“You don’t assume anything because if you do, you’ll be wrong. He went to seminary school in Dublin and just before he was to be ordained, he disappeared. No one knows what he did between the year of his disappearance and his reappearance in the U.S., but sources say he has strong ties to the Continuity Irish Republic Army, which is more than likely his pipeline for the drugs.”
“And you said he’s known on the street as the Priest?”
She nodded in confirmation but her eyes said, “No shit.”
I almost laughed out loud.
“How could the DEA have been unaware until recently?” one of the agents shouted out.
“You tell me,” she sneered.
“And we’ve never had eyes on him?” another guy asked.
She shook her head. “As far as I can tell by flipping through old reports, he was a myth. No one ever laid eyes on the Priest, so the DEA assumed he wasn’t real. Something conjured up to take our attention off what it should be on. Happens all the time. We have so many leads that go nowhere and so many hyped-up heads of drug rings that never existed. According to these reports, any investigation into the Priest led to a dead end.”
“Makes no sense,” someone mumbled.
Irritated, Blanchet slammed her fist down. “All I can say is either he was really good at staying underground or all of you are really stupid.”
O’Reilly stood. He had some balls. He strode over to the whiteboard and started writing. “Seamus O’Shea is still at large. We believe him to be traveling with his wife and son. No known direction.”
“We have this composite of his kid,” Blanchet added, pointing to a taped-up photo Elle helped a sketch artist render.
“Looks like another sick fuck,” one of the guys muttered.
That earned him a look from Blanchet. “Let’s stick to the facts. Text messages and voicemails from Seamus O’Shea on the day of Michael O’Shea’s suicide clearly show threats made toward his sister-in-law, Elle Sterling, and his daughter.” She pointed to screen shots taken from his phone.
The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.
“Are they still in danger?” someone interrupted.
“Not that we have reason to believe. As far as we can ascertain, the reasons for the threats had to do with Michael O’Shea’s political career and well, since there won’t be one, I would surmise they should be out of danger.”
Miles was leaning against a window with his arms crossed. “What do you say we concentrate on finding Seamus O’Shea?”
Blanchet’s head snapped in his direction.
The room quieted.
And then she gave him the slightest smile of agreement.
Another agent raised his hand like we were in class.
Blanchet nodded.
He pointed to the board. “What does Seamus O’Shea have to do with Tommy Flannigan’s murder?”
“A life for a life,” I muttered.
Blanchet looked at me.
“It’s an old mob saying.”
“Whose life?” he asked.
The last thing I was going to do was get Frank involved, so I shrugged and said, “I have no idea.” I did, of course. Mickey must have told Seamus what happened years ago, how when he went to shoot at Patrick, Rose got in the way, and then once Seamus was holding the cards, he ordered Patrick to have his own son killed to avenge his mother.
A life for a life.
I’m sure Patrick had a choice, just as my father had years ago. His life or his son’s life.
There’s always a choice.
Blanchet started writing on the board again.
Hands went up.
Miles took the lead and answered most of the questions. In time, he would share Mickey and Rose O’Shea’s tragic story with the DEA. Just not yet. We needed some time to let things settle for all of us first. For Clementine’s sake, Elle wanted the O’Shea name out of the press as much as possible. I understood that.
I watched Miles in action.
Where Blanchet was good, Miles was better. But since she officially worked for the DEA and he didn’t, he had to follow her command. I had a feeling that it was just a matter of time and soon he’d be on her team or possibly managing her. Either way, combined, they both had enough of the facts, and I was certain together they would bring Seamus O’Shea to justice.
With Seamus O’Shea on the lam, and no political hopeful in his pocket anymore, we all really did believe Elle and Clementine were no longer in danger. I had to give it to Michael O’Shea: in the end, he took care of his family the only way he could.
He had made the right choice.
Completely over all of this, I rose to my feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I don’t think I can be of any more help.”
She nodded. “Thanks, McPherson. You’re free to go.”
The way she said it, I knew what she meant.
My father was free. I was free. Elle was free.
Finally, Elle and I could be together without outside forces pulling us apart.
And if that didn’t sound like a happily ever after, I didn’t know what did.
DAY 85
ELLE
I had never been much of a romantic.