In the Teeth of the Wind (13 page)

evidently decided Rhianna Marek was not a threat. "Is there somewhere we can speak in private…

detective?" she sneered. "I dislike airing family laundry in public."

Rhianna didn't answer, but walked past Irish's sister, out of the bullpen and into the corridor. She

didn't wait to see if the bitch was following her, but made for the break room. As soon as Caitlin joined

her, Rhianna shut the door behind them. "All right," she snapped. "Let's hear what you've got to say."

"Before we go any further, let me assure you I have spoken with my own attorney before leaving

Chicago." Perching on one of the fiberglass chairs at the table, she opened her purse and pulled out a

silver cigarette case. Not bothering to ask for permission to smoke, she snapped open the case.

"Smoke Free environment," Rhianna pronounced with satisfaction. "You can't smoke in here.

Government mandate."

Caitlin's eyes turned steely, but she nodded. She replaced the cigarette, slipped the case in her purse

then crossed her legs, considering herself still in charge.

"My attorney will be filing a writ first thing this morning naming me as Conor James's legal

representative."

"Is that so?" Rhianna asked.

"I do not make decisions lightly, Detective Marek. Fredericks, Martin, Nysberg and Dahl have

handled my affairs for years. They are excellent legal counsels and I rely upon their judgment. This is not

the first time I have had to call upon them because of something my brother has done."

"He hasn't done anything," Rhianna snapped, hating the woman more and more as the minutes ticked

by. "He is missing, Mrs. Greiner. There hasn't been a trace…"

Caitlin made a very unladylike snort. "Detective Marek, my brother's proclivities for the bizarre have

boggled the mind over the years. If he has found new friends who like to abuse him, that is all the more

reason I need to be in control of his affairs. I have been through this with him before."

"Before." Rhianna let the word drop like a rock. She ignored the ridiculous statement preceding that

one threatening word and hooked on, instead, the gleam of amusement in Caitlin's eye. "What do you

mean by 'before'?"

Caitlin's mouth twisted. "You really don't know very much about my brother, do you, Detective?"

"I know he's a good man," Rhianna defended him. "I know he's a good cop and he didn't just up and

disappear without a good reason."

"Oh, he had a reason, dear." Caitlin laughed mirthlessly. "The same one he had years ago when he just

'up and disappeared without good reason.'"

Rhianna had had all the vague innuendoes and roundabout talk she was going to take. She walked to

Conor's sister and stared down at her. "You got something to say, lady, then say it! If you know where

he is, you'd damned well better tell me right now!"

"I have no idea where he is and couldn't care less," Caitlin snorted. "All I care about is making sure

you don't try to sell any of his things before he returns."

"Returns from where?" Rhianna shouted, itching to slap the smirk off the other woman's hateful face.

Caitlin waved her hand as though wiping out the words. "I don't care if you live in the house. I was

going to have to rent it out, anyway. He probably wouldn't want you to pay rent."

"_Answer m_e_!_" Rhianna shouted, making Caitlin flinch. "_Returns from where?_"

Conor's sister thought about not answering, just getting up and walking out to leave the cheap little

whore standing there. But there was something very disturbing in the younger woman's eyes and for

once, Caitlin backed away from a confrontation.

"From wherever he's gone to ground to kick the habit he's obviously taken up again," she replied.

"Habit?" Rhianna repeated, digging her nails into her palms to keep from attacking the bitch.

"Conor is a drug addict, Miss Marek. Has been for years. Didn't you know that?"

****

Neville Triplett held up a hand to the waiter then gestured toward their empty soda glasses. "Bring us

two more of these."

Rhianna played with her spaghetti, spinning it around her fork, then dumping it. She had drowned her

anger in the soft drink; now she was taking out her frustration on the pasta.

"You okay, Rhee?" Trip sprinkled more Parmesan on his plate.

"I hate that woman," she muttered.

"Having met the bitch, I can relate to that statement." He shoveled a forkful of pasta into his mouth.

