Bone Thief (11 page)

“
Don ghrian agus don ghealach agus do na realtoga
,” Seamus Tiernan, Chairman of Columbia University's Department of Celtic Studies, read. “To the sun and the moon and the stars, Lieutenant.”

Busts of Celts and Britons, with shields and battle axes, stood vigil over the scholarly office.

“Druidic, fifth century
A.D
., a ceremonial incantation. Probably used for a sacrifice,” Tiernan explained.

“Sheep and goats?” Driscoll asked.

“Roosters…and infants. True pagans. They believed they owned their children and could sacrifice them at will. Yes, Lieutenant, those were the dying gasps of heathenism in Northern Europe. Christianity saw that it didn't last much longer.”

“Getting nostalgic?” Driscoll asked, an eyebrow raised.

“You've missed your calling, Lieutenant. It might have been the priesthood instead of the precinct.”

Driscoll recognized the tone in his voice. He had heard it many times before. It was the tone of someone who believed the police were a necessary evil. Someone to call when your car radio was stolen. It was a common affliction among the northeastern intelligentsia.

“Professor Tiernan, I have a few more questions.”

“I'm sorry, Lieutenant, but I have papers to grade.”

“Tell me, Professor, in your world are papers more important than human life?”

“That's your job Lieutenant, not mine.”

“I wouldn't be here if I didn't think you could help me.”

“All right, then. Fire away.”

“Are these Druids still practicing? Perhaps in the tristate area?”

Tiernan reached for his pipe and filled it with an aromatic mixture. A flame gushed from his Flaminaire as he fired the pipe's chimney. “They may be,” Tiernan said cautiously.

“Maybe doesn't cut it. Are they or not?”

“I really do have work to do. Now, if you'll excuse me.”

Driscoll reached in his pocket and pulled out several Polaroid crime-scene photos. “No. I won't excuse you,” he barked. He threw the photos on Tiernan's desk. “There, Professor. That's his handiwork. Now, are you gonna help me?”

All of Tiernan's attitude abandoned him. He seemed to shrink before Driscoll's eyes. “Oh my God,” he kept repeating. “Oh my God!”

“Well, Professor?”

“There is a secret society. They meet in a small town called Fremont Center in upstate New York. I visited them once in my fanatic days. Druids, with genealogy back to the Old Sod. But, I'm not sure if the society still exists.” Tiernan was stammering.

“When was the last time you were there?”

“Christmas Day 1988. The winter equinox. Not since.”

“Can you get me in?”

“I don't think so. Ever since I baptized my children, the society has shunned me.”

An awkward silence settled between the pair.

“Lieutenant?” Tiernan managed, eyes fixed on the photos.

“Yes, Professor?”

“I'm not feeling well right now. Perhaps we can continue this discussion at another time. Say, dinner, at my house on Saturday?”

“Thank you, Professor,” Driscoll said, wondering why Tiernan had made such a gesture. “I'd like to bring along a fellow detective. If that's OK with you.”

“Please do. If you're wondering why the invite, my wife fancies herself a mystery writer. She would love to meet a pair of true-to-life homicide detectives.”

“Then, Saturday it is,” said Driscoll.

“May I ask one favor of you, Lieutenant?”

“Sure, Professor. What is it?”

“Leave the pictures at home.”

“Fate steps in, you know,” Margaret managed as she sat in the passenger seat of Driscoll's Chevy. The pair were on their way to Professor Tiernan's house for dinner.

“And how's that?” said Driscoll.

“Correct me if I'm wrong, but as I recall, the last time we were together in this car we were talking about going out on a date.” There. She'd said it. An inner voice whispered she was taking a risk, but that same inner voice was insisting she disregard all caution flags and put herself out there, regardless of how vulnerable it made her feel.

“So?”

“So? What is it we're doing right now?”

“I suggest you look at your watch. Our tour of duty began two hours ago. This ‘date,' as you would have me call it, is part of an ongoing police investigation.”

Had he made a mistake by inviting her to dinner? It was police business, but shouldn't he have known that Margaret would draw the wrong conclusion? And what was his own part in this? Was he unconsciously responding to Margaret's advances? And if so, was he being unfaithful to his wife? The thought tormented him. He had vowed to be true to Colette, through good times and bad, through sickness and good health. It was one thing to indulge in the fantasy of infidelity, but quite another to dance perilously close to the rim of its hedonistic lure. And that's what he was doing.

“You could have gone alone,” Margaret said.

“True. I could have gone alone.”
Hell! I should have gone alone
.

