Black Diamond (11 page)

The old man turned around and leaned against the rail. He looked me dead in the eye. “To hell with them all. For Danny. What do you want to know?”

“Black Diamond. You said he was sent over from Ireland. Where in Ireland?”

“There's a place west of Dublin called The Curragh. It's in County Kildare. Lot of horse farms there. This one raises just Thoroughbreds. It's a small operation as near as I can tell. I don't know a hell of a lot about it.”

“What's it called?”

“
Dubh Crann
Stables. It means Black Tree.”

“You speak the language, Rick?”

I got the first half smile. “I got trouble enough with English.”

“Who contacted you?”

“His name's Kieran Dowd.”

“What does he look like?”

“Dammed if I know. We did the whole thing over the phone. I don't think he ever came over here.”

I walked over to lean on the rail beside him so we could lower our voices.

“What was the deal, Rick?”

He wiped his face with a hand grown oversized from a life of
pulling on reins and halters. I'd seen him make that gesture every time he was wrestling with a decision.

“They deliver the horse. I train him. Enter him in that race on MassCap day. That was it. We keep a third of the winnings and anything we can make on a bet. It looked good at the time.”

I moved even closer, because this was the touchy part.

“Rick, what was good about it? His breeding is mediocre, to be generous. His workouts were the pits. I could practically beat him on foot.”

He gave me a sideways look with a trace of a grin that died as soon as it was born.

“You don't know what we've been through, Mike. This stable's on its last legs. These are not the days of Miles O'Connor. Look down that row.” He pointed his chin to the stables.

“There's not a one of them that's not nursing swollen knees, biting shins, hot ankles. I can't run any of them more than once in six weeks. When I do, they barely cover the hay bill.”

He shrugged.

“I'm not griping. It's the life I chose for the good days and bad. But this deal came out of the blue. I thought maybe lightning could strike.”

I could have said, “Based on what?” I could have asked out of what miraculous depth the Diamond pulled the burst of speed he showed in that race. But I'd asked it before and got no answer.

It was around nine thirty when I caught Mr. D. on his way out of the office.

“I'm walking up to Federal Court, Michael. Walk with me.”

He caught a good look at me in the elevator.

“Good Lord, Michael. Have you been to bed this week?”

“It's just a little cold. It'll pass. I need your help with something.”

He gave me his immediate you-name-it nod, and then his serious look. “This involves little Erin, doesn't it? Any news?”

The question tightened the bands around my heart again.

“Yes.” I just shook my head.

“Dear God, you don't mean—”

I could only nod.

“Have you told Danny's wife?”

“Not yet.”

“How did you hear?”

I filled him in on my meeting with Scully.

“Can you trust his word?”

“About as far as I could throw City Hall. But I think he was on the level this time. That's what I want to talk to you about. I have to go to Dublin.”

If it were anyone else, I'd have had to paint the rest of the picture. Mr. D. understood without words. He just said, “When?”

“Tonight.”

“What do you need?”

“I need to get together with Billy Coyne. We both know he's holding back on what's really behind indicting Hector. I still think there's a connection with Erin. He might have something that could give me some leverage over there.”

We reached the street. Mr. D. was going to cross Franklin toward the Water Street entrance to Federal Court. He stopped before crossing and took out his cell phone, one of his few concessions to the twenty-first century. He hit one of the numbers on speed dial. While it was ringing, he looked back at me.

“Meet us for lunch, Michael. Twelve thirty.”

“Will he do it?”

“I'm going to invite him to Locke-Ober's. My treat. He'd have had lunch with Osama Bin Laden on those terms.”

The funeral service for Danny at eleven was brief, but about as personal as you could get. As an orphan, Danny had no family. Nor did Colleen on the East Coast. It was just Colleeen and me and Father Mack, who had known Danny and Colleen since he had married them. The brevity of the service was Colleen's request until she was
up to arranging a more inclusive memorial service. There may have been a shortage of people, but there was no shortage of tears, prayers, and memories.

