Killer Score (The Irish Garda Files Book 2) Read online

  KILLER SCORE

  The Irish Garda Files – Book Two

  Melinda Colt

  KILLER SCORE

  Copyright © 2020 Melinda Colt

  Cover design: coveredbymelinda.com

  Edited by Susanne Matthews

  Crime consultant: Detective Simon McLean

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  “All extremes of feeling are allied with madness.” – Virginia Woolf

  Chapter One

  “So, ye bonnie Yank, want to go to my place?”

  Evan Gallagher glanced at the girl sitting next to him. She was probably half his age, no more than seventeen or eighteen, although the curvy body dressed in skimpy clothes was unquestionably that of a woman’s. Where the hell were her parents while she was here, drinking and asking for trouble, inviting a strange man into her home? Not that he would ever let himself be picked up by a woman in a bar—ever again.

  He hadn’t taken her flirting seriously, which was why he’d responded to her chatting in the first place, but now he smiled gently and shook his head. He almost had to shout in her ear to be heard over the loud bass music.

  “Thanks for the offer, but I have to wake up early tomorrow. Work day, you know.”

  Her pout was childish. He couldn’t distinguish her features clearly in the dim light of the club, other than a mass of long strawberry-blond hair, a cute, freckled face, and a pair of perky breasts barely contained under a red tank top.

  To be honest, he wasn’t even sure how he’d ended up here. He’d worked late, then had wandered the streets to clear his head a little, and when he’d seen the bar sign he decided to get a drink. Too late did he realize this was a club for young people who loved dancing and pumping techno music—everything at the opposite pole from him. He’d wanted to turn around the moment he’d entered, but decided to get a beer anyway, since he was here already. After all, he was determined to explore Ireland every chance he got. But bedding a girl who could be his daughter was not on his to-do list.

  Giving her another smile, he slid off the bar stool.

  “I’m going to get some air,” he shouted into the girl’s ear.

  By the time he made his way through the mass of people and pushed open the door, he felt almost claustrophobic. With a mix of amusement and nostalgia, he remembered how much he’d enjoyed this lifestyle more than a dozen years ago. He glanced at his watch. Now, at 9:36 p.m., he was eager to get back to his small, rented flat, turn on the heating, and curl up in bed. Looking around, he noticed this wasn’t the main entrance to the club, the one he’d used to get inside. It must be a back door, used for deliveries and stuff like that, which explained why the area was deserted. Well, he might as well figure the way back to the main street. Taking a few steps farther from the door, he tried to decide whether to go back inside and finish his drink, or simply go home.

  The stone-paved Dublin alley was dark, except for the club’s neon green light that flashed intermittently. He noticed this sign was smaller than the fancy one marking the official entry, which had drawn his attention earlier. Probably the main entrance was all away around the block. Great. More walking on the cold, dark streets, where mist seemed to hover at any time of day or night. The chilly rain stung his scalp, plastering his hair to his head, and making him huddle deeper into his leather jacket. It was time to buy a thicker coat. And a frigging car. The temperature was getting way too low to move around on foot.

  Sighing, he started to walk. Soon, he realized he was heading toward the dead-end of the alley. That damn music had blasted his sense of orientation all to hell. Muttering under his breath, he began to turn around, but stopped when he noticed something red peeking from behind one of the dumpsters lined up against the cul-de-sac.

  A sinking sensation crept down his spine as he moved quickly but cautiously toward the dumpsters. Every step revealed what was lying between them, from the tips of her red shoes, on to half-bare thighs revealed by a sparkly black dress, shoulder-length dark hair, and a face that hadn’t lost its beauty—even in death.

  Cursing, Evan rushed to the woman and checked her pulse, knowing before he did there would be none. He’d seen his share of dead bodies, too many to count, and while some cops became jaded, he was the exception to that rule. Somehow he hadn’t quite managed to get there. The sick feeling in his gut gained more power each time. Fishing his phone out of his pocket, he called for backup.

