The Marlboro Man: A Moira McElvaney Mystery Read online

  CHAPTER ONE

  G regory Gardiner looked out the window of the American Airlines Boeing 737-800 at the blue waters of the Caribbean thirty thousand feet below. He felt his stomach clench. It was only fifteen minutes since he had been obliged to rush to the toilet to void himself. His stomach trouble had nothing to do with the food he had eaten in Caracas or the fact that he was nervous flying in a metal tube five point six miles above the Earth at over three hundred miles an hour. Gardiner’s stomach had collapsed because he was reaching the culmination of a project he’d been working on for more than six months. He signalled to the stewardess for another whiskey and soda. She came to his seat and, bending down, quietly informed him that it was not advisable to drink so much while flying. Gardiner had been raised to be always polite, so he told the stewardess that he would be the judge of that and that in the meantime would she mind bringing him his fucking drink.

  He turned his attention to the yellow legal pad on the pull-down tray in front of him. The top page contained his checklist and every item had been ticked. The planning had been meticulous, but if that was the case why was his stomach doing somersaults? He supposed it was because he would be royally screwed if things went wrong. The best he could hope for was to spend the rest of his life in jail. But that wouldn’t be the worst of it. Going through the legal system would beggar his wife and mean that his son and daughter would probably end up working in a burger joint, if they were lucky. And all the time he would be someone’s ‘bitch’ in some maximum security hellhole. His stomach heaved one more time. Oh Christ, he thought. Why the hell did I get involved? The answer was easy – money. The object of the exercise was to make money, a lot of money. It was the American way. If the shit hit the fan, he could always go to the police and tell them the whole story, but would they actually listen to him?

  The stewardess arrived with his drink and placed it wordlessly on the pull-down tray. He ignored the look of distain on her face and started immediately on the whiskey and soda. Fucking bitch, who the hell did she think she was? Goddamned glorified cocktail waitress. He finished half his drink and immediately thought that he should order another. But whiskey would only be a temporary escape and his nerves would continue to jangle until the gig was over.

  He told himself to calm down. Everything was going to be OK. He had done the main part and all he had to do now was see it through. He fiddled with his Montblanc pen. He had bought it along with a gold Rolex and some other boy’s toys when he thought that he’d be rolling in money before too long. He drew a circle on his legal pad and put the word ‘police’ in the centre. He needed to think. Caracas had been a necessary waste of time. The whole project had been perfectly set up, but he was the one in the firing line if it went south. All the evidence would point to him and him alone. He had bought into that arrangement. He sucked again on his drink and then took a deep breath. This kind of thing was out of his league, he was a small-time accountant, for God’s sake. He had pushed himself to the limit to pull this thing off and if everything worked out it would be blue skies from now on. He heard the two pings from the sound system and then the voice of a steward informed the passengers that they were about to land at Miami International Airport. He closed the legal pad and put it in the briefcase at his feet, then polished off his drink and replaced his tray. The plane was descending slowly. He had made it to the final phase. He glanced at the gold Rolex in the knowledge that he might soon be saying goodbye to it. The plane dipped and banked right, revealing Miami bathed in sunshine beneath him. His nerves jangled just a little bit more and then settled.

  CHAPTER TWO

  M oira McElvaney bit into a piece of French toast in Dominic’s Diner and looked out across Lawrence Airport in North Andover. It was another of those pinch-yourself-to-see-if-it’s-true moments that she’d been experiencing since she arrived in Boston three months ago. She stared at the helicopter waiting on the tarmac. In fifteen minutes she would be sitting in it and winging her way to Martha’s Vineyard. She could hardly believe it was really happening to her. She looked across at her partner, Brendan Guilfoyle, who was wolfing down Dominick’s signature dish of corned beef hash omelette. She’d met Brendan, a professor at Harvard, while he was on sabbatical at Queen’s University in Belfast and she had made the momentous decision to take a leave of absence from the job she loved at the Belfast murder squad to follow him to America.

