The Jay answered that.

“Kill the bitch.”

I broke into Reardon’s house.

Why?

Because I could.

Five in the afternoon and the winter darkness had already settled. The house was lit up like hope. I knew sensor alarms were to be installed on the grounds but, owing to a strike with the grounds staff, it was in limbo. And, yes, I did say, grounds staff.

No point in being sick rich if you didn’t flaunt it. Like,

Two gardeners

Security guards

Gamekeeper (I shit thee not)

And all attending a Galway United match. Thank fuck. Reardon his own self was the guest of honor at the match. I figured on somebody being home but was intending to avoid whoever it was. I mostly hoped Kelly would be there. I was carrying.

Nine mil.

I’d a scenario in my head. See her and just pump two in her fucking head, no frills. A kitchen window was fairly easily maneuvered. The alarm it should have set off was, like the rest, at the match. God bless football. I stood in the kitchen, listened. Quiet. Lights were on all over but I felt they were cosmetic. The house felt empty. Nevertheless, I let the nine slide to my right hand, headed for the stairs, stopped en route, had a glass of rye, keep it U.S. Tasted good, tasted like more. I moved on. Up the stairs, did a full search of six bedrooms, not a dickey bird.

So, okay.

I’d wait.

Back downstairs, another rye, with ice; just because I felt like fucking with my own head, sat in a large leather chair, settled in. The room had a comfortable feel, lots of books that had never been opened. I know my used books. When books are for show, be sure you’ve put ammunition in the nine, double-check.

Close to midnight when the front door opened, I’d turned the lights down so it appeared undisturbed. Reardon’s voice and a woman laughing.

Kelly.

Shoot them both?

It wasn’t Kelly. They’d walked into the living room, arm in arm, she still laughing at something he said. I did recognize her, vaguely. From a recent reality show that was like all those shows, about fucking nothing. Worse, nothing with what they thought of as street cred.

Jesus.

She had one of those new bogus Irish names, like

Blaithín

Or

Sneachta.

Which translated as flowers and snow, respectively. I don’t know either. Their sole function seemed to be the annoyance factor. I had the gun down by my leg and felt there was little need to show it now. Reardon reacted smartly, said,

“Jack, glad you could come by.”

I went with,

“Sorry to intrude but I felt it was best to report personally.”

The woman was pissed, whined,

“You’re working now?”

Man, she sure leaned on that now. Managing to get a world of complaint into it. Seriously, I don’t think anyone would ever call what Reardon did work but, hey, she was a reality star. But he liked to play, always, said,

“Jack’s my gopher, you know, the one who jumps when I whistle.”

Building a whole amount of sneer into that. She liked it, pushed,

“Get him to jump now.”

Maybe I’d just shoot her.

A long moment. We were frozen in a tableau of dislike. Reardon broke the spell, said,

“Jack has to run along now. Isn’t that right, Jack? There’s a good boy, hop it.”

The sneer was so inbuilt, you could almost miss it-almost. I stood, slipping the nine into the pocket of item 1834, my all-weather Garda coat, asked,

“Any idea of where your wife might be?”

The reality genius heard wrong, laughed, said,

“Is he looking for a wife, Daniel?”

Daniel. Jesus, who knew?

I’d of course read about Danny Reardon, American poet/actor/author who now lectured at Trinity, but, I figured, no kin. Daniel smiled.

“Jack, you’re a PI and asking me?”

The bright spark was about to ask something and he lashed her, fast, with,

“Shut. . the. . fuck. . up.”

She did.

I looked right into his eyes, let him see I was not fucking around, said,

“Best for all if maybe I find her before, you know, the cops?”

We both knew that was a crock. He asked,

“Where would Oscar flee to?”

I was on my way out, a slight tremor niggling at my nerve ends. I heard, in whine song,

“Who’s Oscar?”

Galway was on the world stage for all the wrong worst reasons.

An Indian woman died of blood poisoning after being denied a pregnancy termination. Though she was in severe pain, the hospital refused to act, as the staff said,

. . there was still a fetal heartbeat and this was a Catholic country.

Previously, she’d been told she was having a spontaneous abortion and the fetus had no chance. Details of the woman’s horrendous agony and agonizing death led to immediate street protests, and crowds from both sides of the abortion divide shouted at each other outside the hospital.

The government ducked and dived, muttering platitudes, adding fuel to the notion it was the most hated government we’d ever had. The new austerity measures, seemingly new ones daily, had the people already at breaking point.

I was in Garavan’s, a pint before me, and a man in a splendid suit, groomed hair, tan, knocked back a large gin and tonic, pronounced,

“See, say what the fuck you like, the church still rules this country. The clergy might be less profile but they are still covert. Abortion is their ticket back.”

His use of the obscenity seemed especially offensive. A photo of the deceased woman was on all the front pages. She had one of those lovely faces that testify to a gentle soul. The suit turned to me, assessed me, found me wanting, asked-demanded-

“What do you think, fellah?”

I moved from my stool, looked at him, said,

“You shout the odds in a pub but what are you going to do?”

This seemed to baffle him. He echoed,

“Do? What can I possibly do?”

I hadn’t the energy to start, said,

“Gotcha.”

He grabbed my arm, hissed,

“What’s that mean, eh? We’re a nation of talkers, we shout and rant, it’s our heritage.”

“But what happened to the country of fighters?”

I asked.

“Not the point,”

He said.

. . and more’s the Irish-ed pity.

33

“Naturally,” he said, “I don’t defend evil deeds, but if you can’t understand the nature of crime. . the motives of a criminal. . well, you won’t get very far as a detective. There is a sort of twisted logic which is often easier to discover than the logic which governs our everyday actions. As we all know, chaos is the neighbour of God; but everything’s usually neat and tidy in hell.”

— Håkan Nesser, Hour of the Wolf

Finally did a detective thing-found the apartment Kelly lived in when she wasn’t staying at Reardon’s place. Knew she had to have a separate, if not peace, then territory.

How?

I asked the ESB.

Light bills have caught more villains than the Guards.

The apartment was in Devon Park, formerly a rich enclave for hidden and hiding consultants who’d be hiding even more after the needless death of the young Indian woman. The whole of the bottom floor was in Kelly’s name. I had a clipboard and a puzzled expression, basically the only tools essential for burglary. Those and a bent key. I got in without triggering alarms and, it struck me, this was my second break-in in a week, maybe a whole new line of work.

The living room was spotless, I mean, vacuumed to within an inch of its fiber. Leather easy chairs and a large lived-in sofa.

One massive bookcase.

Wilde.

As in, hundreds of Oscar volumes. A top shelf devoted to true crime and psychology.

Ann Rule.

People of the Lie.

Books on Bundy and all the boyos. But, most telling, a three-volume Study on Women Psychopaths and Sociopaths.

One volume seemed to be especially well thumbed so I took that. And must have triggered something in the shelf as suddenly all the lights came on, the radio, the huge-screen TV. Put the shite crossways in me. I literally jumped. Moved quickly around, turned off everything save the TV.