CHAPTER 19
“Holy shit, what?” Megan tried to stand up with shock, which would have worked better if she hadn’t been in the car. She hit her head, dropped back down into the seat, and said, “What?” again in stunned delight. “Oh my God! Congratulations! Oh my God! No wonder you wanted to talk to me! How—what—Paul!” She almost shouted his name as the dogs, in full panic mode at her volume, leaped onto the seat, across Megan’s lap, and then out the still-open car door. Megan lunged for the leads, barely grabbing them by dint of belly flopping halfway out of the car. The phone went flying. She snatched at it with her fingertips, breaking its fall enough that it didn’t shatter when it hit the ground, then pulled it back, much too close to her face, as she righted herself again. “Tell me everything!”
Paul’s smile turned to laughter as she fumbled with the phone, then settled back into a broad, shining-eyed beam. “She told you about the job in the States?”
“She did, yeah. She was terrified to tell you, Paul, she was afraid—but you tell me this story, what’s the story, what’s the story?”
His gaze went positively soppy, and Megan felt tears welling in her own eyes as her chest tightened with not just joy, but other emotions she didn’t want to examine right then. He took a breath to start, hesitated, did it again, and finally said, “She didn’t want to tell me, you’re right, she said she was afraid to, but obviously she did. And I was thinking—well, I was thinking, this is it, wasn’t I? I can’t ask her to stay. I can’t ask her to damage her career like that. And it was always too good to be true, Niamh O’Sullivan dating me. So I said—I said the first part, that I couldn’t ask her to stay, and she started crying, and I started crying, and she said she knew I’d say that, and then she said, but wait, wait, and I’m thinking, what can I wait for, Nee? I’ll be on the next plane home, when’s the next plane home, I can’t stand to stay.”
Megan was crying by then, too, huge, fat tears stinging her eyes and plopping down her cheeks. Thong, worried, climbed back into the car and began to lick her face. “And?”
“And she got down on one knee, Megan.” Paul’s eyes widened with astonished recollection. “We were in the hotel room, and Abhaile was bouncing around because we were both crying, and she got down on one knee and picked Abhaile up under one arm because the bloody animal was going to knock her over otherwise, and she put her other hand in her pocket and I was having palpitations, I was, Megan, I literally could not believe—any of it, but people only get down on one knee for one reason, and my hands are going like this”—he put the phone down to demonstrate birdlike flutters with both hands—“like I’m a damn ingenue, not a grown man, and she takes this out of her pocket, Megan.”
He stopped fluttering his hands and turned his left one to the camera, showing Megan a rose-gold ring with Celtic knot work and a diamond inset.
Megan said, “Holy shit,” again, and Paul burst out with an overwhelmed laugh.
“I’ve never heard you swear before, and now you’ve done it twice.”
“She didn’t just find that in an afternoon in Morocco, Paul!”
“No. She found it before Christmas, she said. And bought it. Just in case. Just in case,” he repeated hoarsely, and folded his right hand over the left. “I’m the luckiest man in the whole fecking world, Megan.”
Megan shrieked gleefully and kicked her feet, which set the dogs off, but she couldn’t help herself. “And? And? What did she say? What did you say? How did it all happen?” She yelled, “Oh my God!” at the car’s ceiling, then did her best to get herself back under control so she could listen.
“Well, that’s what she said, that she’d bought it before Christmas, that it made her think of me, and she hadn’t had the nerve and”—his expression went slightly guilty—“also that you were so unhappy she didn’t want to make it worse by rubbing an engagement in your face—”
“Oh, pshaw. I mean, that was really thoughtful, but no, how could I not be happy for you? I love you both so much. This is wonderful. And you said?”
“I think I said ‘are you sure’ a dozen times before I said yes,” Paul admitted. “I thought I had said yes. She was so nervous she had to tell me I hadn’t, and ask again to see what my answer was. And she said she knew it was pressure, when she was going to leave, but she didn’t want to leave without at least asking.” Pure awe pulled his mouth into a smile again. “Niamh O’Sullivan didn’t want to leave me without at least asking if I’d marry her first. Did I mention how lucky I am?”
“You did, but go ahead and repeat yourself if you need to.” Megan beamed at him. “I’m so happy for you, Paul. For both of you. This is so exciting! Oh my God!” she yelled again, and Thong put her entire paw over Megan’s mouth, clearly trying to quiet her. Laughing, she moved the dog’s paw, hugged her, and put her back in the footwell. “Congratulations. I can’t wait to talk to Niamh now. Oh my God! You can go on double dates with Raf and Sarah in San Francisco!”
