Inside the interrogation room, the air was stuffy, though not as rancid as that within his and Murphy's apartment building, and clouded from cigarette smoke as he almost finished off his pack. The rain had picked up a considerable amount since earlier that afternoon, and thunder shook the walls ten minutes after he had arrived. One report was heavy enough to rattle the fluorescent fixtures and two-way mirror.
Tapping his burning cigarette in the provided ashtray, Connor waited with bated breath for the detective to enter the room and start firing off questions. Connor felt trapped between two courses of action: one where he chooses to lie to Malone about what he saw on the street that day and thus try to steer the investigation away from him and Murphy, and the other, where he tells him the truth. The saint within him wanted to confess. The brother and lover within him wanted to stay out of a cell to keep an eye on his family.
At last, the steel door to the room squealed open, and Eric Malone strolled in, clutching a briefcase and series of folders, as well as a cup of fresh coffee. When he set eyes on the auburn-haired younger man, he felt the most surreal sense of Déjà vu sweep over him. He knew it couldn't have been possible, but he felt as though he and Connor already knew each other— or that they soon would. Brushing it off for now, assuming he knew someone with an identical appearance, he took a seat in front of him opening the folders.
"Thanks for coming in on such short notice, Mister MacManus," Malone told him, waving the cigarette smoke from his face.
"Connor."
Nodding, he repeated, "Connor. I'm going to record this conversation." Connor nodded, giving the okay. Malone hit the red button on the tape recorder before clearing his throat. "You were across the street at Johnson's Pawn Shop during the incident. According to the statement of the owner, you were leaving the shop around the general time the incident is reported to have taken place." He paused and waited for a response, looking up at him as he shifted in his seat with discomfort.
"Aye," Connor admitted, a cough following.
"Aye… that's 'yes' right?"
Connor tipped his eyes upward, tagging a drag off his cigarette and shaking his head. Then, with a thick, American accent that John Wayne would laugh at, said, "Yes."
Malone laughed. "Convincing."
"Thank you, pardner."
Another laugh. "You'd be a riot at parties."
"Well, dat's what my drinkin' buddies tell meh."
Getting past the amusement of their conversation, Malone addressed what he really wished to know. "Anyway. So, you've confirmed you were leaving the shop at that time. You had to have heard what went on."
"Why's dat?"
"Well, the shop owner reports that he saw you run across the street. The incident took place across the street, in an alleyway."
"Dat right…?" Connor pondered, tonguing his cheek.
"Aye," Malone said with a smug grin.
"Well…" Sweat pushed through his every pore as he tried to come up with a viable story. No matter what he came up with in his head, none of it sounded close to realistic. He wondered who else might have seen them that mentioned his presence to the police, or who saw him pull out a handgun from his belt and shoot an Italian in the back of the head because he roughed up his brother. "I… I did hear some'tin'. Some screamin'. Two guys fightin'."
"Did you see anything?"
"Not really. I didn't wanna get involved, ya know?"
"So, you ran across the street, I'm assuming because you heard the commotion, and you just stopped there? Didn't go down the alley, didn't use the payphone on the corner to call for help?"
Connor lowered his head, as well as his eyes, lighting another cigarette with his Zippo. What could he do at that point to keep his ass out of jail long enough to buy himself time? "I…" He sighed out a wisp of smoke, which Malone waved away. "I…" Malone set his elbows on the surface of the table and folded them over each other, giving him an oppressive stare as he waited. Connor then shrugged, flicked his cigarette into the ashtray, and said, loud and clear, "I plead de fifth."
Now sinking in his seat, Malone passed Connor a frustrated expression, one of impatience and desperation. "The fifth…" he repeated, rubbing his jaw.
"Aye. I know my rights. Dat's one o'dem."
As he sighed, parts of the long, dark hair covering Malone's forehead drifted upward as air caught it. "You could have told me over the phone, Connor that this would be a giant waste of my time."
Agitated by his abrasive approach, Connor lifted his chin, finishing his cigarette. "I s'ppose. But den I wouldn't have met such a charming lad such as the likes of yourself, Detective Malone."
With crimping eyelids and a furrowing brow, Malone responded through gritted teeth, "Indeed. One more thing, Connor, and I know you've chosen to retain your right to remain silent, but I want you to keep this in mind: have you ever been called a 'mick' before?"