  Three months in, she was asking herself how things were working out. She was pretty happy with Brendan. He wasn't handsome, but he was good-looking enough, and he was funny, clever and, although she would never admit it to him, pretty good in bed. So, on the scorecard of her new life in Boston, Brendan was marked as a positive. She was marginally satisfied with her new life auditing courses in criminal psychology at Harvard. Brendan was a brilliant lecturer, using case studies illustrated by video and slides as he explored the workings of the criminal mind. His classes had already deepened her knowledge of what motivates criminals, but she was beginning to wonder how and when she would be able to use the knowledge she was gaining. The scorecard on Harvard was only just positive but with a reservation. However, just sitting in the back row of a lecture theatre in William James Hall was another of those pinch-yourself moments. In deciding to follow Brendan, she had known that the greatest wrench would be from her job as a detective sergeant in the Belfast murder squad. After several non-descript government jobs, she had found her niche as a policewoman and even more so when she became a detective. On the scorecard, leaving the job she loved was a big negative and it was becoming bigger with every day that passed. Every morning, as soon as she woke up, she wondered how her old boss, Detective Superintendent Ian Wilson, was getting on without her. She knew he would survive, but deep inside she hoped he was missing her as much as she was missing him. Being away from her job with the Police Service of Northern Ireland was definitely a negative on the scorecard of her new life in Boston. The question that remained was, did those pinch-yourself moments make up for the absence of the buzz she felt helping to solve murders in Belfast?

  Moira looked at the overnight case at her feet. Brendan had told her to bring her most imposing glad rags. That was a considerable challenge since most of her ‘decent’ clothes were hanging in a wardrobe in her parent’s home in Northern Ireland. She had refused to be a kept woman and was contributing her full share to the cost of their combined life in Boston. However, her savings were limited and would only last the year she had given herself to see if her relationship with Brendan was the real thing. She had already tried marriage and it hadn’t worked out so well for her. She wasn’t about to jump into another permanent liaison that could possibly end in disaster. The result of her budgeting meant that glad rags were in short supply.

  Moira and Brendan looked up as the helicopter pilot entered the restaurant and headed in their direction. ‘We’re good to go.’ He picked up Moira’s case and started for the door.

  ‘A man of few words,’ Brendan remarked as he tossed thirty dollars on the table and picked up his own small case. ‘Let’s do this.’

  Moira stood up slowly. A helicopter ride is exciting until the point that you’re expected to get into a machine that looks like an overgrown mosquito.

  ‘Don’t be nervous,’ Brendan said as he took her hand and led her out of the restaurant. ‘It’s one of the safest forms of transport.’

  ‘Why isn’t it just the safest form of transport?’ She allowed herself to be led across the small expanse of tarmac between the restaurant and their safe form of transport. They stopped before the machine and Brendan handed over his case, which the pilot stowed.

  The pilot turned to face them. ‘
‘So, who wants to sit up front with me?’

  Moira and Brendan looked at each other.

  ‘Tell me again exactly why we’re doing this?’ Moira asked.

  ‘We’re going to spend the weekend in a fantastic house on Martha’s Vineyard that’s owned by one of my oldest buddies. It’s on the beach and we’re going to have a wonderful time. Remember you’re a fearless policewoman and get in the front seat.’ Brendan ushered her towards the left side of the Bell 206.

  Moira reluctantly climbed into the seat beside the pilot while Brendan sat directly behind. As soon as they were settled with their headphones on, the pilot pressed some buttons and the rotors began to move.

  ‘It’s one hundred and ten miles as the crow flies to our destination,’ the pilot said. ‘We won’t be flying like a crow so settle back and enjoy the view. I’ll have you on the ground in maybe one hour twenty minutes.’ With that they started to take off and the pilot spoke only to Lawrence control.

