“Not even murder?” Rod’s voice trembled.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Monday morning, Chief Superintendent O’Brien read through the detailed report on the death of GMIT student Keenan Moynihan. Odd a student should be murdered; O’Brien took a sip of his morning coffee. At 56, his background included a thirty-year career with the An Garda Siochána. He established himself as an astute leader and seasoned detective who ferreted out information others often overlooked. He loved tasty food and premium cigars, accounting for his broad girth. His fat, red face would give him an almost cherubic appearance if not for his gruff manner.
O’Brien read on. The officer who responded to the 112 call noted a conversation with the dead student's friend, Fergus Rafferty. The note indicated smashed plastic in the street as the only evidence. No other evidence of a crime. Rafferty was a computer programming classmate of Moynihan at the university.
O’Brien sat bolt upright, slamming his coffee mug down onto his desk and slopping its contents. “Feck,” he muttered, searching for something to sop up the spilled coffee.
“Healy, come here,” he yelled, “and bring paper hand towels!”
“Yes sir, Chief.” Sergeant Healy rushed into O’Brien’s office, paper towels in hand.
“Clean up this mess, Healy,” O’Brien pointed to the spilled coffee, “and don’t mess up my papers.”
“Yes, sir,” Healy said.
A thin and mousy character, Padraig Healy played Laurel to O’Brien’s Hardy. A mop of curly red hair always appeared in need of a brush. He did his desk job well, and O’Brien counted on him.
“A new discovery, sir?” Healy mopped up the spill, careful not to disturb the cluttered desk.
“Feck, yes!” O’Brien responded. “The murder victim’s friend indicated he was a classmate in computer programming at the university. Dr. MacGowan’s GMIT class. Declan Knowlan is MacGowan’s partner, not only in business…if you understand my meaning. Knowlan's history includes gang involvement. While we have no evidence linking either man to this crime, I find it suspicious the victim is somehow connected to the two of them.”
“You did it again, sir. Made a connection everyone else missed.”
“I’m going over to have a bit of a chinwag with MacGowan.” O’Brien stood to grab his overcoat. “He needs to have the fear put in him, and I’m the guy to do it.”
"You're right, sir,” Healy nodded.
* * *
Rod woke, stretched, and gazed at his snoozing husband well after sunrise on Monday of their first full week in Ireland. He rolled over and crawled out of bed, nudging the covers off while trying not to disturb Wyl.
“Hey, babe…” Wyl’s sleepy voice vibrated the bed.
“I tried not to wake you, husband.” Rod laid back down and faced Wyl. “Your angelic face appears so peaceful I didn’t want to disturb you.”
Wyl yawned. "I'd be more disturbed to wake to an empty bed."
Rod hugged Wyl. “Well, I wouldn’t want my husband to be disturbed.”
“Are you saying your husband is disturbed?” Wyl made air quotes and chuckled.
“This coming from a man who fled the scene when a Marine buddy questioned his relationship with me.” Rod palmed Wyl’s chest and rocked him back and forth.
“Rumor is you put him in his place,” Wyl said.
“Not before he helped us put a new coat of paint on the garage door.” Rod laughed out loud. “C’mon, let’s grab a shower and have breakfast.”
After a quick kiss, they crawled out of bed and went through their usual shower/shave/groom/dress ritual before hitting the kitchen.
“What do you want for breakfast?” Rod asked.
“What do we have?”
“If we had ham, we'd fix ham and eggs, if we had eggs,” Rod laughed. “We used most of what we bought yesterday but have strawberries. I’ll make oatmeal. We’ll add butter, fresh strawberries, and brown sugar. You make toast and coffee. The combination should energize us for the morning.”
“Sounds tasty, babe,” Wyl reached for the loaf of bakery bread to slice for the toast.
“We need a grocery run today.” Rod stirred the oatmeal.
“Can we buy bacon? I’m dying for bacon and eggs.”
“The Irish don’t have bacon like we’re used to, babe. The bacon here is more like Canadian bacon.”
“Remind me to tell Felipe to buy a parcel of hogs. I want bacon every meal after we return to our ranch.” Wyl sliced the loaf with a bread knife.
Rod shook his head. “I can sense my arteries clogging listening to you.” He turned off the flame under the oatmeal. “You promised to wrap your arms around me at Christmas. With all the fat, salt, and nitrates, I’ll be lucky you don’t go through spontaneous combustion by Thanksgiving.”
“Leave it to me to go and marry a college professor. I should have chosen better.” Wyl’s turn to shake his head.
“Hey…I snared you in my trap.”
“What if I let you snare me in your trap.” Wyl chuckled.
Rod made a beeline across the kitchen to Wyl, wiggling his fingers in the air in front of him. Wyl ran from the kitchen, laughing out loud. Rod pursued, catching him on the couch, tickling his ribs as Wyl roared with laughter. They collapsed in each other’s arms, quieted, and gazed into each other’s eyes.
“God, I love you.” Rod leaned in to capture Wyl’s mouth in a kiss.
