Black Irish Read Free Page A

shoulder.
    “On the phone?”
    Patty looked at Abbie and nodded. Then her gaze returned to its spot.
    “How did he—”
    “Fine. He sounded fine.”
    “Okay. Where was he calling from?”
    “From his route. For National Grid. Checking gas meters.”
    “Was he wearing his uniform?”
    A quick nod. Her shoulders were hunched over her chest, and her arms were now wrapped around her body, her chin down. It was as if she was coiled around something, trying to keep it from exploding into the room.
    “I ironed it the night before. Jim liked to look good. He was a proud person.”
    “Was there anything unusual about Jim that day?”
    She shook her head.
    “What about in the last few weeks?”
    She muttered, “No.”
    Abbie nodded, then let silence flood into the room. The woman was on autopilot; Abbie had to shake her out of her waking coma.
    Patty’s eyes goggled at the wall, then she seemed to become aware of the silence. Her eyes shifted left and met Abbie’s, who caught her gaze and leaned forward.
    “Why do you believe your husband’s dead?”
    “A feeling. Felt it on Monday afternoon. It was …”
    A tear appeared at the corner of Patty’s right eye. It caught the lower eyelash and swung over, finally dropping onto the darkened skin around her eyes and starting down. There was something past caring in her look, like an animal tracked to its lair that is too exhausted to fight anymore.
    “It was like Jim saying he was sorry.”
    Abbie nodded slowly. “Sorry for what?”
    “For leaving me, for leaving the kids. For the two mortgages on this shitty house, maybe. For the Catholic school bills that I won’t be able to pay anymore. For last Valentine’s Day, when he got drunk and slammed me into the living room wall. Is that enough?”
    “That’s plenty. Was there anything else he could be sorry for? Something not to do with you and him?”
    “What’re you talkin’ about?” Quick.
    “Was there anyone who might have wanted to harm Jim? That bore a grudge?”
    Patty was on it fast.
    “ ‘Bore a grudge’? What’s that mean?”
    “It means, was somebody ang—”
    “You sound like someone from New York or somethin’.”
    That wasn’t an observation here. It was an accusation.
    “Let’s talk about Jim.”
    “Where you from?” Her chin poked up and now her eyes were dry and hard.
    “Does it matter?”
    “To me it does.”
    “Okay then,” Abbie said, closing her notebook and staring at Patty. “I grew up five blocks from here.”
    “That’s imposs—”
    Her face, curling into a snarl of disbelief, suddenly went slack.
    “You’re Absalom Kearney,” she said softly.
    “That’s right.”
    Patty looked like she wanted to jump through her skin. She pointed at McDonough and turned her head, her eyes accusing.
    “Why’d he say you were Detective Marcus?”
    “That’s my married name. I don’t use it anymore.”
    She glanced up at McDonough.
    “And no one
else
is supposed to, either.”
    McDonough looked away, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
    “You still married?” The woman said in a dead voice.
    Abbie’s bright blue eyes grew still. Then she shook her head no.
    “And you came back here to take care o’ your father?”
    “Yes, I came back here to take care of my father.”
    Only half a lie.
    Patty regarded her, her eyes weighing what she’d just heard, growing softer.
    “That’s good. Maybe … maybe you’d understand.”
    “Understand what exactly?”
    Patty made a slow twirling motion with her right index finger.
    “Around here.”
    Patty’s gaze fell to the carpet, a tan shag with lines of intersecting brown and black. Her eyes searched the patterns there. Then she got up.
    “I never offered you anything.”
    “That’s okay. Really.”
    The woman stood still, then turned.
    “Just tell me what’s bothering you,” Abbie said. “I want to find your husband.”
    Instead of coming back to the couch, Patty shuffled to the fireplace. On the mantel the family photos, turned