  “This is special age— I mean, Detective Inspector Evan Gallagher,” he amended, speaking to the dispatch. “I have a homicide on—” He looked around until he spotted a street name and number, then gave it to the operator. “It’s next to the Páirtí club, at the end of the alley. Send another homicide detective, a dozen Gardaí, the Technical Bureau guys, and a forensic pathologist. Oh, also contact Chelsea Campbell and ask her to come asap,” he added, referring to the psychologist who volunteered as criminal profiler for the Garda. He didn’t know how much experience she had in violent crimes, but he could use all the help he could get.

  As he finished giving instructions, he looked over his shoulder. Obviously the killer hadn’t stuck around, but at any minute someone might leave the club and notice him. Thank God this was the back door. If it were the main entrance, his crime scene would have been compromised before he’d have time to give it a onceover. The only way he could secure the crime scene at this time was to bodily block the area. The rain had already screwed it up, but thankfully now it was only drizzling. With a bit of luck, if anyone walked by here, they wouldn’t notice the body, at least not until the police—Garda—got here.

  He’d transferred here more than a couple of months ago, and still found it hard to remember he no longer worked for the FBI, but for An Garda Síochána. Moving to Ireland had been his way to escape having to deal with dead bodies in dark alleys. It seemed it wasn’t meant to be. Squaring his shoulders, he focused his gaze on the victim.

  She was—had been—an attractive woman in her early to mid-thirties. Her dark hair was soaked with rainwater, her milky-blue eyes half-closed, staring lifelessly at the cloudy sky. A rivulet of blood crept from the corner of her mouth, almost washed out by raindrops. On top of the sparkly dress she wore a black coat that was spread open, revealing the white skin of her throat. A reddish-purple ring of bruises surrounded it, making it obvious she’d been strangled. Although… There was something that didn’t jibe here, but Evan couldn’t exactly pinpoint it. He couldn’t see much in the dim light and didn’t dare turn on a flashlight until he had backup to keep the inevitable gawkers away.

  The woman’s skin was very cold, and flaccid to the touch. She must have been dead for an hour, maximum two, because rigor mortis hadn’t taken over. Probably the killer had waited for darkness to fall. It was risky to do something like this while there was still light, even in an uncirculated area.

  Evan swallowed hard, forcing himself to ignore the clenching of his gut, to follow his training and analyze the facts in an objective manner. She was beyond help now, but the person who’d killed her was somewhere out there, thinking he’d gotten away with it.

  “Like hell,” he muttered. “I’m going to find you, you sick motherfucker. And you’re going to pay.”

  He looked around, searching for clues. What was the victim doing here? Clubbing with friends, meeting someone, alone out to have a good time? Or was she a prostitut
e, out to make herself some money? Evan didn’t think so. Her clothes looked decent, her neckline far higher than that of the girl in the red tank top. Squinting, he saw a purse flung a little away from the body, and in the other direction he spotted a cell phone. So, this hadn’t been a mugging. The victim still had her jewelry on—two gold rings, a watch, and a pair of gold earrings. The killer’s purpose had been murder. Was this woman the specific target, and why?

  He didn’t have a field kit on him, and he didn’t want to touch anything without gloves, so he wouldn’t compromise the crime scene. At least he hoped the contents of her purse and her phone would help identify the victim quickly, even offer some clues regarding her killer’s identity.

  He shook his head, staring down at the lovely brunette. As always, rage and pity battled inside him, because no matter how much human kind had evolved during the centuries, people’s need to kill had only evolved as well. Killers were no fewer, they were just smarter. He’d never known a convicted murderer to be rehabilitated in jail. All they did was continue living on the taxpayer’s money, after taking one or more lives, for which they would never truly pay.

