a century,” Marcy said. “My husband and—”

“A man you met on a bus.” Murphy finished for her. “We spoke to Vic Sorvino,” he added before Marcy could muster up any further cries of indignation.

“You did? When?”

“We intercepted him at the airport yesterday afternoon as he was about to board a plane for Rome. He denied trashing your hotel room, said that when he left, everything was in order. He made no objections to our searching his luggage or his pockets for your earrings. Our search revealed nothing.”

“Oh, God. Poor Vic.” Of course he’d had nothing to do with the trashing of her hotel room. It had been Jax. He’d stolen her earrings, given them to Shannon.

“And Liam Flaherty?” Colleen Donnelly asked.

“Liam?” The sudden mention of his name—his last name was Flaherty?—startled Marcy. “I’m not sleeping with Liam.”

“What exactly is your relationship with Mr. Flaherty?” Murphy asked.

It seemed strange to hear the police refer to Liam as Mr. Flaherty, Marcy thought. It gave him a weight, a substance, she’d formerly denied him. “He’s a friend. I told you, he’s been helping me look for Devon. You can ask him, if you’d like.”

“Think I just might do that. He’s waiting in the next room.”

“What?”

“Sweeny said he showed up about half an hour ago, very concerned about you.”

“He begged me to call you,” Marcy told them.

“Should have listened to him.”

About a lot of things, she thought.

“If you’ll excuse me a minute,” Murphy said, leaving the room before Marcy could think of a reason to object.

“He’s a very handsome man,” Colleen Donnelly remarked as Christopher Murphy closed the door after him.

“Officer Murphy?”

Colleen laughed. “Liam Flaherty.”

“Oh. Yes, I guess he is.”

“That Sorvino fellow isn’t half-bad either. And much more age appropriate, if you ask me.”

Marcy shrugged, tuning Colleen Donnelly out and thinking of how humiliated Vic must have been to be “intercepted” at the airport by the police, to be questioned and searched. He must hate me, she thought.

“… Can’t imagine what it’s like to be married to the same man for twenty-five years,” Colleen was saying as Marcy tuned back in.

She agreed. “It’s a long time.”

“My parents separated when I was two. Never really knew my dad. My mother burned all his pictures, so I never even knew what he looked like. I used to imagine he was this big, tall, handsome bloke with red hair and a full beard. Sometimes I’d see a stranger walkin’ down the street and I’d pretend it was him, and I’d follow him around, sometimes for hours. One time I had myself absolutely convinced.…”

Marcy sighed, recognizing that Colleen was trying to gain her confidence and trust with her probably made-up story. “You think that’s what I’m doing?”

“Sometimes we just want something so bad.…”

“You think I want my daughter to be involved in a kidnapping plot?”

“I think you want your daughter back,” Colleen said simply.

“I think we’re through talking,” Marcy told her sharply. Then she sat back in her chair and closed her eyes. She didn’t open them again until she heard the door open and Christopher Murphy announce she was free to go.