Page 68 of The Dead Come to Stay
Gridley had already opened all the available windows, but the room remained hot and humid, with rain misting through the open panes.
“I think we’ve a desk fan someplace,” she said, poking through the read cupboard. MacAdams was already performing his zoo-tiger stride at the front of the room, divested of coat, jacket, tie, and in his shirtsleeves. The middle of the board had been cleared, and he just waited for the others to take their places.
“Gridley, Andrews, spill the details.”
“Yes sir,” Andrews said, waving his coffee mug. “First, phone records. We went after all the numbers we could find, and every one of them’s a burner. End to end it doesn’t help us much, or wouldn’t have, until we picked up Benny. One of the burners washis.”
“Right,” Gridley said, sitting on the edge of his desk. “Official proof he’s connected to Her Majesty’s Young Offenders. These phones were being activated and deactivated over a few days. Kids got their directions off ’em, marching orders, and sometimes warnings.”
“As far as the numbers Foley called that weren’t burners: the hotel, the offices at Hammersmith—”
“Presumably coworker Trisha Simmons?” Gridley interrupted.
“And Burnhope. But get this, he wasn’t calling Burnhope’s mobile. He called hishouse,” Andrews finished. “An honest to God landline.”
MacAdams turned to face Green.
He knew what they were both thinking.Clandestine phone calls with Ms. Ava?
Green sucked her teeth. “It’s damn well starting to look like an affair, isn’t it? Especially since Burnhope claimed he never let business and home intersect.”
“Hang on to the Ava-and-Ronan idea for a minute and let us give you the authenticRhyan Flannery,” Gridley said, going back to her own desk and swiveling her chair to face the monitor. “Ronan Foley appears after 1998, no form—but old Rhyan hadplenty. As a lad, he was caught housebreaking. Brought up on charges for pickpocketing, too. There’s a hint that he may have been questioned about a series of robberies later tied to a gang called the Belfast Seven. Then he’s clean for a few years, no convictions.”
“But not because he wasn’t doing dirty work,” Andrews said. “North-Irish police had been tracking him, figured he might lead them to bigger fish.”
“Which he did. Sort of,” Gridley said. “There had been a spate of art thefts, the whole Russborough House art robbery thing.”
“Foley was tied to Martin Cahill?” MacAdams demanded. “That was a thirty-million-dollar heist!”
“God no. But he was linked to a group trying to fence stolen goods—that clashed with Cahill’s gang.”
“In fact, some of his set got mysteriously murdered,” Andrews added, now sitting on the edge of Gridley’sdesk. MacAdams wondered if he should suggest they pick a single speaker next time.
“Too right, they did. Police put out a warrant for Flannery/Foley, but chances are good he was wanted by the rival gang members, too.”
“He was in trouble every place with everyone. And that’s when he split—”
“Rhyan Flannery dies, Ronan Foley–slash–Nathanial Connolly is born,” Gridley confirmed.
“That’s alotof identities, isn’t it?” Green asked. “It can’t be that easy to change your name.”
“Ah! But Foley’s little art-fencing troupe had a side business in forgery!” Andrews said, waving his hands. “It’s the ’80s, too. Not exactly the cutting edge of technology for spotting a fake.”
MacAdams had been born in the ’80s. And tried not to take it personally.
“Okay, makes sense. But then how does he end up in commercial real estate? I’m not sure if I should be surprised or not.”
“Not,”Andrews said with a grin. “Get this. Flannery’s father was an architect.”
MacAdams had anticipated most of this, butthatwas news. He’d built a picture of Foley’s youth along the same lines of Tula’s: struggle, poverty, politics. Andrews pulled up an old newsprint on his machine.
“Flannery Sr. ultimately takes a jobteachingarchitecture, and we found some documentation for his son as enrolled in engineering. If he’d kept his nose clear, he might have ended up in the same career.”
“Instead, he knows just enough to work in real estate development as a bulldog job boss,” MacAdams said, turning back to the board. “Burnhope made the man sound like uncultured muscle. Instead, he’s got a whole back history in art theft, meaning heknowsart well enough to value it. He’s got some sort of background in architecture, too, and enough brains to keep several identities popping.”
“That doesn’t necessarily make him cultured,” Green said.
“No, but—but. . .” Gridley interjected. “He’s a bad boy with brains who knows how to turn on charm when he wants, especially with women.” Perhaps the exception being, MacAdamsthought, Jo Jones; she hadn’t seemed to describe him that way at all. But nonetheless.
