The Death of an Irish Sinner Read Free

just a man, a very good man who devoted his life to God.”
    “Then why did you pay to keep me quiet all these years, and what are you doing here?”
    “Protecting—since you brought up the word—the good name of Mary-Jo Stanton, José Maria Escrivá, and Opus Dei from a scandalmonger, known blackmailer, and probable murderer, like you.”
    Foley’s laugh was hollow, but he had succeeded in disturbing her. Color had risen to her cheeks, and she now lowered the computer to the desk.
    “Don’t give me that,” he continued. “Look who’s lying now? You paid me and you searched me out here for two reasons. One”—with arms still raised, Foley peeled off a finger—“everything I said is true. Two—and this is the delicious irony—nobody in your ruthless sect, which has propounded the deaths of so many innocent others, has got the guts to snuff her and end the problem that she represents.
    “Why? Because if José Maria Escrivá is another and more modern Jesus Christ because he sinned, then the flesh of his loins is holy too. Pity Mary-Jo and Fred, for all their hanky-panky, didn’t toss up a brat or two to carry the wholly unholy dynasty into the new millennium.”
    Just as the woman barked “Enough!” Foley lungedacross the desk, one hand grabbing a corner for leverage and the other seizing the neck of the lamp, which he swiped across the side of her face.
    “But I’ve got the guts!” he roared, cocking back the lamp and whipping it down at her head.
    Instead it struck the computer.
    Again and again Foley flailed at her, moving around the desk as she retreated.
    Until he raised himself up on his toes to maximize his leverage, and she buried her foot deep in his groin. As he crumpled up, she slammed the heavy machine down on his head.
    Foley fell to his knees.
    She struck him again.
    Foley toppled over on the carpet.
    Holding the CPU over her head, she whipped her body and crashed the tower into his face, before turning to the mirror behind the desk.
    The sharp bottom of the lamp had gouged her cheek, which was now bleeding profusely. She’d have a long scar if she didn’t get it stitched soon.
    But there was much work still to do, both here and at Foley’s home on Killiney Bay, as well as in the mistress’s flat in Dun Laoghaire. No trace of Mary-Jo could be allowed to remain.
    Now that he was dead and would be missed, the files here in the office would have to be removed quickly and destroyed. But safely, in a manner that would leave no trace.
    It now occurred to her where—a building on the quays that was owned by a friend who, in fact, mightfind some of the information in the files useful. She would enlist his aid.
    But she fervently hoped Foley hadn’t told either his young wife or his stylish mistress about Mary-Jo. It would be a pity if there were any evidence that he had.

CHAPTER 2
    Dublin, Spring 2000
    LITTLE COULD CHIEF Superintendent Peter McGarr have known that the investigation into the unsolved murder of Francis Xavier Foley—solicitor and blackmailer—would resume over a decade later with another killing on the evening of the first fine day in spring.
    Winter had been desperate altogether, with torrential, wind-blown rains and coastal flooding in many parts of the country. Early spring proved little better.
    Then, one Friday night in the middle of April, the winds ceased with an abruptness that was startling. Stepping out of the headquarters of the Serious Crimes Unit in Dublin, McGarr noticed a change in the air that had to do more with texture than temperature.
    A gentle yet steady breeze was blowing in from the southwest, and now and again through thinning clouds he could see stars overhead. The climate had finally relented, and the morrow would be fair.
    Pouring himself a drink in the pantry of his house in Rathmines, McGarr took a sip and glanced up at his reflection in the glass cabinets that ringed the small room.
    In his mid-fifties now, McGarr had a long face, clear gray eyes,