“Moira!” her mother scolded.
“My whispery mother dreams the darndest things. Acts of carnage haunt her daydreams. She’s a natural-born killer in a housewife’s dress.”
“Please excuse my daughter. She’s actually fourteen, but I’m afraid she’s never left her terrible twos.”
“Chapter eighteen, page 192,” Moira singsonged. “Mother likes to test her dialogue on unsuspecting guests.”
“The Vikings didn’t stand a chance,” muttered Margaret.
“And you are?” Moira asked.
“Sergeant Margaret Marie Aligante,” Driscoll answered.
“Such a long name,” said Moira with a shrug.
“Sergeant Aligante, it is certainly a pleasure to have you grace our home,” said Mrs. Tiernan.
“Please, call me Margaret.”
“You’ve managed to thrill my mother, Sergeant Margaret Marie Aligante.”
“Pay no attention to Moira. She delights in the resonance of her own voice,” said Seamus Tiernan.
“Sergeant Margaret Marie Aligante, will you consider sponsoring me?”
“Your bird’s the one who needs a sponsor. I suggest you try AA,” Margaret replied, taking an instant dislike to the girl.
“I’m not talking about Chester, I’m talking about me,” said Moira, sharply. “I’d like to become a police investigator.”
“John Jay College of Criminal Justice may have what you’re looking for,” said Driscoll.
“College is for bookworms and preppies. I wanna be around cops. I need to feel the beat of police work.”
“I know you officers have entered the electronic age. Unleash her on a computer, Lieutenant, and she’ll have it doing cartwheels,” her mother said.
“What do you know about the Pentium Pro XPS 200?” Driscoll asked Moira.
“Could teach it a trick or two.”
“Can you now?” said Driscoll, suddenly seeing Nicole’s smile in the girl’s face.
The Lieutenant was drawn to the girl. The more he gazed at her, the more he saw Nicole, who was about Moira’s age when she died. It pained him to look at the girl. So many memories flooded to consciousness. He wished he could slip off somewhere, someplace where he could be alone to resolve his anguish in private. At the moment, he felt like he was on a stage with a packed house staring him in the face.
“Lieutenant? Lieutenant, are you OK?”
“Yes, Moira. I’m fine,” he managed.
“If you’ll let me, I can provide a program that can safeguard your entire system from any kind of virus. It’s a virtual vaccine for infected computers.”
“We’d have to clear it with the Captain for security’s sake,” said Driscoll.
“Of course!” Moira raced out of the room. “Just give me a minute to get the CD.”
“Higgins is not gonna like this,” Margaret warned, lips to her glass, eyes peeking over its brim.
“Not to worry, whiz kids like Moira could probably teach Higgins a thing or two,” Driscoll whispered. “And besides, what harm could she do? It’s not like we’re actually assigning her to the case. At best, we’ll get a few lessons on how to use the computer to our advantage.”
“What’s next? Recruitment straight out of nursery?”
The remark made Driscoll grin.
Moira returned with the virus-seeking CD and slipped it into Driscoll’s pocket. “Like a wonder drug,” she said with a wink.
Mr. Tiernan then motioned for his guests to take their seats around a beautifully set table.
“The Erin Society was started by Sean McManus, an Irish coal miner from Pennsylvania, in 1952,” Seamus Tiernan told Driscoll after hors d’oeuvres. “The New York chapter was established in the town of Hankins, in Sullivan County. There, McManus founded a seminary for the training of Druidic priests. But they have since gone underground.”
“Why?” asked Driscoll.
“Theological differences.”
“You said you had visited them. Did you attend their services?”
“If you ask me, the ASPCA should have gotten a call.” Moira’s voice echoed from the kitchen, where she had been beckoned to help her mother with the main course.
“How’s that?” Driscoll called out.
“They built a wicker man, then filled it with live roosters and set it ablaze at dawn in honor of the rising sun. Weren’t they sweethearts?”
“Moira tells it like it is,” said Seamus Tiernan. “I took her on a trip upstate when she was eight.”
“Next time, we go to Disney World,” Moria hollered.
“I thought you told me you hadn’t visited the site since ’88,” said Driscoll.
“I forgot the stopover with my daughter. That’s a trip I regret. It was no place for a young girl.”
“Perhaps it’s time for another visit,” Driscoll suggested.
The door to the kitchen swung open, and Moira appeared, holding a platter of barbecued chicken wings.
“Don’t waste your time,” she said.
“Why not?”
“Guys that get off on roasting roosters don’t get off on murder.”
A chill settled over the table.
“She even thinks like a cop,” said her mother.
“Care for another assistant?” Moira asked with a smile.
“Oh, brother,” Margaret moaned.
Chapter 35
Driscoll was seated behind his desk, poring over the photos of the remains of the latest victim. How could one human being do this to another? he pondered. And what’s with the sanitation dump site?
Margaret stuck her head inside the door, interrupting his contemplation. “She’s late,” she said.
“Who?”
“The whiz kid.”
“Who’s watchin’ the clock?”
“You said five P.M. Sharp! It’s going on five-fifteen.”
Driscoll gestured for Margaret to come in and take a seat beside his desk.
“You don’t care for Little Miss Computer Brains, do you?”
“She’s much too brassy for my liking. But I have a suspicion that you have somewhat of crush on the young girl.”
“If truth be known, she makes me think of Nicole every time I see her.”
Driscoll envisioned his daughter’s smiling face. He remembered the warmth he felt whenever Nicole took hold of his hand. One such memory came racing to consciousness. Nicole was two, going on three. He and she were together in the playroom. “Daddy c’mere,” she beckoned, her little fingers entwined around his. “You get the wellwow ones,” she instructed, holding a yellow block with the raised letter T on it. “Build dem, Daddy. Build dem.” Driscoll got down on all fours and stacked T upon S, upon E, until the tiny tower of yellow blocks was complete. Nicole erected the blue ones. When the two columns were assembled, Nicole formed a tiny O with her lips, signaling Driscoll to blow the blocks down. How she giggled and grinned when Driscoll obliged.
“Just like you’re doing now,” said Margaret.
“What’s that?”
“Nicole. You’re thinking of Nicole.” Her voice was sympathetic. “Your face always has that melancholy look when you’re thinking of your daughter. Or didn’t you know that?” Margaret watched as a tiny tear formed in the corner of Driscoll’s eye. “It’s very understandable,” Margaret continued, her eyes drawn downward. “I only wish I had someone to blot out the nightmares of my past.”
“You know I’m always here to listen.”
“Forget I said it. I’m fine. Just a little distracted lately. That’s all.” Margaret squirmed in her seat like a schoolgirl. “Maybe it’s the case with all its blood and gore. I don’t know.”
“Can I take a stab at it?”
“At what?”
“At what’s got you distracted.”
“Fire away, Mr. Freud.”
“I think you’re jealous.”
“Jealous? Jealous of who?”
“Little Miss Computer Brains.”
“Get real.”
“No. I think that’s it. Plain and simple. I saw the look on your face at that dinner table where Moira was fawning all over me. You’re jealous of all the attention I give her.”
“Yeah, like I’m gonna get jealous of a fourteen-year-old girl.”