True to Mr. D,'s prediction, Billy Coyne met us at Locke-Ober's for lunch. I watched him savor the last morsel of his lobster Savannah in silence. He slowly wiped from his lips the evidence of the best meal that public servant had had in recent memory and sat back.

“Now, Lex. Will you tell me what it is I've been so elegantly bribed to disclose?”

The word “bribe” could be used in jest with ease between those two old warhorses since neither was susceptible to the slightest breach of ethics the word suggested. It did, however, bring down the curtain on the continuous flow of Irish banter that had pervaded the meal. The low tone of Mr. D.'s voice opened the second phase.

“Billy, I want you to listen with both ears to what Michael has to say. I want you to consider who's saying it. You know you can trust my word to the limit. I'm putting my word behind what Michael's offering.”

The ball was squarely in my court, and I couldn't afford to whiff on it.

“Mr. Coyne, I'm going to tell you something I swore I wouldn't divulge to anyone. Last night the rules changed.”

I poured across the table everything I knew about the kidnapping of Erin and finished with the final word of her death. His eyes were riveted on mine. They were cold as stone when I began. By the time I finished, they reflected the empathy for Erin and Colleen he was sharing with the two of us.

“I'm going to Dublin tonight. At least I can try to bring her body back for burial before I break it to Colleen.”

Billy looked over at Mr. Devlin. Mr. D. nodded and put his seal on everything I'd said.

“So what do you want from me, kid?”

I knew I'd graduated from the “kid” ranks with my senior partner,
but not quite yet with Billy Coyne. No matter. He sounded ready to deal as long as Mr. D. backed me up.

“Mr. Coyne, the indictment of Hector Vasquez is pure bullshit. Forgive the term in this fine restaurant. You have a shoestring for evidence, and your shock and dismay at the fixing of a race at old Suffering Downs was an Academy Award performance. I'm not criticizing you. Can we just admit that you and the D.A. have bigger fish to fry? You want Hector to take a plea bargain or witness protection or whatever to flip on someone higher. I won't insult your intelligence by making that a question.”

Billy looked at Mr. D. He tilted his head in my direction. “Your junior partner's picked up a bit of the old Devlin piss and vinegar, Lex. Do I have to take on two of you now?”

“Just listen to him, Billy.”

I was back in the spotlight.

“I need to know whom I'm up against when I get over there, Mr. Coyne. What's really going on?”

Billy took a few seconds and then called the waiter for a refill of coffee all around. When he finished, Billy asked him to close the door of the private room Mr. D. had reserved. That done, he took a minute in silence before he spoke, and then it was to Mr. D.

“I could lose one hell of a lot more than my job for this, Lex. Are you familiar with the Irish mob in South Boston?”

“I'm from Charlestown, Billy. Same as you. I never had to deal with them.”

“But you've heard of them. They're every bit as dicey as the Italian Mafia in the North End. Would you agree?”

“I've heard.”

“I'm sure you have. Then let me tell you this. The people your junior partner is asking about would make the Southie group look like Sister Agnes's Knitting Society. That's what I'm after.”

“Spell it out, Billy. It'll go no further.”

Billy drained half of his cup of coffee before the words started to flow.

“The IRA. The Irish Republican Army.”

“You don't mean they're still—?”

“Sit there, Lex. Keep quiet and listen. God knows I shouldn't be saying this. So let me get it out. There were two wings to the IRA. The political wing that held talks with the English reps for years to end what they called “The Troubles.” There was also the militant wing. They were the ones trying to bomb their way into a united Ireland, north and south, separate from England. There were people in that part of the IRA who could blow up innocent civilians, women, children, whoever, to get what they wanted. I've heard they exploded enormous bombs in London. It's been said they fired mortar shells at Ten Downing Street. They blew up parts of towns in Northern Ireland. Let me say this by way of understatement. They were one hell of a tough lot. I'll leave it to your imagination.”