  Moira wasn’t naturally nervous of flying, but it was her first time in a helicopter and, although she was excited, she was apprehensive. As soon as they were airborne, the pilot headed south across the rolling countryside of north Massachusetts, then flew east in the direction of Salem before turning south again, keeping the city of Boston on their right. It wasn’t like flying in a plane. For Moira is was like they were skimming over the ocean. They were so low that she could see the people on the yachts on Cape Cod Bay. She was so engrossed by the sights below that she didn’t feel the time passing. After what seemed like a very short time, the pilot announced that they would be landing in five minutes at Martha’s Vineyard. Moira looked down and saw two islands directly ahead.

  ‘The one on the right is Martha’s Vineyard,’ Brendan’s voice came over the intercom. ‘And the one on the left is Nantucket. We’re headed for Oak Bluffs, it’s a promontory on the north of Martha’s Vineyard.’

  Moira looked down and saw that they were sweeping in over the ocean and heading directly for what seemed like a golf club. Then the helicopter made a sharp right and they descended rapidly towards what looked like a small hotel with a large ‘H’ clearly marked in the back garden. The pilot dropped skilfully towards that landing area and Moira let out a long sigh as the helicopter touched down, definitely a pinch-yourself trip.

  ‘What did you think?’ Brendan asked as the pilot passed over their bags and bid them farewell.

  ‘Can we do it again?’

  Brendan smiled. ‘That depends on my buddy.’

  Moira looked in the direction of the house and saw a man about Brendan’s age approaching. He was dressed in blue jeans and a loose white cotton shirt. Brendan pulled her away from the helicopter, whose rotors were beginning to turn slowly. They ducked their heads and started walking towards the man who was obviously their host. When they met almost halfway between the helicopter and the house, Brendan dropped his case and opened his arms to hug his friend. Moira watched as the two men embraced like long-lost lovers.

  ‘Great to see you, Frank,’ Brendan was the first to pull away. ‘You look terrific. This is my partner, Moira McElvaney. Moira, this is Frank Shea. We go way back.’

  The two men parted and Moira got her first full view of their host. A pair of the bluest eyes she had ever seen stared at her. Shea was just over six feet, his face was angular and tanned. Like Brendan, he was more attractive than good-looking. His hair was prematurely grey and he sported a short salt-and-pepper beard. His body was lean and he was obviously comfortable in it. Moira’s job with the PSNI had trained her to make instant assessments of people. Her first impression of Shea was that he was a confident and affable character. She felt no threat from him, and Brendan and he were certainly very good friends.

  Shea stood back from Brendan. ‘You certainly can pick them.’ He spoke with a soft Bostonian accent. He moved towards Moira and embraced her. ‘I’ve never seen red hair like that. Do you mind?’ He stroked her hair and smiled. ‘You’re a genuine colleen.’ He took her weekend case from her hand. ‘Let’s go up to the house and get you guys settled. Then it’ll be martini time. We’re eating in tonight. I assume that’s alright with you.’ He looked at Brendan, who nodded.

  CHAPTER THREE

  T his is just too much, Moira thought as she changed into her best clothes. She was relieved that Shea had been dressed so casually and that they were eating in. Their room was bigger than some of the houses she’d lived in. In effect it was two rooms. One contained what was to her mind an entire living room and the other was the biggest bedroom she’d ever seen. In fact the bathroom, which included a Jacuzzi, was probably bigger than the flat she’d left in Belfast. They had entered the house through a set of French doors that led directly from the garden to a living room. They were then immediately shown to their accommodation, which was on the first floor and reached by a beautiful, circular cast-iron staircase with a green patina. The staircase alone was a work of art.

  ‘How big is the rest of the house?’ she asked as she combed her hair in front of a mirror in a gilt frame.

  ‘I guess something over eight thousand square feet.’ Brendan was wearing a pair of tan chinos and a light-blue denim shirt. ‘There’s a gymnasium and an indoor swimming pool in the basement. If you add them in it might be over nine thousand.’

  That was the equivalent of seven or eight family houses where she came from. ‘And he lives here alone?’

  ‘So far.’

