Death of Riley (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #2)

“There. Behind the woman with the baby.”


I stared at the person he was indicating and then looked up at Ryan in surprise. If this was Leon, I never would have recognized him. Gone were the black clothing and the cap. He was dressed conservatively in a brown jacket, shirt and tie. He looked like any other visitor—a serious young clerk or college student. And, more strangely still, I saw for the first time that his hair was light brown, parted in the middle and slicked down neatly. I had never noticed his hair, because he had always been wearing that black cap, so he had always given me the impression of being dark. Of course, I was too far away to see his eyes. I would have remembered them anywhere.

“What should we do now?” I whispered.

As I turned to Ryan, I saw him reach into his pocket. At that moment the world stood still. I saw how stupidly naive I had been. Ryan must have planned this whole charade. What had he just said about real anarchists not looking the part? Was he not a brilliant actor who had played his part perfectly? I realized how cleverly he had kept me in his sight and not let me go to the police, even to the point of making sure I slept in his theater. He had tricked me into thinking he wanted to prevent Leon from committing the crime, when he was the mastermind behind this plot, now poised in a perfect position in case Leon somehow missed his target. And I—I had become the accomplice, the hostage, trapped up here with someone who was a ruthless killer. I looked around wildly, but help was quite out of reach. Well, I wasn't going to let him carry out his deed if I could help it.

His hand came out of his pocket and I saw that the object he held was not a gun, but a white handkerchief. At that moment I noticed that Leon, like several other men, was holding a handkerchief in his hand. It had to be used for a signal.

As Ryan went to raise his arm I flung myself onto him. We staggered sideways together, and almost went over the railing.

“What the devil?” Ryan shouted, grabbing on to me to steady us both. “Have you gone mad?”

At that moment we heard the shot. It echoed back from that great dome, sounding just like the popping of a large firecracker. Then all hell broke loose. Women were screaming. Men were wrestling below us. Others had clustered around a fallen man.

“He's done it!” Ryan gasped. “He's really done it!” He spun around, grabbing my shoulders. “I could have stopped him! Who are you? Are you one of them? Did you wish the President dead?”

He was shaking me violently.

“I thought you did.” I felt as if I was about to burst into tears and fought to master myself. “You got out that handkerchief. I thought it was a signal.”

“The sweat was running into my eyes, you stupid girl!” We stood glaring at each other. “I was about to call out his name. He'd have panicked and they could have grabbed him. What on earth made you think I was in on it with him?”

“Paddy Riley, the detective that Leon killed—he snapped a photo of you and Leon the day before he was murdered. I've never truly known whether I could trust you or not.”

He looked at me quite tenderly now. “Then you're a brave little colleen to come up here with me. I could easily have thrown you over.”

“I know,” I said. “I was well aware of that.”

“It doesn't matter now,” Ryan said. “We're too late. We failed.” He gave a big sigh and turned to leave the balcony.

“Maybe he didn't hit his mark. Maybe the President is just wounded,” I said.

At that moment there were shouts and the clatter of boots coming up the stairs. Before we could move, guns were trained on us.

“We've got them. More of the gang,” a voice shouted.

Hands grabbed us and we were manhandled down the steps.

“Let go,” I yelled in fright as my hands were wrenched behind my back. “We're not his accomplices. We were trying to stop him, you fools.” But nobody listened to me as we were dragged out of the building.

“Do you know who I am? I'm Ryan O'Hare, the famous playwright,” Ryan shouted. “We thought this man might do something and we tried to stop him.”

“We tried to get into the building. We tried to talk to someone in charge, but nobody would listen to us!” I yelled. “You're making a big mistake. Get your hands off me!”

“Take them down to headquarters for questioning,” a voice commanded. “Quick. Get them out of here before the crowd tears them to pieces.”

The next moments passed in a blur. A crowd of angry faces surged toward us as I was dragged toward a waiting police wagon. The wagon door opened and Ryan was flung inside.

“She's the one. She shot the President! String her up, boys. Don't let them take her away,” voices shouted in my ear. Hands grabbed at my skirt. I heard a ripping sound, someone fired a warning shot and I was thrown into the wagon after Ryan. Then whips were cracked and we were galloped away.