Chapter 8

 

New York, March 1984

 

It had been long exhausting day and Thomas Devlin was not relishing his final task. He pulled the black Ford into the garage and entered the mansion through the family entrance. Devlin shook a weary head and ran the back of his hand across gritty eyes. Coming from the gloom into the brightness made his eyes sting. Michael O’Neill always kept the place lit up like the Fourth of July. Like he had nothing to hide. Pangs of jealousy rode on the edge of Devlin’s mind. Mike didn’t need dark corners.

Damn he was tired.

The door to O’Neill’s office stood ajar which wasn’t unusual. The man rarely bothered to shut a door, even to the toilet, if he wasn’t in a public place.

“Took your time getting here? Why didn’t you give me a ring? Lately, you’re getting so important I gotta call you—damn it!”

“Mike, please, I’ve been tied up with one Connors in crisis or another breathing down my neck for days.”

“Found the life boat.” Michael O’Neill was more telling than asking.

Devlin awarded him with an explanation, as he dropped into the nearest chair. “Capsized a few miles from shore but a hard cold swim in that ocean water. She never made it. Not likely they’ll even find the body. I think that’s what bothers her parents the worst.

“Sucks when you can’t bury them,” Michael O’Neill agreed. Then his face stiffened with anger. “Why the hell didn’t anyone let on to me how bad Shelia was getting? I could have maybe done something.”

“What Mike? The family didn’t even clue me in.” Devlin rarely lied to this man. He felt he owed this big Irishman more than he could ever repay. But there were some things, like his relationship with Shelia, it was safer not to divulge. So he continued to color the truth as he struggled back to his feet. “Guess they were either blind to it or tried to keep it hidden. Whoever figured Shelia Connors would turn into a lush? And end up killing herself.”

“Doesn’t figure.” O’Neill paused as he watched Devlin bring a bottle and glasses from the wet bar. “Once I really loved that girl,” he admitted. “But she was the beautiful little goddess all sweet innocence and this crude Mick didn’t stand a chance.” He sucked deeply on the whiskey Devlin handed him. “Fine with the old man to have this rough Irisher body tending his milksop sons. But when I got too close to the princess he was ready to castrate me.” Then O’Neill chuckled. “Preferred she bed up with that queer.” His bit of humor died quickly and he gulped the remains of the liquid in his glass and said. “Fish food—hell of a way for a beautiful woman like Shelia to end up.”

“Rough on the family,” Devlin said as he toyed with his own drink. He’d switched to the leather couch. He was at home in the room with its masculine drabness of browns and beiges. Kicking off his shoes, he propped his aching feet on the heavily padded arm. “Could have a negative reaction on the campaign.”

“Shit,” O’Neill snorted. “It isn’t going to hurt anything. Johnny boy’s a shoo-in. His sister’s untimely death, so long as no one claims it was suicide, will add some sympathy votes. Shelia’s accidental drowning did a lot more good than if the truth about her drinking were known.”

“No problem there.” Devlin finished off his whiskey when O’Neill indicated with the bottle he was ready to pour again. “I wrote up the news releases personally. And James is on his way back from London to play the grieving widower at the memorial service. He was on a business trip, you know.” Devlin’s grin was nasty. “We already played that up big. No acting necessary on the family’s part. The boys are taking it really bad. William was so broke up they had to sedate him.”

“Never liked that kid,” O’Neill said. “He was a sneaky pest when we were young. Turned out all right I guess.”

“Big help with John’s campaigns. Natural born politician, he can lie like the best,” Devlin said. “But he turns me off.”

“Didn’t he just get back from somewhere himself?”

“Dublin. The Connors’ still play up the Irish bit. But with the changes in New York’s population it won’t benefit them much longer.”

“Hear tell, you were forced to entertain some other visitors?”

“Figured you’d hear about it. The DA knows damn well that kid didn’t kill Andrea. So now with those diaries she kept, they’ll hassle anyone who vaguely resembles one of her entries. Wish I’d known she kept those damn records. By the way, you know Andrea had a kid?”

O’Neill shrugged. “Yeah, so?”

“You never mentioned it?”

“Didn’t think it was anybody’s damn business. If she wanted you to know, she would have told you. Besides Andy gave it up for adoption at birth.”

“Not really. I take it she never did sign it over. The law discovered the boy and they will likely find out who the daddy is. God, I hope it’s not John Connors. He swears it isn’t. Looks like there must be some big name and bucks there. Andrea’s mother is going to seek custody.”

“No shit?”

“That’s what Mark Storm said. Seems the old lady didn’t know about the kid. Christ, Mike, she lost her husband, her daughter, suppose she got a right to her grandson.”

“Pity about the judge. When did you first meet Andrea?”

“In seventy-six. Don’t tell me you forgot. It was when you were deciding things for me.” Devlin groaned. “You figured I needed a love life.”

O’Neill had clamped a cigar between his teeth. He removed it and smashed the tip down into the ashtray crumbling the thing. The anger seeped into his tone, as he did remember. “That’s right. You were getting too close to Ann.”

Devlin started to protest, and then thought better of it. It had been years since Mike flattened him. Why push his luck now. Instead he grinned. “That was the craziest year of my life. In a matter of months I’d gone from playing errand boy for Fitz to a full-fledged attorney in Mark Storm’s office. All your doing, Mike, just like moving me in on Connors. I still get queasy thinking about that time.” He tilted his glass and took a swallow before he laughed. “Your Saint Paddy’s day party. That was the first one I ever attended. Ink barely dry on my law degree and you had me working undercover. I had no idea how these games were played. I figured Storm would fire me when I showed him your invitation. He shocked the hell out of me. Told me that was just O’Neill’s way of laughing at him. He wanted me to attend. To keep my ears open around your playmates so I might pick up some dirt to help bury you.”

“Wise-ass little prick couldn’t come right out and call me a thief. He tried to get me on fraudulent use of union funds.” O’Neill appeared to toast Devlin with the glass in his hand. “God bless American justice—1976.”

“The year Andrea’s son was born, Mike.”