Flawless(58)

Thinking back, he could easily see how a mugger could have emerged from the shadows to attack Bobby.

“My sense is this,” Mayo said. “Someone knew when the pub closed and that O’Leary tended to stay till the bitter end. Our mugger waited here, in the shadows, behind this wall. O’Leary wouldn’t have been worried about anything—probably walks this same way most nights of the week. Thing is, I doubt your usual mugger hides out in an old churchyard hoping someone will go by. I think Bobby was targeted.”

“He’s hanging in, right?” Mike asked.

“Tough old bird, so yeah, he’s hanging in,” Mayo said. “A crack to the head—forensics already told me he got a beating with a piece of wing broken off that angel over there—and some major bruising. The mugger might even have left him for dead. Anyway, Father Christopher—over there, on the church steps—came in about five this morning and found him. He called 911 right away.”

Craig looked over at Father Christopher. He was a young priest, somber as he watched the action around him.

“Kaley, what ya got?” Mayo called, addressing one of the young women in a crime-scene coverall.

She rose from the patch of grass she’d been inspecting and headed their way.

“I don’t know if what we’ve got helps much. We’ve found gum stuck under all the benches, not to mention on a few angels. Some candy wrappers, some beer cans...going to be hard to prove anything based on what we’re finding. I’m pretty sure the attacker wore gloves, anyway. That piece of angel wing has blood on it, but it’s going to be the victim’s. There are no prints on it at all. We already tested. If he didn’t wear gloves, he wiped it clean.”

“Of course he did,” Mayo said, shaking his head.

Craig looked from Kaley to the small churchyard.

“Okay,” he said, “so Bobby O’Leary was walking down the street. The attacker, maybe even more than one, was waiting behind the wall—probably in the shade of that massive cherub over there.”

“That’s my thought, and it looks like it, the way the grass is trampled,” Kaley said.

“Then the mugger grabbed Bobby and dragged him over the wall,” Craig said.

She nodded. “Yep. Scrape marks on the stone.”

“And then the bastard bashed him,” Mike finished.

“Exactly.” Mayo nodded grimly. “Like I said, this was a planned attack.”

“Do you think the mugger meant to kill him?” Mike asked quietly.

“In my opinion, yes,” Mayo said. “That broken wing was one wicked weapon. If they’d struck him just a bit differently, he would be dead. You see why I called you. And,” he added, “the kicker is, Bobby O’Leary was found with his wallet in his pocket with all his credit cards and a couple hundred in cash.”

*

Kieran hurried straight up to see Bobby. He was in the critical care unit, though, and she was stopped by a nurse before she could enter the hallway to his room.

“Are you family?” the nurse—Emily, according to her name tag—asked.

Kieran found herself glad that this woman was like a bulldog when it came to protecting her patients.

“Yes,” Kieran lied quickly. They were like family, and in the circumstances that would have to be good enough. “I’m his niece.”

She didn’t know why she’d added that; the lie she’d given would have been sufficient. Bobby really didn’t have family, and at Finnegan’s, people became family.

“He’s in and out of consciousness and there’s a cop waiting to take a statement from him—assuming he’s ever able to give one. He’s in pretty serious shape. I’m not allowed to give details—you’ll have to talk to the doctor for those. You’re not to distress him in any way. I’ve told the cops that, too. His life comes before anything else. You understand me?”

Kieran nodded, and Emily escorted her down the hallway.

There was a cop seated before the door, a copy of the New York Times in his hand. He stood as they approached.

“Vic, this is O’Leary’s niece. She may sit there and hold his hand. If she starts to bother him in any way, shoot her.” She winked.

“I promise not to disturb him in any way.”

“Good. I try not to shoot people in hospitals,” the cop told her. Then he winked, too.

Bobby was almost as pale as the sheets. His head was wrapped in what looked like a white turban.

She sat next to him, staring at the array of monitors attached to him and the IV that flowed into his veins.

Poor Bobby.

How the hell—why the hell—had this happened to him?

His eyes were closed. She didn’t try to speak to him. His hand lay on the white sheet. She saw the gnarled old flesh and the spattering of liver spots. He had long fingers, calloused from a life of hard work.

She slipped her fingers around his and held his hand with no pressure, but with what she hoped was reassuring warmth.

She was sure he didn’t even know she was there.

Then he squeezed her fingers.

She looked quickly at his face. His eyes were still closed.

But he had responded to her.

She sat back, grateful that he was alive. She was happy just to sit there and stay with him.

She heard a commotion in the hall and recognized Danny’s voice.