  The sound of sirens jarred him out of his musings, which was for the best. After all, his superiors from the FBI had called his ideas ‘radical’, and implied more than once he would become a dangerous vigilante if he didn’t learn to control them. Another reason he’d needed a change. As it turned out, it was just a matter of geography.

  Cars approached, tires screeched, and in minutes the other end of the alley was blocked by police vehicles, their red and blue lights flashing. By now, a couple of young men had emerged from the club and were trying to light up cigarettes. Evan walked toward them, cop mode full on as he showed them his badge.

  “I’m Detective Gallagher. Please get back inside. There has been a murder and no one leaves until everyone is questioned by the Garda.”

  He didn’t have time to acknowledge their wide eyes and babbled questions. He was too busy giving the arriving Gardaí instructions to stand by and preserve the scene until the Technical Bureau—the branch in charge of Crime Scene Investigation—arrived. There had to be more than a hundred people inside the club, so he might need more Gardaí to take statements. He doubted the killer had stuck around, but if anyone had seen the victim inside the club or had any information, it could be a vital clue.

  “Detective Gallagher, what happened here?”

  He turned in time to see a tall, barrel-chested man heading toward him, tiny water drops glinting on his graying temples. Evan had known John O’Sullivan by reputation even before he’d met the man, who had become famous for solving a complicated case of contract killings not even the FBI and Interpol had figured out.

  “Detective O’Sullivan, thanks for coming. As you know, I was recruited by the FBI to work Cybercrime, but moved to Homicide after a few years. I’m trained to work both, but I’m better in front of a computer than in the field. I thought a fresh pair of eyes from a local veteran crime-fighter would help. I’ve literally stumbled across a murder victim, over there,” he indicated the direction where the body was. “This is my first murder case in Ireland, so I’m not 100 percent sure of the protocol.”

  “We solve the case.” John O’Sullivan flashed him a tired smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “It’s good that you called me, lad. A competent cop admits his weaknesses and plays his strong points. Let’s see what we have. Nóirín should be here soon.”

  Evan and John O’Sullivan headed toward the body. Evan told him the little he had so far. While listening, John produced two pairs of latex gloves and handed Evan one.

  “Let’s see if she has an ID in her purse.”

  “I hope she does,” Evan replied, kneeling beside the body. “You check that, while I take a look at her phone. These days phones are practically a tool to discover and catch criminals. Do you have an evidence bag?”

  “In my field kit,” John said, digging into the large pocket of his coat and taking out a box. From it, he retrieved several clear plastic bags and handed them to Evan.

  Evan pulled on the latex gloves before lifting the phone off the wet ground. He hoped rain hadn’t damaged it badly. He recognized the make and model of the phone and was grateful it was a good one. The display was broken, and when he pushed the lateral button to unlock it, the screen remained black.

  Damn. Of course it couldn’t be this easy. He didn’t panic because he was confident he could recover data from it. But that would take time. The phone had to be taken to the Technical Bureau lab, set to dry off, checked for fingerprints… He’d be lucky if he could get his hands on it tomorrow and start taking it apart to learn what he could about the victim’s life.

  A few yards away, John stood, holding an ID card between two fingers. “Her name is Shannon Brody. She was thirty-two, born and living in Dublin.”

  “I’ll run her data and see if she has any next of kin. We need to inform them asap. Then question them,” Evan added grimly.

  He signaled a Garda and John held up the victim’s ID.

  “Take a photo of this and start questioning the people inside the club,” Evan told the waiting officer. “Ask if anyone saw her, knew her, you know the drill. Thanks.”

  “Yes, sir.” The Garda took the shot, then headed inside, several of his fellow officers following. Evan hoped that if, by some miracle, there were any potential witnesses, they wouldn’t be intimidated by the men’s dark-blue uniforms. On the other hand, just the sight of that army of young, buffed officers would make people start talking.

  “Evening, lads. I hear we have a poor lass murdered.”