  ‘Are you ready to go down?’ Moira asked.

  ‘I’ll follow you.’ Brendan was heading for the bathroom. ‘I have some urgent business with the beef hash omelette.’

  ‘I don’t need to know,’ Moira said as she started for the door.

  There was no one about when she descended the staircase to the living area. Her policewoman’s instincts saw this as the ideal opportunity for a snoop around. The living room was spacious and formal, with two seating areas each consisting of comfortable sofas surrounding a coffee table, and a large grand piano in one corner. She failed to detect a personality in the layout, it looked like the work of an interior designer. The walls were lined with works of art, most of which were of the modern variety. She was no art critic, but they didn’t look like the work of amateurs and she had no doubt that they had been costly. She was disappointed. She had hoped to learn something of their host’s character from his house, but the only thing that she had deduced was that he might possibly play the piano. Not exactly a startling discovery and even then the piano might be merely a prop.

  She was still alone and there was an entire nine thousand square feet to explore. A room to the left of the living room sparked her interest. She pushed opened the door and found herself in what looked like Shea’s study. This room had a more lived-in feel. It was a man’s room but not a man cave. There was a flat-screen TV in the corner, but it wasn’t the size usually associated with watching sports. The room was dominated by a large partner’s desk, which looked antique and had a patina to match. An iMac with a twenty-seven-inch screen sat on the desk facing away from her. Two large windows looked out onto a magnificently maintained garden. She knew that Brendan’s family had money – that was clear from the family mansion on Beacon Hill, but if this was Frank Shea’s summer place, the Guilfoyles weren’t the only ones who were loaded. Brendan’s father was proud that he was only one generation away from poverty in Ireland. She wondered where Frank Shea had made his money. One wall of the study was lined with books. Shea’s interest was concentrated either on old, and obviously valuable, works relating to mathematics, or modern books on business and finance. They were the kind of tomes that would only interest the passionate and didn’t represent bedside reading. The wall directly behind the desk contained a number of framed diplomas and photographs. She walked to the wall and examined the frames. The first contained a diploma from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology confirming that Frank Shea had graduated summa cum laude with a degree in mathematics. A second frame contained a similar diploma awarding a M
aster’s degree in mathematics, and a third held a diploma from Harvard Business School awarding Shea an MBA – again the level was indicated at summa cum laude. Frank Shea was obviously no slouch in the academic arena. She turned to examine the photos. They consisted in the main of men in business suits being awarded something or other. She didn’t recognise Shea in any of them.

  ‘Find anything interesting?’

  Moira jumped at the sound. She whirled round and saw that Shea had entered the room noiselessly and stood on the other side of the desk. She was relieved to see that he was smiling. ‘Occupational hazard.’ She returned the smile. ‘I really didn’t intend to intrude.’

  Shea wrinkled his brow. ‘That’s not the way it looks from where I’m standing. I’m looking forward to snooping on your life.’ He took a really good look at her. The red hair had blown him away when he’d greeted her on the lawn, but there was lots more to admire. She was wearing a white silk blouse and a pair of black harem pants and although the outfit was loose fitting it didn’t hide the fact that she was in pretty good shape. Her face was attractive and pale and she had the most incredible green eyes.

  She saw that he was giving her a good looking over and she couldn’t tell whether he was flirting with her or being serious. ‘My life would be a bore in comparison to yours.’

  ‘Now why don’t I believe you? I bet you keep the real you well hidden.’

  ‘Like I said, occupational hazard.’

  ‘Brendan is on the terrace enjoying a pre-dinner cocktail. Why don’t we join him?’ He stood aside and ushered Moira out of the study, through the living room and out onto the terrace.

  Brendan was holding a hi-ball glass and staring out over the ocean. A white-jacketed butler stood beside a table on which a series of bottles were set.

  ‘What would you like to drink?’ Shea nodded in the direction of the butler. ‘Justin has many accomplishments and among them is the fact that he makes a very mean cocktail.’