The Death of an Irish Sinner by Bartholomew Gill Read Free Book Online Page A

take that for a yes.”
    Geraldine by name, she was the housekeeper and martial arts expert who—along with the myriad electronic gadgets—had been in charge of security for a frail woman in her late seventies. And who had failed.
    To the priest, McGarr said, “I need a list of everybody who was present in this house and on the grounds this afternoon. How many other people possess cards to the front gate?”
    “Everybody.”
    “Everybody who has ever been in residence here?”
    “No. The codes change daily, such that a card that can open the gate on one day can’t on the next.”
    “How do your guests get these cards?”
    “Geraldine slips them under their doors every morning, along with the Times .”
    Rather like a pricey hotel, McGarr thought. But a curious hotel, to say the least. Certainly Mary-Jo Stanton had been rich, and the house contained objects that had been the target of thieves in the past, according to the priest.
    But the security precautions had been excessive and ultimately worthless.
    “How many guests are there?”
    “Today, only three, not counting me.”
    “You mean you consider yourself a guest here?”
    “Yes, of course. Mary-Jo owned the house.”
    “How long have you lived here?”
    “Oh”—Father Fred had to think—“nearly twenty years.”
    Which would have placed him in his early thirties when Mary Jo was in her fifties.
    McGarr was about to ask if the priest had occupied some other religious office for all that time when he heard voices below them, loud and official—obviously the Tech Squad or members of his own staff. Which was good.
    Suddenly his wrist and the side of his face were throbbing, and he sorely needed to take something for the pain. Preferably a large whiskey.
    There had been a time—pain or no pain—when McGarr would have rounded up everybody in the house and interviewed them one by one—all night, if necessary—before the killer had a chance to formulate an alibi.
    But McGarr no longer felt the need to be the chief operative as well as the chief administrator of his agency. He had trained his staff well, and Ward and McKeon—whom he could see in the hallway below him—could conduct the initial interviews, gather information, and deal with the Techies about the physical evidence.
    Nor would he put up with banter.
    “Would yiz look at him,” Bernie McKeon, his chief-of-staff, said to Hugh Ward as McGarr stepped off the last stair. “Isn’t he forever telling us, ‘Lads—yiz’ve got to use your heads.’”
    “But literally, like that?” Ward replied. “He asks too much.”
    “It’s leadership by example.”
    “There’s a woman up on the third floor who’s to be brought in and charged with assault.”
    “On you?”
    “Chief—say it ain’t so. Could it be time for the gold wristwatch and the cottage in Tralee?”
    “I want the whole thing worked out for me by the morning.”
    “After his beauty sleep.”
    “Bios of the residents and anybody else on the property today, possible suspects, the initial physical findings, and a rundown of the security system that you’ll find underneath the stairs. Ring up the outfit that installed it. They must offer twenty-four-hour service.
    “And finally, I want an inventory. Could theft have been the motive?”
    Which quelled their comments. “But this place is huge, and there’re only two of us.”
    “Get help.”
    Out in the car, McGarr eased into the contour seat that wrapped his back like two soft soothing hands. Bed, of course, would be better.
    But it was not to be.

CHAPTER 7
    A CAR WAS blocking the drive in the street outside the gate. With arms folded, a tall, thin man was leaning against the fender, his eyeglasses glinting in the beams of McGarr’s headlamps.
    As the gates closed with a solid clump, McGarr waited for the man to move, and when he didn’t, McGarr flashed the car’s brights and rolled a few feet forward.
    Only then did the man step forward.
    Gangly, mid-forties, he had a