Private Dublin

Chapter 57

We didn’t speak much during the drive back to Dublin. I wondered if Andi felt awkward now she was under review. Despite what I’d said about it being a formality, a good investigator would know that wasn’t true. The new hires would have to be re-vetted, their lives and references examined anew, and this time we’d specifically be looking for anything that linked them to Propaganda Tre, the Dark Fates, or any of the principal players: Lawrence Finch, the billionaire racehorse owner, Sam Farrell, the former cop turned assassin, and Joe McGee, the street dealer who’d brutalized Noah and Mary Kearney.

But maybe she wasn’t the one causing this new constraint between us. Maybe the conversation had dwindled because I was killing it. Maybe I was afraid of speaking freely until I knew if she was truly friend or foe.

As we made our way into the inner city, passing the boarded-up, derelict stores in Dolphin’s Barn, I revisited the investigation. If Andi was compromised, then her lines of inquiry were too, and everything she’d suggested was suspect. Instead of an ally, I might have a threat sitting in the car with me, which meant not only did I have to be on my guard constantly, but I also had to look again at everything about this investigation from the very beginning. Starting with the arrest of Joe McGee, the ketamine dealer linked to the Dark Fates, who we’d followed to Kearney Stud.

As Andi parked in Fitzwilliam Square, I stretched to ease away the effects of the long drive.

“I’m going to get some milk,” I said. “See if I can buy a phone.”

“I can do that,” Andi replied as she stopped the engine and opened the driver’s door.

“It’s alright. I want to stretch my legs,” I said.

“I can come with—” she began, but I cut her off.

“I’ll be a while getting a new phone. And if they sell me one with some charge, I’ll call Justine.”

She smiled wryly and her head drooped. “Formality,” she said quietly.

There wasn’t anything I could say to make her feel better.

“I shouldn’t be more than an hour or so,” I said, and didn’t wait for a reply as I got out the car and walked away.

I went into Mobile123, a phone shop on Mespil Road near the canal, where I bought a phone in less than fifteen minutes. The pay-as-you-go device had sufficient charge for a few calls, so I tried Mo-bot, knowing she’d probably be awake even though it was very early in Los Angeles.

“Hello?” she said.

“Mo, make a note of this number. It’s my new phone,” I replied. “I want you to dig into Andrea ‘Andi’ Harris. Tell Emily she’s a priority for review. If she’s dirty, I want to know ASAP. If she’s clean, I also need to know so there’s no distance between us.”

“I’m on it,” Mo-bot told me. “Anything else?”

“The pub where Joe McGee was arrested. It should be in the case files. I need the name.”

I heard Mo-bot typing. “It was the Night Watch,” she said after a short while.

“Thanks,” I replied. “I’ll call you later.”

I used my new phone to find the Night Watch, which was a thirty-minute walk to my east on Irishtown Road. I hurried across the city, passing Lansdowne Road stadium and crossing the River Dodder on a small stone bridge.

The Night Watch was one of Dublin’s oldest pubs, set back from the road at the mouth of a narrow cobblestone yard. It was as if the place was a gateway to the city’s history. The two-story building was painted black, with gold lettering, and the sign hanging over the door depicted a group of men in hoods searching for something by the golden glow of a lantern. The place was busy despite it only being late afternoon on a weekday, and from the look of the folks inside, this wasn’t a pub for tourists.

Men with hard faces, some of them with broken noses or mouths shy of a full set of teeth, eyed me openly as I entered. But I wasn’t intimidated and went to the bar, where I jostled my way to the barkeeper’s notice and ordered a pint of stout. Once I’d got my drink, I moved to a quieter section of the pub and leaned against a wall while I studied the customers.

I was looking for anyone dealing or using drugs, because the chances were they would know Joe McGee. If I got really lucky, I might spot the man himself.

After an hour nursing my now-warm pint, something caught my eye, and I moved across the pub to check it out.

A large man in jeans and a T-shirt was pushing his way across the saloon toward a corridor at the rear of the pub. A sign above the doorway read “Toilets,” but there was another door further along from the restrooms, which brought the corridor to a premature end. When I got closer to the guy, I was able to get a better look at the thing that had caught my eye — a tattoo on his upper arm, just above the elbow. It was the mark of Propaganda Tre. This was one of Joe McGee’s fellow foot soldiers.

The man went into the corridor and I put my pint glass on a nearby table and followed him. I saw him enter the room at the end. Two bouncers standing either side of the open doorway eyed me closely as I approached.

“Can we help you, sir?” the one on the right asked.

The guy on the left leaned in and closed the door, but not before I’d had the chance to peer into the busy function room and see a couple dozen men, maybe more, drinking and talking in small groups.

“I’m looking for the men’s room,” I said, playing up my American accent.

“Right behind you, pal,” my guide told me.

I looked over my shoulder and made a play of registering the sign for the men’s toilet.

“Sorry,” I said. “Head’s a little fuzzy for some reason. I might have had too much of your black stuff.”

I made a show of being drunk and staggered when I turned away. I walked along the corridor and into the men’s room where I waited patiently until, about five minutes later, I heard a cacophony of voices and the thud of many footsteps. The meeting had broken up and the men were leaving. I left it another minute or so before I slipped out and followed them.