Black Irish Read Free Page B

at different angles to the room.
    Patty walked down the four feet of the wooden mantel, tapping on the white painted top absentmindedly. She paused by the firstphoto: her in a big white dress, thirty pounds lighter, beaming and holding the hand of a brown-haired man. Her finger touched the man’s face and then glided down the glass. She took another two steps and got to the last photo. Abbie stood quickly, but Patty pulled the frame to her belly, blocking Abbie’s view.
    Patty stared at the wall above the mantel, hesitated, then glanced down at the photo before pressing it again to her body.
    “Was your husband good to you, Detective Kearney?” she said, still turned away.
    “Not really. He was good to himself, and then I got what was left over. How about Jimmy?”
    “Jim wasn’t no good either, tell you the truth. When we’d fight, he’d threaten to leave me, and I’d say to him, ‘You’ve been leaving ever since we were married.’ ”
    Patty turned, the picture held tight to her stomach, facing away from Abbie.
    “You’ve been leaving me
ever since you got here
. Y’know?”
    That almost-Canadian inflection in the phrase.
Y’know
.
    “Yes, I know.”
    “But now that he’s gone, I want you to bring him back to me. Then …”
    The hand holding the picture dropped to her side. Patty began to walk out of the room.
    “Then I’ll know what to do.”
    Abbie watched her go.
    McDonough turned and made the crazy sign by the side of his head.

CHAPTER THREE
    A BBIE WALKED OUTSIDE AND THE COLD AIR FELT LIKE IT WAS CUTTING ICE rings into her lungs. McDonough came up behind her.
    “What a freak show. She’s lost it.”
    Abbie turned to look at him, her eyes burning. “No, Officer, she hasn’t lost it. And if you pull that hand-gesture stuff again, I’ll see you do midnights on the East Side all winter. You up for that?”
    “No.”
    “Good.”
    McDonough coughed.
    “You really think he’s dead?”
    Abbie looked up and down the street of tiny cottages, rusting American cars, and small Toyota compacts.
    She sighed. “Yes.”
    McDonough shook his head. “I don’t see it.”
    Abbie’s eyebrow arched. McDonough fidgeted and pulled his broad blue police hat tight over his flushed forehead.
    “I’m one test away from getting my detective shield. And when I get it, I’ve put in my request to work with you, Detective Mar—um, Kearney. Tell you the truth, about half of my graduating class did.”
    “Really? Why’s that?”
    McDonough shrugged. “They say you’re the best since your father retired, that maybe you’re even better than him. And in the County, that’s saying something. Your dad was the fucking gold—”
    “McDonough?”
    “Uh-huh?”
    “Which photo did she choose?”
    “Huh?”
    “You say you want to be a detective, so I’m asking you, which photo did Patty Ryan take off the mantel when we were talking about her husband? You did notice she took one down, didn’t you?”
    “Um, sure.” He kicked the snow on the porch.
    “Mm-hmm?”
    “Was it the wedding photo?”
    Abbie turned away. “No, it wasn’t. And that’s what makes it interesting. Women
always
go for the wedding picture, because if you know anything about marriages, the wedding is almost always the high point for them. Men will almost always pick a photo from when they first met. Don’t ask me why.”
    “So you’re saying she took a different one?”
    “Yeah, that’s what I’m telling you.”
    McDonough looked vacantly at the street and shook his head. Abbie sighed.
    “It was a five-by-eight of three men, the man to the right with his back turned, the man to the left probably Jimmy Ryan, the middle one balding. Judging by the difference between Ryan’s current photo and this one, it might have been ten or fifteen years ago. The three were standing on the lakeshore, probably facing the Canadian side, judging from the angle of the sun on the Peace Bridge to the right.”
    Abbie slapped her notebook against her