  Evan looked over his shoulder at Nóirín Dempsey, a valued member of the Garda Technical Bureau. She looked like an Irish version of Martha Stewart, but Evan had heard she had a mind so sharp it would scare Jack The Ripper. As she headed toward them, Evan noticed her blond hair was neatly tucked under a dark-blue cap with Garda written in yellow across it.

  “Thanks for coming, Nóirín,” Evan said.

  “Are ye kidding? How could we leave the newly-arrived American solve such a case by himself?”

  Although the words might have been patronizing coming from anyone else, Evan’s mouth twitched in amusement. Nóirín had a mother-hen quality that made it impossible for anyone not to like her. Anyone who was innocent of any wrong-doing, that was.

  Nóirín went back to the van, where she and the rest of the team put on their disposable jumpsuits, booties, and masks, the protective gear specially conceived for crime scene experts to be able to analyze the scene without contaminating any evidence. The other end of the alley was blocked by police cars, an ambulance, and the inevitable gawkers. Their eyes glinted wide in the red and blue lights coming from the vehicles, and the flash of the camera an investigator was using to photograph the scene. Those alternating lights were never a good sign. Maybe the victim—Shannon—should have been part of that crowd. Hell, maybe the killer was among the bystanders, admiring his or her work right now. The thought was as daunting as the darkness, which made it hard for them to see, even with flashlights.

  Trying to ignore all the odds that worked against them, Evan focused on the job. The pathologist had arrived, too, and had started her preliminary examination of the body. In the meantime, Evan and John studied the scene, avoiding getting into Nóirín’s way. Despite the puddles of rain, Evan noticed a trail on the ground.

  “She wasn’t murdered there,” he told John, indicating the dumpsters. “She was dragged… from here.”

  They followed the trail, walking at a distance not to disturb it. The shallow trench in the mud began several yards away, close to the entry of the club, which was now sealed with police tape.

  “He killed her here, then dragged the body over there, so she wouldn’t be found too soon and give him time to get away,” John speculated.

  “It appears so. It’s risky though. Someone from the club could have walked out at any second.”

  “Are we sure cause of death
was strangulation?” John asked.

  “Ye’d think so, but no,” Siobhan O’Boyle said from behind him. “Come here, I have something to show you.” Still kneeling next to the body, the forensic pathologist reached out her gloved fingers and gingerly felt the back of the victim’s head, then turned it slightly toward the insufficient light for John and Evan to see. “She was hit hard on the back of her head. Probably the killer only meant to render her unconscious, but I’m guessing it was the blow that killed her. I’ll know for certain only after the autopsy; however, even if she was strangled, it wasn’t while she was conscious. See here?” She lifted one of the victim’s hands. “No defensive wounds, no broken fingernails. Plus, her tongue is not protruding and swollen like in any typical strangulation case, and although she has some broken capillaries, her eyes are half closed, not bulging. My first impression is that her assailant struck her from behind, then strangled her without realizing she was already dead or dying.”

  “Here’s a new definition of overkill,” Evan remarked dryly. Although he had to remain cool, a shudder rattled his body. “This son of a bitch has ice for blood. And a lot of rage. It doesn’t look like the typical crime of passion, since those tend to include rape, but when we run her background check, let’s make sure we look to see if she made any official complaints about anyone bothering her.”

  “Aye,” John agreed. “Your instincts are rarely wrong, Siobhan. Can you give us a time of death?”

  “Not an exact one right now, but I would say less than three hours,” Siobhan replied absently, swabbing the blood on the victim’s mouth and sealing the evidence bag.

  “Anything you can tell us about the object with which she was hit?” Evan asked her.

  “Not really, except it was heavy and sturdy enough to do some real damage.”

  “Like this stone here?” Nóirín came toward them, holding what looked like a rock or brick. She was peering closely at it through magnifying goggles. “Yep, definitely some blood on this. Looks like this is your murder weapon, Detective,” she said, lifting it for Evan to see.