"I've seen barracudas with more compassion than Cait Greiner."

"The thing is," Rhianna said miserably, "I know she hates him."

"Sibling rivalry?" he suggested.

"No," Rhianna said, shaking her head. "It goes deeper than that." She dropped her fork and started

dissecting the garlic bread. "She told me he has always been an embarrassment to the family." She tore

off a bit of bread and began shredding it. "His father was sixty-two when he was born; his mother in her

forties. Irish was a menopause baby. Totally unexpected."

"Ah," Trip answered. "How terribly rude of him."

When Rhianna glanced up, he frowned. "And how utterly distressing it must have been for a

sophisticated finishing school lady to have to come to terms with her parents' sexuality. Imagine, if you

will, how acutely disagreeable having to explain to one's friends that Mater and Pater still 'do it'! How

gauche!"

Rhianna grinned. "Not the thing, at all, would you say?"

Trip lifted his glass, pinkie extended. "Quite, my dear."

"She's a bitch."

"No argument here."

Rhianna pushed her plate to one side. "She's looking into having him sent to Betty Ford when he

returns."

"I would imagine he'll have something to say about that."

She looked up. "Do you think she could be right, Triplett? Could he really be off on a binge

somewhere or checked into a hospital trying to get the monkey off his back?"

Rhianna's partner reached out and covered her hand with his. "I'd rather believe that than he isn't out

there at all."

"I need to talk to someone, Trip," she whispered.

"That's what I'm here for." He smiled.

"Inside the booth," she qualified, meaning that whatever was said could never be repeated, like the

words between a person and his priest in the confessional.

"Father Neville Trip is listening, sister," he assured her.

Rhianna drew in a long breath, let it out, and swallowed. She closed her eyes for a moment and when

she opened them, she bit her lip. "She told me some things that would get him fired, Trip. He loves this

job and if he couldn't do it…"

"I hear you," Trip interrupted. "It ain't goin' no farther."

Rhianna looked about them, only partially relieved that they were alone in the restaurant.

"No one's listening, baby," Trip assured her. "Spit it out. Whatever it is, it don't do no good to keep it

bottled up inside."

She took a quick breath, then exhaled on her words.

"Did he ever say anything about his father?"

"I know he was a retired Navy Admiral," Trip replied. "You wanna know what kind of relationship

they had? Is that it?"

"Yeah."

Trip shrugged. "He said his old man knocked him around a bit. Whose old man didn't? That's why

most of us have addled brains."

"I suspect Liam Nolan did more than just knock Conor around a bit, Trip." She sat forward, easing

her hand from under his, and braced her elbows on the table. "Caitlin didn't say Irish's father abused him,

but I think that's what happened. There was too much the bitch didn't say, you know?"

"Well," Trip began, twisting around so he could be more comfortable with his feet out from under the

table. "It happens, babe. Even in the best of families. Families with money, like Irish's."

"How much money?" she asked. There had never been any reason to discuss such matters with

Conor. He hadn't acted any different than any other working stiff on the force and scrimped money with

the best of them.

"His father came from a well-to-do Chicago political family and was a graduate of Annapolis. His

mother came from some rich hoity-toity Boston clan," Trip told her. "Money out the ying-yang, you

know?" He chuckled. "When Irish first showed up at the precinct, we started kidding him about being

born with a silver baton up his tight ass!" He shook his head. "He had some kind of attitude back then, let

me tell you. He was quick to tell us he'd been disinherited, although not many of us believed him."

"It's true," Rhianna said. "His sister enjoyed telling me in case I had any illusions of getting rich by

association."

Rhianna slumped in her chair. Plowing both hands through her hair, she sighed deeply. "She told me

Irish never got along with his father. They fought all the time. When Irish was around fifteen, he fell hard

for some girl while he was home from boarding school during Christmas vacation."

"Boarding school? I never knew he went to boarding school."

"Somewhere in France."

