The Death of an Irish Sinner (25 page)

“Which they do in style. Bresnahan and Ward are rumored to be…” McGarr glanced up from the proof sheet.

Sweeney’s smile resembled more a baring of large, uneven, and yellowed teeth. “You should know, if anything in a legal way happens to me, Dougherty here—or some of my crew—will make certain that this stunning piece of investigative journalism at its finest is splashed all over the country.”

Sweeney’s smile became more complete. “Do you play chess, Chief Superintendent? Is this check? Or don’t you care about your anointed successor and the lives of his wives and children?”

Which would be ruined, at least in Dublin, where no fault or frailty was forgotten or forgiven, McGarr knew. Especially indiscretions by public figures charged with upholding the law who openly flaunted their disdain for “public morality.”

Both Ward and Bresnahan would have to resign, and
they would have a tough go of establishing themselves in any sort of security or investigative work, which was all they knew. Both had been cops all their working lives.

But it would be their innocent children who would suffer most. “Oh, you know who they are…,” would be said behind a hand. The “better” people and schools would shun them, and their possibilities would be diminished.

“Put that thing away.” Sweeney waved a hand at the Walther. “And never bring it out again in my presence.”

McGarr’s mobile phone was vibrating. Slipping the weapon into its jacket holster, he pulled out the phone and glanced down at the lighted display. It was Nuala.

“Peter—they asked me to call you. It’s imperative that you return.”

“Why?”

“Just come, please.”

Closing the phone, he turned to leave.

“McGarr!”

He stopped in the open.

“Catch.” Sweeney threw something that struck McGarr in the chest and fell to the floor. He picked it up.

It was a 21-gauge shotgun shell with a yellow plastic case.

“See? You shot the right woman after all.”

Sent by a man who could not be more wrong. And who would not go unpunished. Ultimately.

THE MORNING OF
Noreen’s burial was stormy.

In Dublin, waves rolling in from the bay were washing over the granite blocks along the Liffey. Hugh Ward had to hold tight to the brim of his fedora as he moved from his car to the battered front door of Sweeney’s building.

Ringing the bell, he glanced up. Overhead, the sky was freighted with lines of dark cloud, rather like an armada, that was sweeping to the west.

A woman opened the door as far as a chain would allow. “Yes?”

“Charles Stewart Parnell Sweeney—I understand he’s here. May I see him?”

“And you are?”

“Detective Superintendent Hugh Ward, Garda Siochana.” From under his mac, Ward pulled his photo ID.

“I’m afraid Mr. Sweeney can’t see anybody this afternoon, he’s—”

“This isn’t a social call. I have warrants for his arrest.” Ward displayed these as well.

Her eyes widened. “May I ask on what charge?”

“Charges. One count of murder. Four counts of conspiracy to commit murder.”

“Can you wait a moment?”

“No. Open the door.”

“I can’t, Mr. Swee—”

“What’s that arsehole want?” Ward heard Sweeney boom from the top of the stairs.

Stepping back, Ward raised a foot, stomped on the lock stile, and the old door sprang open, knocking the woman to the side.

Sweeney was gone from the top of the stairs that Ward charged up two at a time, his Beretta drawn. He caught Sweeney in his office, fumbling with a lower drawer of his desk, and a second kick—delivered at speed—sent the large man sprawling into a corner of the room.

“What have we here?” By the tip of the barrel, Ward drew an old handgun out of the drawer. “Could this be my lucky day? Is this the gun you used to shoot Flatly?”

“Who’ll believe you after I run the story in
Ath Cliath
? You planted the bastard. I never saw it before in my life.

“You know”—picking himself up, Sweeney began to laugh—“in many ways, I’m going to like this, especially after I sue you, the government you represent, and your fucking whores into the next generation. One million pounds? Pah—this time it’ll be ten million.”

With everything he had, Ward sank his right fist into Sweeney’s upper stomach, collapsing the massive man across his desk. Wrenching Sweeney’s arms behind him, Ward cuffed his wrists.

And at the top of the stairs, Sweeney tripped, when Ward stuck a foot between his legs. After a brutal tumble that broke the banister, the large older man slammed into the edge of the door.

Ward waited until Sweeney finally opened his eyes. Bending—ostensibly to help the man up—he whispered so the woman would not hear, “That’s only the beginning of your accidental life, Mr. Sweeney. You want to run that story about me and my family? Go ahead. But cops talk, and you’re a cop killer. Like you, we take care of our own.”

At Sweeney’s arraignment in Central Criminal Court, Lee Sigal, Ruth Bresnahan, Maddie McGarr, and Nuala Frenche sat in the front row.

Behind them were McGarr, Ward, McKeon, and nearly the entire personnel of the Murder Squad, less the few needed to answer phones.

And behind them were dozens of other Guards. In fact, the courtroom was packed with police. Word of mouth being what it is in police circles.