*

It was twenty to noon when I got into the incident room. All the floaters were either out working or out on coffee break, but Richie was at his desk, ankles wrapped around the legs of his chair like a teenager, nose to nose with his computer screen. “Howya,” he said, without looking up. “The lads picked up your man’s car. Dark blue Opel Corsa, 03D.”

“Style icon that he is.” I handed him a paper cup of coffee. “In case you didn’t get a chance. Where’d he have it parked?”

“Thanks. Up on that hill overlooking the south end of the bay. He had it stashed off the road, in among the trees, so the lads missed it till daylight.”

A good mile from the estate, maybe more. Conor had been taking no chances. “Beautiful. It’s gone to Larry?”

“Towing it now.”

I nodded at the computer. “Anything good?”

Richie shook his head. “Your man’s never been arrested, under Conor Brennan, anyway. Couple of speeding tickets, but the dates and locations don’t match anywhere I was posted.”

“Still trying to work out why he rings a bell?”

“Yeah. I’m thinking it could be from a long time back, ’cause in my head he’s younger, like maybe twenty. Might be nothing, but I just want to know.”

I tossed my coat over the back of my chair and took a swig of my coffee. “I’m wondering if someone else knows Conor from before, too. Pretty soon we need to pull in Fiona Rafferty, give her a look at him and see how she reacts. He got his hands on the Spains’ door key somehow—I don’t believe that crap he gave us about finding it on a dawn wander—and she’s the only one who had it. I’m having a hard time seeing that as coincidence.”

At that point Quigley oiled up behind me and tapped me on the arm with his morning tabloid. “I heard,” he breathed, like it was a dirty secret, “that you got someone for your big-deal case last night.”

Quigley always gives me the urge to straighten my tie and check my teeth for scraps. He smelled like he had eaten breakfast at a fast-food joint, which would explain a lot, and there was a sheen of grease on his upper lip. “You heard right,” I said, taking a step back from him.

He widened his pouchy little eyes at me. “That was quick, wasn’t it?”

“That’s what we’re paid for, chum: getting the bad guys. You should try it sometime.”

Quigley’s mouth pursed up. “God, you’re awful defensive, Kennedy. Are you having doubts, is it? Thinking maybe you’ve got the wrong fella?”

“Stay tuned. I doubt it, but go ahead and keep your champagne on ice, just in case.”

“Now hang on there. Don’t take out your insecurities on me. I’m only being pleased for you, so I am.”

He was pointing his paper at my chest, all puffed up with injured outrage—feeling hard done by is the fuel that keeps Quigley running. “Sweet of you,” I said, turning away to my desk to let him know we were finished. “One of these days, if I’m bored, I’ll take you out on a big case and show you how it’s done.”