“But, you decided to ask me.” Margaret twisted nervously in her seat. “And that makes it a date.”

There was truth in what Margaret was saying, and Driscoll knew it. He had asked Margaret to accompany him to dinner because he had feelings for her. It being part of a police investigation helped Driscoll deal with his guilt. But his feelings for Margaret were genuine. Was he ready to share that with Margaret, or anyone else, for that matter? Hell, no! For now, he'd suffer in silence.

He stopped for a light on Bay Ridge Avenue and turned to face her. “We are two police officers investigating a series of brutal murders. We have been invited to dinner at the home of someone who may help us in our investigation. Whatever else you think this might be is in your very fertile imagination.”

“Listen, I know you're my boss, and you're a married man. I know all of that. But I can't put aside these feelings I have for you as though they don't exist, and I know deep in your heart, neither can you.”

“OK. Have it your way. But in the meantime, let's not let our feelings get in the way of our investigation. Can we agree on that?”

“Absolutely.”

The arches above the white door were more suited to a London town house than as the facade of an Irish college professor's residence.

The woman, framed in the illumination of the living room's torchère, was a diaphanous presence, with light hair and aquamarine eyes. She offered the Lieutenant her long artistic hand. “Eileen Tiernan,” she murmured.

“I followed your husband's suggestion and invited Sergeant Margaret Aligante as my guest.” Margaret's eyes were locked on Driscoll's as the pair were led inside the house.

“Are you the police?” a young child gushed, bursting into the room. “Will you take Timothy to jail?”

“This is Ryan,” Mrs. Tiernan explained. “And Timothy is Ryan's brother. Timothy steals Ryan's toys.”

Leprechaunlike, a second child's head popped out from behind a door frame, eyes wide open, staring at the intruders.

“And that's Timothy,” said Mrs. Tiernan.

“You're goin' to jail. You're goin' to jail,” Ryan singsonged.

Timothy's head vanished.

“Hope you didn't run into any traffic,” Seamus Tiernan declared as he entered the room, a Japanese chopping knife in hand.

“There's our man, Lieutenant. He's even got the murder weapon in hand,” said Margaret with a grin.

“I confess, I showed those carrots no mercy. Perhaps a round of Jameson's before my arrest?”

“We mustn't deny the culprit his last request.”

Tiernan dispensed the drinks.

Without warning, a winged thing swooped down, swallowed a beakful of Driscoll's whiskey, and perched itself atop a curtain rod, eyeing the guests.

“My bird loves to party,” a newcomer said as she traipsed down the staircase. Entering the room, she beckoned the creature to sit on her shoulder. “Meet Chester. He's a red-billed toucan from eastern Colombia. And you must be Lieutenant Driscoll.”

“I am.”

Driscoll studied the young woman. She was wearing iridescent mascara, a sienna blush emphasizing her cheekbones, and burnt orange pigment on her lips. She sported a diminutive skirt that framed slender legs. Driscoll figured her for fourteen or fifteen. She certainly was sure of herself, and had a curious curl to her smile that said, “I'm here. I warrant attention.” Despite himself, Driscoll was amused. He wondered what Margaret's impression was.

“Has anyone proofed Chester?” he asked.

The bird croaked at the sound of his name and launched an attack on Margaret's drink.

First mine, then Margaret's
, Driscoll pondered. Was that some sort of sign? He was certain Margaret would think so.

“He's just warming up for his grand finale,” his keeper boasted.

“Is he a song-and-dance man?” Margaret asked. “He looks a little like Jimmy Durante with that beak.”

“Well, Chester here'll let you judge for yourself. And now, without further ado, may I present, direct from South America, for your entertainment pleasure, Chester, as W.C. Fields in zero gravity.”

On cue, the bird fluttered cockeyed wings, let out a belch, and pirouetted in midair like a drunken sailor, finishing with a spiraling nosedive headlong into the shag carpet.

“Cut him off,” hollered Driscoll.

The girl picked up the inebriated bird and cradled him in her pocket.

“I'm Moira,” she announced. “Named after an Irish princess who fought valiantly against the Vikings. But, alas, I have been reduced by Mother to the menial task of research assistant, helping her write her great American detective novel about a psychopath who preys on nubile suburban teens.”

“You're a writer?” Margaret said, turning to Mrs. Tiernan.

“Trying to be.”

“Don't be deceived by the appearance of harmony that permeates this household, Lieutenant Driscoll. Demons fester in our midst,” Moira cautioned.

“Moira!” her mother scolded.

