“I’m not going to visit Kevin ‘til later. Molly is sick, and Ian wants to take Braden to the baseball field for some hitting practice. It’ll be good for them. The two of them went at it pretty loudly yesterday at the hospital. As long as I was here, I figured I’d whip up a batch of the ol’ Fowler Brew. All my kids drink it like water.”
Lynch exhaled forcefully. He tried to pass it off as a cough, but there was no disguising the sound of a man reaching his breath-holding threshold. June Reilly snickered.
“That’s alright, detective. The recipe has been in my family as long as anyone can remember, and it’s been an acquired taste for just as long.”
He collected himself.
“We were hoping to speak to Ian. Is he here?”
“Three of you want to talk to my son? Must be serious.”
“Not really. It’s just some time has passed since Kevin got hurt, and we were hoping…”
“If that’s all you wanted to talk to him about, there would be no need for three of you. My other son’s a copper, Detective Lynch. I know a few things.”
I bet you do.
Gomez came to the rescue.
“Ma’am, the Feds have taken over Bishop Ryan’s murder, which means Jim and I are free to help Carrie close your son’s case. We, quite literally…and I mean this in the best way possible…have nothing better to do.”
Mrs. Reilly leaned against her daughter-in-law’s kitchen counter, shifting her gaze between her two male visitors. Her facial expression was one only a mother could summon. She sucked her teeth twice with a thoughtful little kissing sound before settling her eyes on Gomez. She uncurled a pale freckled index finger and pointed at him as if a decision of epic proportion had been made.
“You’re my favorite.”
That done, the kind matriarch stoically returned her attention to the Fowler Brew, poured herself a cup, and spoke with her back turned.
“He’s out back.”
The three detectives thanked her and headed for the door that led to the patio. On the way, Carrie pulled Ernie aside and mouthed two instructions.
“Stay with her. Don’t let her look out the window.”
He silently agreed and strode to a hutch in the living room.
“You know, Mrs. Reilly, you’re my favorite too.”
Lynch walked out and held the door for Carrie. Ernie’s voice faded as the door was brought to a slow close by its hydraulic arm.
“You’re right, abuela. All three of us don’t need to be out there. Now tell me about the kids in these pictures over here…”
Ian was standing in the bed of his black pick-up, messing with a canvas bag that closed with a pullcord. He looked up and exasperatedly shook his head.
“Well…top o’ the mornin’ to you, detectives. Come to offer your best wishes for my brother’s speedy recovery, have you?”
Something was off. His eyes were crazed. His breathing was irregular. His voice was jumping octaves uncontrollably. Carrie did the talking. This was her case.
“Your mother caught us up.”
“Yeah, so…you know then…nothing new. Good, depending on how you…look at it, I guess.”
“How ‘bout you come down here and talk to us for a minute.”
“Why would I do that? …I mean…Why would you…I’m taking my boy out to the field. Things have been rough. We’ve got to blow off some steam, or at least get our mind…uh…minds off of…things.”
“We’d still feel better if you came down here.”
“I’ll stay up here, thanks. What do you want?”
A 250-pound angry Reilly with the high ground…not a good thing.
“We feel like we’re closing in on what happened to your brother, and we want to go over your story with you one more time.”
“Why do you want to do that? It’s all in the…whatchacallit…the report you took.”
He gestured toward Carrie with an unsteady arm.
“You questioned me already. Nothing’s changed. Would you get out of here? I mean…I’m sorry. Please leave. My wife is sick, and my boy needs batting practice.”
“I’m afraid we can’t do that. We have some new…”
“I’m trying to be nice. Just go. I’m not talking to you right now, and you can’t make me.”
Oh yes, they could. Lynch stepped up next to the truck. Between inappropriately grilling men of the cloth, running errands for the FBI, and being a day late and a dollar short in the assassination of an Archbishop, he’d been mulling over his conversation with Samuel. He’d been sold on the theory that the UJ was at war with someone. Who that was depended on the answer to one question: Whom did Kevin Reilly call after he talked to Father O’Rourke? Not surprisingly, his regular phone records yielded nothing. By his brother’s or his own doing, the burner he used for his extracurricular activities had undoubtedly been deep in a landfill since Monday.
Ian was holding back to protect his brother, himself, or both. There wasn’t a doubt in Lynch’s mind. Carrie agreed. They’d be damned if they were going to leave the Reilly residence without getting at least a half an inch closer to the truth.
Lynch stood flat-footed on the recently sealed asphalt, looking up at Ian. Carrie didn’t need his help otherwise.
“Where is your son?”
“He’s in his room. He has been all morning.”
“Does he know he’s going to the field? Have you talked to him about this? Shouldn’t he be helping you load?”
“He knows. He knows. He overslept like he always does. Kid would sleep all day if I let him.”
Lynch would stay silent unless, in the course of their visit, he spotted treasure. If he, somehow, deduced some slam-dunk bit of evidence that would break Ian Reilly, then he would speak…only then.
To that end, he listened intently to Carrie’s interrogation pitting Ian’s answers against the facts, the conjecture, and the unknown of the case.
The facts:
Bishop Ryan is killed.
Leo is shown a surveillance video of the murderer.
Leo recognizes the symbol on the back of the jacket.
Leo tells the other priests at St. Al’s.
Reilly finds out about the murder.
Reilly tracks down Father O’Rourke.
O’Rourke tells Reilly about the UJ and where to find them.
Reilly makes
