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Authors: Reed Farrel Coleman
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said, it’s complicated.”
“So of all the cases in the world, you choose this one? You’re going to spend the weeks before Sarah’s wedding doing a favor for a woman who basically ran out on you and robbed a child from you? No, Moe, like I said, it’s not complicated. It’s just plain crazy.”
“May well be.”
“This Alta Conseco just let a man die, Moe.”
“Allegedly.”
“Bullshit. Everyone in the restaurant saw it happen. So what’s the point here, Don Quixote? You going to resurrect a dead woman’s reputation or are you looking for a little redemption because you still blame yourself for your first wife’s murder?”
“A little bit of both, I guess.”
“Well, call me when you get up here for the wedding. That’s if you still want to take me instead of your great love.”
“Now you’re just being cruel, Pam.”
“Am I? We’ll see.”
We would have to, because she was off the phone by the time I opened my mouth to say something.
…
O’Hearn’s was one of many bars of its kind in New York City. It was Irish through and through and served a hearty, if not exactly gourmet, lunch for reasonable money. Most of the menu choices were laid out in aluminum pans recessed into two rows of steam tables, the steam bleaching out the color and flavor of nearly all the food. The vegetables in particular seemed most susceptible to the vagaries of over-warming. Somehow, my mother used to achieve the same results without resorting to steam. The best feature of lunch was the carving board. There was ham and corned beef every day, sometimes turkey and roast beef too. Since getting off the job in 1977, I’d only been to places like O’Hearn’s twice: once with Francis Maloney Sr., my former father-in-law, and once with an ex-precinct mate of mine, Caveman Kenny Burton. In fact, I’d met Kenny here at O’Hearn’s. They were both dead now: Francis a victim of old age and his own bile, Kenny a victim of a bullet. Jesus did a lot of dying for their sins. Neither was missed, certainly not by me.
Brian Doyle had a half-empty pint of Harp on the table when I walked in. He was a naturally lean and athletic man and hadn’t put on an ounce since I met him. His hair was graying, but he still had the eyes of a kid. I bought us lunch before settling down to talk. I had some turkey and mashed potatoes and not much of either. Good to his word, he had corned beef and cabbage and boiled potatoes and another Harp. I’d always wondered how he could eat like that and stay slim. My guess was he had so much energy that he lost weight in his sleep.
“So what’s the deal, Boss?”
I handed over a large yellow mailing envelope with copies of the hate mail that directly threatened violence. “I need you and Devo to trace these back to the senders.”
Doyle took a look. His eyes got big, not from the harsh language or the racism—he’d be used to those—but from the names Alta Conseco and Maya Watson. I couldn’t remember how much of the story he knew about the history between Carmella and me before we hired him, so I simply told Brian that Alta was Carm’s sister.
“Still, Boss, this isn’t a good idea.”
“Don’t worry, you guys won’t be mentioned at all. I’m your client and that’s that. Charge me whatever you have to charge me. No discounts.”
“For swimming in this shit, you weren’t gonna get one. But there’s a problem I see already.”
“What’s that?”
He put one of the emails on the table and pointed at the addresses. “See here? There’s only so much Devo can do with this. If we had access to the actual emails, Devo could probably do what you want.”
“How’s that?” I asked.
“Look, I’m not as IT-savvy as Devo by a long shot, but there are reveal codes you can use to unmask people trying to hide their email identities. So if you can get her to forward those emails to Devo …”
“I’ll get them for you.”
“How?”
“You let me worry about that,
“So of all the cases in the world, you choose this one? You’re going to spend the weeks before Sarah’s wedding doing a favor for a woman who basically ran out on you and robbed a child from you? No, Moe, like I said, it’s not complicated. It’s just plain crazy.”
“May well be.”
“This Alta Conseco just let a man die, Moe.”
“Allegedly.”
“Bullshit. Everyone in the restaurant saw it happen. So what’s the point here, Don Quixote? You going to resurrect a dead woman’s reputation or are you looking for a little redemption because you still blame yourself for your first wife’s murder?”
“A little bit of both, I guess.”
“Well, call me when you get up here for the wedding. That’s if you still want to take me instead of your great love.”
“Now you’re just being cruel, Pam.”
“Am I? We’ll see.”
We would have to, because she was off the phone by the time I opened my mouth to say something.
…
O’Hearn’s was one of many bars of its kind in New York City. It was Irish through and through and served a hearty, if not exactly gourmet, lunch for reasonable money. Most of the menu choices were laid out in aluminum pans recessed into two rows of steam tables, the steam bleaching out the color and flavor of nearly all the food. The vegetables in particular seemed most susceptible to the vagaries of over-warming. Somehow, my mother used to achieve the same results without resorting to steam. The best feature of lunch was the carving board. There was ham and corned beef every day, sometimes turkey and roast beef too. Since getting off the job in 1977, I’d only been to places like O’Hearn’s twice: once with Francis Maloney Sr., my former father-in-law, and once with an ex-precinct mate of mine, Caveman Kenny Burton. In fact, I’d met Kenny here at O’Hearn’s. They were both dead now: Francis a victim of old age and his own bile, Kenny a victim of a bullet. Jesus did a lot of dying for their sins. Neither was missed, certainly not by me.
Brian Doyle had a half-empty pint of Harp on the table when I walked in. He was a naturally lean and athletic man and hadn’t put on an ounce since I met him. His hair was graying, but he still had the eyes of a kid. I bought us lunch before settling down to talk. I had some turkey and mashed potatoes and not much of either. Good to his word, he had corned beef and cabbage and boiled potatoes and another Harp. I’d always wondered how he could eat like that and stay slim. My guess was he had so much energy that he lost weight in his sleep.
“So what’s the deal, Boss?”
I handed over a large yellow mailing envelope with copies of the hate mail that directly threatened violence. “I need you and Devo to trace these back to the senders.”
Doyle took a look. His eyes got big, not from the harsh language or the racism—he’d be used to those—but from the names Alta Conseco and Maya Watson. I couldn’t remember how much of the story he knew about the history between Carmella and me before we hired him, so I simply told Brian that Alta was Carm’s sister.
“Still, Boss, this isn’t a good idea.”
“Don’t worry, you guys won’t be mentioned at all. I’m your client and that’s that. Charge me whatever you have to charge me. No discounts.”
“For swimming in this shit, you weren’t gonna get one. But there’s a problem I see already.”
“What’s that?”
He put one of the emails on the table and pointed at the addresses. “See here? There’s only so much Devo can do with this. If we had access to the actual emails, Devo could probably do what you want.”
“How’s that?” I asked.
“Look, I’m not as IT-savvy as Devo by a long shot, but there are reveal codes you can use to unmask people trying to hide their email identities. So if you can get her to forward those emails to Devo …”
“I’ll get them for you.”
“How?”
“You let me worry about that,
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