“Ah, you’re too good,” Paul said happily. “First you introduce me to the woman who becomes my fiancée, and now you’re giving us a starter friends group on the other side of the world. I’ll miss you.” Some of the joy faded from his face, and Megan’s heart twisted.
“Yeah,” she said more quietly. “Yeah, me too. I’m going to miss you both like crazy. But it’s not forever,” she added hopefully. “I mean, lifestyles of the rich and famous and all that jet-setting stuff, so even if you settle there, you can come back. I’m really happy for you, Paul. For both of you. This is way better than you coming home with a broken heart and Niamh going off to America miserable.”
“It is. God, what am I going to do in America, Megan? I don’t want to be a cop there!”
“No, you don’t. I have no idea, but you’ll figure it out. I’m sure of it.” Megan smiled at him, and he beamed back before shaking himself.
“Wait, though, there was something you needed, wasn’t there? My professional opinion? Better get it while I’m still a professional.”
“Oh. Oh, yeah.” Megan deflated, sinking into the car seat and not minding it this time when the dogs crawled on her again. “Right, so let me catch you up, or, no, maybe I’ll just skip to the important part right now. The other night, after I found the bike in the hedge with you guys? I told the detective on the case, and later that night it disappeared.”
There was a long pause before Paul said, “Well, that can’t be good.”
“Yeah.” Megan rubbed a hand over her face. “So I was texting to ask what I should do now. There’s no security footage. Apparently the heritage centre can’t afford working cameras. So I don’t know how to figure this one out. I did think, after I texted you, that I should ring the nearest garda station and ask if I could be put in contact with the kid who was shadowing Doyle on Monday. I haven’t seen him since, but he’s a fan. Of me. Also Niamh. But he asked for a selfie with the Murder Driver, so he might listen to me if I say something hinky might be going on with Doyle. Or he might not, because cops.”
“Surely,” Paul said with a broad note of grim irony, “you’re not suggesting that the guards will close ranks to protect one of their own rather than pursue justice.”
“Oh, definitely not,” Megan said. “Not in Ireland. That’s obviously not the kind of thing that happens here. Ever. There is no good ol’ boys network, and furthermore, all the judges make fair, honest, reality-based rulings that only ever punish the wicked and never give a bad man a slap on the hand to let him go.”
“So glad you understand that.” Paul was quiet a moment, thinking. “Ringing that lad is as solid and safe an idea as any. Don’t go haring off after this detective on your own, trying to get a confession out of the man. I’ll ring someone in Dublin to see if I can’t make sure it’s at least properly looked into.”
Megan made a face. “If you ring from Morocco, where you’re on holiday with your fabulous girlf—fiancée!—about a case in Kildare, they’re going to know it’s got something to do with me, Paul. If you’re leaving An Garda Síochána to go to America, you don’t want it to be with me and one of my murder driver messes following you.”
Paul breathed, “Jaysus, leaving the guards. I hadn’t quite thought of it that way, though what else am I going to do?”
“There’s an Irish embassy in San Francisco,” Megan volunteered. “Maybe you can go be a guard for them.”
He eyed her. “That’d be a different kind of guard altogether, Megan.”
She grinned sheepishly. “I know, but it was a thought. Look, I’ll try to get hold of Farrell first, and if I can’t get anywhere with him, I’ll text you and you can try Dublin, okay? I really don’t want you leaving with a black mark on your name because of me.”
“You’re a good egg, Megan. Now, look, before I let you go, how are your friends doing? You’re supposed to be on holiday.”
“Raf’s been all in on the murder driver holiday since the start, and Sarah insisted they stay back at the Rathballard House while I came back to the holy well to see about the bicycle, because that’s where Doyle is and she reckoned they could apprehend him if necessary.” Megan realized she shouldn’t have said that much even before alarm shot across Paul’s face, and she offered a wincing laugh. “I don’t think they’ll get in any actual trouble. That’s usually on me.”
“Megan, you are a bloody menace. What’s the detective doing at Seamus Nolan’s house anyway?”
“I don’t know. He said he’d been called in to run Jack O’Malley—he’s another environmentalist—off the land, but that’d be the estate’s personal business, wouldn’t it? So a guard shouldn’t be doing that. And besides, then O’Malley did the big reveal on the toxic waste dump he’d found—”
“He what?” Paul stared at her, dismayed. “Megan . . . !”
