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

shaking out a sheaf of papers. “Chief—that report that you asked for on Opus Dei is there by the side of your plate.”
    A rotund middle-aged man with a thick shock of once-blond hair but dark eyes, McKeon pushed aside a plate that had only recently contained not a little bit of everything, McGarr deduced from the remains.
    McGarr cleared his throat. “Tell you what. I’m not in the greatest form this morning, and I’d like what Bernie had,” he said in a small voice, feeling very much like a character out of Dickens.
    “Now, now—that’ll pass once you get something inyour stomach,” Noreen said in a motherly tone of voice. “You know what the doctor recommended, and you agreed to.”
    “Ah, let the poor man have what he wants,” her mother, Nuala, put in. “You can see for yourself, he had a hard go of it last night. I hope you gave as good as you got, lad. Let me freshen that cup for you now.”
    “And me,” said McKeon. “You shouldn’t use me as a model, Chief. Didn’t the sawbones say I had the cholestorol level of a pregnant woman? You saw the numbers yourself.”
    “Maybe that should tell you something,” Bresnahan observed, reaching for the teapot. “Have you been by a mirror lately?”
    “If he starts wearing a nursing bra,” Ward muttered,
    “I’m filing a grievance.”
    “I can et anything I wish,” McKeon continued.
    “Including the occasional platter of crow.” Again it was Bresnahan, banter being the usual tone of morning meetings. She was a tall, statuesque redhead who, as a recent mother, was herself on a slimming diet.
    “Whereas some of us just don’t have the numbers. Didn’t the doctor explain it all to me in a phrase?” McKeon pushed the half glasses down his nose and paused dramatically. “Genetic superiority.”
    “Bad doctor, bad science,” said Ward, reaching for the platter of sausages. Like Noreen, Ward was a trim person who would never be heavy. A former amateur boxer, he still spent a few hours in the gym every second day, working the bags, lifting weights, and sparring a few rounds with younger fighters. His dark eyesavoided McGarr’s as he forked a few sausages off the platter.
    Noreen now cut a thin slice of butter and dropped it into the oatmeal. “It’ll taste almost the same, trust me.”
    McGarr’s eyes flickered up to hers, which were turquoise in color and bright. She had slept well.
    Meanwhile, he could hear her mother in the pantry, where she had gone with his cup. There was a squeak, as of a cork being twisted from the neck of a bottle, and then a few good glugs as his coffee was being freshened.
    McGarr relaxed. At least that part of his day was proceeding according to form; he’d not missed an eye-opener in decades. “Where’s Fitz?” he asked, not having seen his father-in-law.
    “Down in the village,” Nuala said, placing the brimming cup before him. “He thought he’d put an ear to the ground, given what happened. Maybe the locals will loosen up for him what they wouldn’t say to the police.
    “There, now—you drink that while it’s hot and good.”
    “Mammy—you’re just abetting him,” Noreen complained.
    “What? Nothing of the kind. You’ve read the reports that say a little touch now and then is spot on for the ticker. You could do with a drop yourself.”
    “And Maddie—where’s Maddie?”
    “Schoolwork. I thought it might be uncomfortable for her to hear whatever details Bernie’s got for us this morning.”
    McGarr raised the blessed drop to his lips and allowed the hot, peat-smoky liquid to course down his gullet. There now. That was better. “Bernie?” he asked, reaching for his spoon.
    “Not all the news is good,” McKeon began. “In fact, two items are altogether troubling. First is, our chief here might consider treating himself to the odd steak or two of an evening, for strength if not for taste.
    “Geraldine Breen—the woman who put him in the condition we see him in this morning and whom he put