“My whispery mother dreams the darndest things. Acts of carnage haunt her daydreams. She's a natural-born killer in a housewife's dress.”

“Please excuse my daughter. She's actually fourteen, but I'm afraid she's never left her terrible twos.”

“Chapter eighteen, page 192,” Moira singsonged. “Mother likes to test her dialogue on unsuspecting guests.”

“The Vikings didn't stand a chance,” muttered Margaret.

“And you are?” Moira asked.

“Sergeant Margaret Marie Aligante,” Driscoll answered.

“Such a long name,” said Moira with a shrug.

“Sergeant Aligante, it is certainly a pleasure to have you grace our home,” said Mrs. Tiernan.

“Please, call me Margaret.”

“You've managed to thrill my mother, Sergeant Margaret Marie Aligante.”

“Pay no attention to Moira. She delights in the resonance of her own voice,” said Seamus Tiernan.

“Sergeant Margaret Marie Aligante, will you consider sponsoring me?”

“Your bird's the one who needs a sponsor. I suggest you try AA,” Margaret replied, taking an instant dislike to the girl.

“I'm not talking about Chester, I'm talking about me,” said Moira, sharply. “I'd like to become a police investigator.”

“John Jay College of Criminal Justice may have what you're looking for,” said Driscoll.

“College is for bookworms and preppies. I wanna be around cops. I need to feel the beat of police work.”

“I know you officers have entered the electronic age. Unleash her on a computer, Lieutenant, and she'll have it doing cartwheels,” her mother said.

“What do you know about the Pentium Pro XPS 200?” Driscoll asked Moira.

“Could teach it a trick or two.”

“Can you now?” said Driscoll, suddenly seeing Nicole's smile in the girl's face.

The Lieutenant was drawn to the girl. The more he gazed at her, the more he saw Nicole, who was about Moira's age when she died. It pained him to look at the girl. So many memories flooded to consciousness. He wished he could slip off somewhere, someplace where he could be alone to resolve his anguish in private. At the moment, he felt like he was on a stage with a packed house staring him in the face.

“Lieutenant? Lieutenant, are you OK?”

“Yes, Moira. I'm fine,” he managed.

“If you'll let me, I can provide a program that can safeguard your entire system from any kind of virus. It's a virtual vaccine for infected computers.”

“We'd have to clear it with the Captain for security's sake,” said Driscoll.

“Of course!” Moira raced out of the room. “Just give me a minute to get the CD.”

“Higgins is not gonna like this,” Margaret warned, lips to her glass, eyes peeking over its brim.

“Not to worry, whiz kids like Moira could probably teach Higgins a thing or two,” Driscoll whispered. “And besides, what harm could she do? It's not like we're actually assigning her to the case. At best, we'll get a few lessons on how to use the computer to our advantage.”

“What's next? Recruitment straight out of nursery?”

The remark made Driscoll grin.

Moira returned with the virus-seeking CD and slipped it into Driscoll's pocket. “Like a wonder drug,” she said with a wink.

Mr. Tiernan then motioned for his guests to take their seats around a beautifully set table.

 

“The Erin Society was started by Sean McManus, an Irish coal miner from Pennsylvania, in 1952,” Seamus Tiernan told Driscoll after hors d'oeuvres. “The New York chapter was established in the town of Hankins, in Sullivan County. There, McManus founded a seminary for the training of Druidic priests. But they have since gone underground.”

“Why?” asked Driscoll.

“Theological differences.”

“You said you had visited them. Did you attend their services?”

“If you ask me, the ASPCA should have gotten a call.” Moira's voice echoed from the kitchen, where she had been beckoned to help her mother with the main course.

“How's that?” Driscoll called out.

“They built a wicker man, then filled it with live roosters and set it ablaze at dawn in honor of the rising sun. Weren't they sweethearts?”

“Moira tells it like it is,” said Seamus Tiernan. “I took her on a trip upstate when she was eight.”

“Next time, we go to Disney World,” Moria hollered.

“I thought you told me you hadn't visited the site since '88,” said Driscoll.

“I forgot the stopover with my daughter. That's a trip I regret. It was no place for a young girl.”

“Perhaps it's time for another visit,” Driscoll suggested.

The door to the kitchen swung open, and Moira appeared, holding a platter of barbecued chicken wings.

“Don't waste your time,” she said.

“Why not?”

“Guys that get off on roasting roosters don't get off on murder.”

A chill settled over the table.

“She even thinks like a cop,” said her mother.

“Care for another assistant?” Moira asked with a smile.

“Oh, brother,” Margaret moaned.