"Oh, aye."
"Does it make you angry?"
"Not per'ticurlarly. No."
Feeling he had smacked into a brick wall, Malone let it go. "All right. I'll have you taken home. In the meantime, don't leave the city. We're going to need statements." Studying Connor's every move, Malone, shook his hand, feeling just how clammy and sweaty it was.
You're guilty as hell, Malone guessed. You're in on this somehow. What do you know about me?
As Connor stood up, sticking his pack of cigarettes into his coat pocket, Malone passed him a business card with his name and number on it. "If you have any questions or any more information for me."
Connor took the card, but didn't acknowledge that he'd use it, only slipped it in his pocket with the rest of his things. Malone guided him out of the room and escorted him out of the station, where he was then taken back to his home.
"We shall meet again, Connor," Malone said to no one other than himself. Somehow, he knew it was true.
Connor breezed into the apartment as soon as he got off of the lift, shutting the door and twisting the rusted lock, which thereafter loosened and struck the floor with a thud. "Fantastic," he snorted.
Murphy, breathing a sigh of relief when he saw him, had gotten dressed by now. He hopped over the beds, shoved a chair out of the way and huffed, "I t'ought fer sure ya weren't comin' back."
"You and meh both." He patted Murphy's shoulder, as well as gave his cheek a firm stroke. "He knew I did it. I could see it in his eyes."
"What are we goin' to do?"
"Dere's not really a whole lot we can do. Jus' have to wait it out… hope it all blows o'er."
Murphy wasn't about to run with such a plan. "Come on, dat's stupid. Let's leave de country! Go back to Ireland!"
"I'm not runnin' from dis. I'm not givin' myself up willingly, but I can't hide, ei'ter. Sure, I was protectin' ya, but de guy said he had a family. He was a fa'ter. A husband. I destroyed dat."
Murphy doubted Connor's rationality. He felt guilty, and he didn't blame him, but in his eyes, Tony was just another scumbag that needed to eat a bullet. "It was a crime o'passion, Connor! Ya weren't t'inkin' straight!" He jabbed his forefinger against his head to intensify his argument.
"Does dat make it any better? I don' really t'ink so. His kid doesn't have a parent because o'meh."
"And ya would have been without a brother because of 'im."
Connor kept his head bowed, not wanting to look his twin in the eye. "Coulda scared de guy. Didn't have to kill 'im."
Giving up, Murphy sat on the couch, holding his head down. "Fine. Have it yer way. When yer in cuffs tomorrow, don' look to meh."
"Don' be like dat. I have my reasons, Murph. As do you."
Nothing else was to be said on the matter. Murphy dropped it, not wanting to get into another fight, but he also didn't want Connor to get arrested; or, worse yet, the both of them. At least if they were both imprisoned, they'd be together, but prison was one place Murphy couldn't imagine surviving in.
Now that the bickering had stopped, Connor rested on his mattress, folding his hands behind his head. Murphy returned to his bed as well, saying nothing more to Connor for the night, shielding his discontent, as well as his anxiety. If he couldn't influence his brother, no one could. Connor, however, was convincing in his arguments, as well as strong. Sure, sometimes his ideas were foolish; Murphy had accepted that long ago. His brother was too idealistic sometimes, and for years, he rolled with it. One of them had to be the yin, the other the yang. It was the balance of all things.
In this instance, however, Connor could be apprehended, thrown into a cage, and he might not see him again for years. They weren't meant to be separated. They were one unit, he and Connor—one could not survive or even exist without the other.
For hours, Murphy couldn't sleep. In the middle of the night, he got up and prepared to go out for a long walk, hoping to clear his head. He didn't get two feet toward the door without rousing his twin.
"Where ya goin'?" murmured Connor, who Murphy could have sworn was still asleep when he asked.
"Walkin'. I can't fuckin' sleep."
"C'mere."
He almost decided not to listen to him, but a force drew him near. He pulled his coat off, and took a seat on the bed next to Connor, facing away from him. Connor sat up and held him, yanking him toward his chest, letting the breath out of him.
"I don' want ya to worry," Connor said, clinging to him, mindful of his injuries.
"How can ya tell meh dat?" Though he was stressed, he calmed when Connor hugged him.