"Can't get much further from Chicago than that, huh? I take it the old man didn't appreciate Irish's taste

in females."

"Conor got the girl pregnant."

Trip winced. "Oh shit. What happened when the old man found out?"

"Apparently he went to the girl's parents and paid them a rather substantial settlement. They left Illinois

in the middle of the night."

"What about the baby?"

"Caitlin wouldn't tell me since they never told Conor. Being staunch Catholics, abortion was out of the

question for both families. My guess is there's a twenty-three year old young man or woman somewhere

with Irish's dark Gaelic looks."

"Sonofabitch," Trip whistled. "What happened to Irish while all this was happening?"

"According to Caitlin, her father was most upset with his son," Rhianna hissed. "She said he lost his

temper and got a 'little rough' with Conor. The bastard must have beat the hell out of his son because

Irish wound up in the hospital."

"Poor kid. Must have been one hell of a rotten childhood."

"When he got out of the hospital, things got worse. He ran away from home; got picked up by the

Illinois State Patrol and was sent back."

"Ah, the impetuosity of youth!" Trip chuckled. "I can understand that!"

"Me, too," she nodded. "Then it really got bad."

"How bad is bad?" he asked.

"Arrested bad," she said. "Possession with intent to sell cocaine to an undercover cop."

"Sweet Mother of God," Trip sighed. "How old was he?"

"Fifteen."

"Then the records would have been sealed. No wonder that didn't show up on his sheet when he

applied for law enforcement in Florida." He shook his head. "Where the hell did he get cocaine?"

Rhianna drew in a long breath. "From the same man who was supplying him with heroin."

"He was selling heroin?" Trip gasped.

"No," Rhianna said softly. "He was using."

"Oh, my God," Trip whispered.

"He had a very wicked habit by that time. When they made him strip after his arrest, they found needle

tracks up and down his thigh. They called his father who brought his lawyer. Money changed hands;

Nolan committed his son to a rehab for six months then shipped him off to some kind of military school in

Alabama where he was virtually a prisoner until he was eighteen and graduated. Irish wouldn't come

home and go to Notre Dame like his parents wanted him to. It was then his father disinherited him."

Trip shook his head. "You think you know someone."

"His sister says he was using dope when he was a DEA agent in Florida, but if he had been, Trip, he'd

never have been able to transfer up here."

"His family doesn't think much of him, do they?"

"They don't even know the man," she spat. "I don't believe Conor would get involved with drugs again

if he'd kicked the habit once before."

Trip nodded, unable to think of anything to say to comfort her. He didn't dare tell her it was Irish who

had provided him with cocaine when the monkey on Trip's back got a little too energetic.

*Chapter Twenty*

The last of the boxes had been unloaded; the hanging clothes were in the closet in her new bedroom.

Her dishes, pots and pans, silverware, glasses, and utensils had been added to Conor's. The earthtone

towels and sheets from her old apartment looked out of place stacked alongside the red, white, and blue

linens already in the closet. The only consolation was that Rhianna knew she wouldn't have to buy any

linen for a long, long time.

Other than her mattress and box springs, there hadn't been anything left to move. She'd managed to

sell her odds and ends to Brett Samuel and his wife. Now all she needed to do, when she got back from

visiting her best friend in Georgia, was go hunting among the local used furniture stores to find the

miscellaneous '50s bedroom things for her new home.

"Are you as tired as I look?" Joe Cortesio groaned as he took the last swig of Bud from the longneck.

Rhianna looked about the room. "I'll have it all done by tomorrow evening. I think I'll get in the tub and

soak for a few hours." She put her hand to the small of her back and massaged the ache there. "I'm going

to need that plane ride Thursday to unwind."

"Did you get the locks changed like I reminded you?" Cortesio asked. At Rhianna's weary nod, he

smiled. "And did he install the deadbolts?"

"She," Rhianna corrected her, grinning. "The locksmith was a woman."

"Does that make her a locksmithette, then?" Trip inquired. He wiped a glob of pizza sauce from his