“I know, I know, I don’t know! The waste dump was a new one on me! I haven’t had to deal with that before! But it’s the worst possible thing to find on a conservation site, right? Somebody with a real vendetta against Nolan must have left it, but I haven’t got a clue who or why.”
“What kind of waste?”
“Farm waste, it looked like, I guess. Raf and Sarah saw it, not me, but I’ve got pictures if you want me to forward them on to you.”
“Do.” Paul looked thoughtful, then shook his head. “No, go on, never mind. There’ll be a piece that fits somewhere, if you just shake it around enough. Not that you heard it from me. Go on, now. Go ring the guards and go get your friends so they’re not babysitting a detective. I swear, Megan . . .”
She smiled cheekily at him. “You enjoy every minute of this. Especially when you’re too far away for it to affect your career.”
“Which it all will be soon.” Paul gave her a nervous smile in return, then hung up to the sounds of her congratulations. She texted Niamh, too, then did ring the guards and asked for Garda Farrell to ring her back when he had the chance.
He did so about twenty minutes later, just as she pulled down the Rathballard House’s long driveway, and introduced himself with a barely suppressed note of glee in his voice. Megan, grinning, said, “Hang on a minute while I park,” and dropped the phone into the seat next to her so she could find a parking spot. “All right, I’m with you now.”
“Ah, I could fine you, now, for talking on your mobile while driving,” Farrell warned in as serious a voice as he could manage.
“I put the phone down so I wasn’t talking while driving!” Megan protested, and despite his efforts to be solemn, Farrell laughed.
“Ah, sure, I know you did. What were you ringing for, Ms. Malone?”
“I saw the picture you posted,” she said in her own grim tone.
Farrell squawked. “What? No! I never did! I only showed some of my own mates, and I didn’t even send it on to them, they had to look at me phone!”
Megan cackled. “No, no, I’m sorry, I’m kidding. No, I’m calling because I’m in a pickle. A bind. A sticky wicket. Do people say that here?”
“Not anyone who wants to keep their teeth in their own head,” Farrell said dryly. “What is it, then?”
All of Megan’s good humor fled as she struggled briefly to figure out where to start. Telling a cop she suspected his partner of corruption or worse was not an easy conversation to have. After an awkward silence and a sigh, she said, “I told Detective Doyle about the bicycle in the hedge on Monday, and it wasn’t there Tuesday morning. I don’t know what happened to it, and he’s up at the Rathballard House now, doing I don’t know what, and I’m a little afraid that . . .”
“. . . that he had something to do with Seamus Nolan’s death?” Farrell picked up incredulously when her silence drew out too long.
“It’s just, who else could, or would, have taken the bike? I know there are loads of bike thieves, but this one is just so convenient.”
“Ms. Malone,” Farrell said. Megan’s stomach clenched: he hadn’t been at all formal with her in the past, and it seemed like an extremely bad sign. After enough of a beat to make her hands start shaking with nerves, he repeated, “Ms. Malone. You told me about the bike in the hedge. I had it removed, and it’s being checked for fingerprints.”
Heat began to crawl up Megan’s jaw until her whole face was so fiery with a blush that it brought actual tears to her eyes. She slumped way, way down in the driver’s seat and eventually whispered, “I forgot I’d mentioned it you,” in total mortification.
Farrell chuckled rather gently. “Well, you did so, and while I admire you and all, Megan, it wouldn’t be your job to go around investigating the likes of this, so I’d say put it out of your mind and let the guards do their work.”
Being put in her place by a twenty-eight-year-old was considerably more aggravating than Paul, or even Doyle, doing it. Megan sat with that a moment, then dismissed it. She hated it no matter who was doing it. Voice carefully controlled, she said, “I’ll keep that in mind,” and then, still embarrassed, added, “I’m glad to hear you’re looking into the bike, anyway. Any luck?”
“I couldn’t tell you either way,” Farrell said more cheerfully. “Even if I’d like to, Doyle would have my head.”
“Does he even know you’re having prints run?”
Farrell whistled tunelessly in her ear, making Megan breathe laughter. “I guess not, then. All right, well . . .” If he’d been Paul, she would have said “let me know,” with the hope he might actually let her know, but she doubted the young garda would. He hung up, and Megan got out of the car to slink up to the house, feeling like a complete idiot.