"Jus' trust me." He squeezed him tighter. "Listen to meh. Everythin' will be all 'ight."
In the way Connor said it, Murphy almost believed him. "How do ya know?"
"I dunno. I jus'… feel dat it will."
This wasn't the first time that Connor had such "feelings," and most of the time, Murphy shared them. On the other hand, half of his feelings were insane and made little to no sense to him. Still, he would heed his brother's words. Sometimes, Connor didn't know a thing, and other times, he was surprisingly bright and aware.
"All 'ight."
Releasing him, Connor lied back down, relaxing once more, hoping Murphy's concern was vanquished, at least for the rest of the night. If only his worries were as easy to shoot away as it was a human life. Murphy hesitated, thinking on what Connor had told him, then crammed himself into the bed next to him, shoving Connor off of it in the process with the lack of space. Connor, amused, laughed as he slipped off the edge.
"Dere's no room fer yer fat ass!" he giggled.
Squinting at him, Murphy managed to sneak a smile onto his face. "Yer da fat one. Always were."
"Ya weighed nine fuckin' pounds when ya came outta ma! I weighed seven!"
"Ya also eat twice as much as meh."
"Aye, well, ya drink more beer den I do."
Warning Connor with a threatening point of the index finger, he claimed, "Gettin' a scale tomorrow and settlin' dis."
"Aye," laughed Connor. "De truth shall be known."
Another couple of days, and a body still hadn't been recovered. The pills Malone ate like candy didn't help ease his nerves. Where was Tony now, and what did that Irish punk know about him? Were they in on it together? So many questions and so few answers, and above all, not enough minutes in the day. It was time to get his hands dirty, the old fashioned way.
The quaint, fifties style suburbia was not Malone's style. All of the bright colors, the waving neighbors, the picket fences and barbeques were too much for him. When he had to stop to avoid hitting a kid riding on his bicycle, he laid on the horn so hard that some people peeked out of their windows to get a look at what was going on. Once the dazed child was out of his way, he parked in the driveway of the Abbiati house, where he saw a car in the driveway—Sheryl Abbiati's. He climbed out of his vehicle, strolled to the front door and rang the doorbell. It was Sheryl who opened the door, and at first she grinned when she saw him, but when his icy eyes met hers, she was no longer pleased by his visit.
"We need to talk," he said, his tone venomous.
She pulled the door open, and he pushed his way inside of her home. "What happened? Is he dead?"
"That's exactly why I'm here, Mrs. Abbiati. Please. Sit." She did, on her sofa. "It seems your husband has gone… missing." Apprehensive, she hunched her shoulders and lowered her head. "You wouldn't happen to know where he is… would you?"
"He wasn't at the apartment?"
"No. There were signs of domestic violence, but he wasn't there. We also found some blood in the alley near his apartment. It was a match."
Sheryl didn't seem worried for her husband's life, but rather, something else. "I take it you didn't find his body."
Malone sat down in an adjacent chair, crossing his legs, folding his hands in his lap. "Not yet. That's why I've come to you. The whole thing seems rather suspicious. I think someone tipped him off that there was a hit on him."
Just from his calculating looks, Sheryl already knew who he suspected. "You think I did?"
His eyebrows lifted, but his eyes remained partially shut. "Did you?"
"Why would I tell my husband I want to kill him?"
"Glory. Fame of capturing the 'corrupt cop,' recognition at your little book club you always go to?"
Uncomfortable at his indication, and that he had so much information on her personal life, she stood her ground. "I don't know how he found out if he did, but I didn't say anything. You think I want the asshole running around with fifteen different sluts a night when I'm cooking his dinner and raising his child? It's not the sort of thing that divorce or therapy will cure. The man is a piece of shit."
"Understandable, Mrs. Abbiati. Still, it doesn't explain anything. If someone else hit him, it's too much of a coincidence. They had to have known something."
"How? No one talks."
"Exactly what I'd like to know. It could be that he staged his own death, knowing I was coming for him." Sheryl cursed under her breath, and Malone constructed his next question with care. "Did he know anyone that was Irish?"
It took her a few minutes to think it over. "Yeah. Lots of people. One of the girls he was screwing behind my back was Irish."
"Any of them his friends?"
With a chortle, she answered, "Hell no."