“But the two sides worked out a peace over there, Billy. It's been years.”

“True. It goes back to the nineties, early two thousands. The political part of the IRA and an outfit called “Sinn Fein,”

“Ourselves Alone” they call themselves. They took the peace-making approach with meetings with the Brits. Some of the meetings went on in secret, while the other wing was said to be still killing innocent people. That's another story. Listen to me. During those years of the troubles, there were people of Irish descent in this country, in Boston, who were supporting the militants over there with money and weapons.”

“So I've heard.”

“It was illegal to support a terrorist group, but we've had a hell of a time routing them out. For the most part we couldn't.”

“What's that got to do with now?”

Billy held up a silencing hand. “Now the peace sets in. The Good Friday Agreement. There's no so-called patriotic cause for these terrorists. There's no place for them in the current government, north or south. So what do they do with their skills? We hear a number of them turned to pure crime. Why not? They had organization, training, and a whole country to prey on.”

“That's Ireland. What does that have to do with you?”

“I'm getting there. The wealthy Irish here who sent money and guns over before to support the cause had been guilty of a serious crime. Now they're ripe pickings for blackmail. That's how some of the gangsters over there keep the flow of money coming from this side.”

Mr. Devlin turned to me with one of those penetrating looks without words that said he was not delighted with my getting caught in that crossfire. I had no desire to debate it.

“Mr. Coyne, how do you tie this to Hector Vasquez? He's about as Irish as Pancho Villa.”

“I don't have all the pieces, kid. Yet. I'm sure in my bones that Paddy Boyle has had IRA connections for years. I'm also sure he's up to his neck in the kind of racketeering that includes race fixing. How are the two connected? I'm working on that.”

“And if you can get Hector Vasquez to flip, you think he'll add a piece to the puzzle.”

He looked back at Mr. D. “There you are, Lex. Cards on the table. One whiff of this gets out of this room, I lose my leads, probably my job, maybe my legs.”

Mr. D. just shook his head while we both absorbed more than we'd anticipated.

“Not all of them, Mr. Coyne.”

The eyes were back on me.

“Not all the cards.”

“What do you want, kid?”

“I need a name. When I get to Dublin, I need some entry point. What you've said will never come up, but I need to know where to start.”

Billy sat back in the chair looking at his cup of coffee. I knew he was calculating the possible fallout on two sides of the Atlantic from mentioning one name at that table.

“Mr. Coyne, consider this. This is the truth. Hector had nothing to do with Danny's death. I wouldn't have taken the case if he did.
He won't plead guilty and he won't flip. This is not defense lawyer posturing. That's how it is. On the other hand, if you give me a lead, I can run it down in places you can't go. I give you my word, I'll give you everything I get. We're on the same side in this. Different reasons, but the same side. If you're going to put your eggs in one basket, I'm a better basket than Hector.”

I could feel his eyes drilling straight through to my innermost thoughts. If he were dealing with Mr. Devlin, he'd have jumped in. But this “kid” was a different gamble. I could almost hear the moment of decision when his chair came forward and he was four inches from my face.

“Seamus McGuiness. You want to play chicken with the devil? There's a name.”

I looked at Mr. D. to see if he remembered that that was the name I got from Scully. I could see that it registered.

“Who is he, Mr. Coyne?”

“He's a player from the old IRA days. He floats between Dublin and Boston. To do what? I'd like to know. I only know he has connections on both sides of the Atlantic.”

“That's a start, Mr. Coyne.”

I started to stand up. He stopped me halfway.

“Sit down, kid, or I'll have your death on my conscience for the rest of my life. Dammit. I'll give you one more piece. I've been working behind the scenes with the
Garda Siochána
. That's the Irish national police. Superintendent Dermot Phelan. He's in security and intelligence. He handles cooperation with foreign governments on terrorism and organized crime. I'll give him a heads up you're coming.”

“Thank you, Mr. Coyne.”

I held out my hand to him. He looked straight at me when he took it.