Malone muttered, "I was afraid of that." Neither of them spoke for a few minutes, until Malone came up with something. "I've got an idea." Sheryl was all ears. "Talk to the press. Tell them your husband is missing. Spring up some tears, too, if you can. The public loves that shit. Get your kid on there if you can, have him mention it. If he did run away, and he sees you both on television pleading for him to come home, it's sure enough to grab his attention, maybe even pull him back here. If he was killed by someone else, the perp might come clean to me. It's a win-win scenario."
"Good idea," she told him. "I'll call up every station I know of."
"Papers, too," he told her, firm and stern. She nodded. "Make it convincing, now. Definitely bawl your eyes out."
"I'll think of my cat."
He was confused, but not curious enough to question it. "Whatever works." When he rose out of his seat, Sheryl rushed to the door to open it for him. "Until he's found, I wouldn't go anywhere if I were you." He grabbed the base of her chin in his oversized palm, and she flinched. "I'll know." She nodded, then he made his exit, slipping shades over his eyes as he made for his car. His next visit was the MacManus residence.
Malone didn't need to force the door open when no one came to the sound of his knock, because it looked so worn and busted that he only needed to give it a gentle shove. With his first step into the loft, he got a whiff of the sickening aroma of old beer and at least three hundred smoked cigarettes, which his gag reflex weakened at.
A creak echoed with each step he took, as if the floor couldn't support his weight. Passing the full ashtrays and scattered cans upon the small corner table, he searched underneath the mattresses on the floor for anything inconspicuous. That's when he spied the gun cases sitting underneath the sofa, hiding from view. "He-llo," he chimed, crawling toward them. Sliding them out from under the couch, he cracked one open, seeing the black grip and steel barrel of a nine millimeter caliber pistol.
Feeling he had just hit the jackpot of a lifetime, Malone snapped the case shut and scooped it off the ground, preparing to leave with it. He froze when he heard the sound of two young gentlemen laughing, and the roar of the lift coming to a slamming halt. He rushed for the door, hiding behind it, drawing his own weapon from its holster. The door to the loft smacked open, and more cigarette smoke stung his eyes as two men strolled in.
"He's got it in for meh, I'm tellin' ya," Connor was saying to Murphy.
"Dat's because yer too busy playin' pranks on meh to do any work! One o'dese days, I'll get ya back."
"What is dat, eh? I work!"
"De hell ya do. I'm carryin' yer ass."
"Oh, blow meh, would ya?"
Their conversation ended, and they chuckled. Murphy grabbed Connor by the collar of his shirt and yanked him closer, then crashed their lips together, and was met by a series of pleased moans from Connor, who grabbed both sides of his face as he shoved his tongue into his mouth.
Malone, watching the scene from the doorway where they hadn't yet seen him, pulled the hammer back, which made a soft click, but it was one that was loud enough for one of them to hear it.
Murphy was the first to turn in the direction of the sound, seeing the looming stranger hovering by their door, holding a gun and pointing it and his brother.
"CONNOR!"
Connor spun around, but was shoved to the ground before he could even tell what was going on. Murphy dashed toward Malone, his hands clenched, the depths of his stomach molten, as he dove for Malone and shoved him against the wall, cramming his right arm against his throat and pressing his head against the wall.
Malone coughed and dropped his gun, as well as the case in his other hand, and every time he tried to speak, Murphy pushed him harder against the wall. "Who de fuck are ya?! What de fuck are you doin' here?!"
"Murph," Connor gasped as he climbed back to his feet. Murphy turned his head to glimpse at him. "He's a detective."
Murphy, still holding him against the wall, reached into his pockets, searching for ID. He ripped his wallet from the inside of his coat, flipping it open. "Malone," he confirmed, and the detective nodded. He released him, letting him drop, and Malone grabbed his throat and coughed. Murphy grabbed the case from the floor, moving it farther away from the man.
"What're ya doin' in our house, detective?" asked Connor, wiping Murphy's spit from his mouth.
Once he straightened his posture, Malone brushed the dust off of his sleeves. "I'm allowed to be if I believe I have just cause."
Murphy spat at him, "Bullshit."
"Does that gun belong to you, Mister MacManus?"
Connor and Murphy looked at one another, wondering which one he was speaking to for a moment. "Aye," Connor admitted.
"Then it looks like we're going to have to have another little chat."
