Ross smiled, a small, smug little grin, tinged with the appropriate regret. "Didn't I mention it? I believe you knew him as Geoffrey Parkhurst. Not his real name, of course. He ran afoul of one of the Cadre's mines. A shame."
"Yes," said Michael dully, wishing he could smash Ross's tiny teeth down his throat. "A real shame."
It was astonishing to Francey how little had changed during the time she was gone. Within a day her apartment, including her poor neglected refrigerator, was back to normal. The cockroaches and silverfish stopped their midnight scuttling as the battle waned back into the occasional skirmish; the neighborhood, always oblivious to her presence, was equally oblivious to her absence and return.
Even work hadn't changed. She'd considered calling in, saying she was never coming back. After all, that was where Patrick and Caitlin Dugan had come into her life.
Robin Hood Associates had been created by Francey and several of her friends from Sarah Lawrence to take from the rich and give to the poor, the needy, the deserving. Francey had the undeniable ability to cajole large amounts of money out of very wealthy corporations and individuals for the benefit of worthy causes, and she'd put that skill to good use for people who deserved it. And then for the Cadre. She had nothing else to keep her busy, and a penance to pay. Money diverted into Patrick Dugan's bloody coffers could have gone somewhere else, and she'd been part and parcel of that highly successful fund-raising. She needed to atone.
She'd thought A Peace of Green had sounded like such a noble organization, dedicated to bringing sanity and calm back to the strife-torn world of Northern Ireland. It hadn't been her job to check the bona fides. The very expensive investigative firm Robin Hood Associates hired was supposed to do that, and A Peace of Green had passed with flying colors. Patrick and Caitlin had covered their tracks well.
That was one more thing that had galled her while she lay in the sun on St. Anne. The fact that she'd raised all that money for a sham organization, money that had gone for guns and terrorism instead of peace initiatives. She knew perfectly well that she'd been suspected of collaborating with the Cadre. After all, she was very good at her job, and the money she'd raised had been considerable. She was also half-Irish herself, even though she didn't even remember the Byronic poet her mother had quickly married and just as quickly divorced. He'd drowned when she was three years old, and she'd never even seen a photograph of him. She'd tried to explain that to the investigators, but it had taken her cousin Daniel to convince them. At least, she'd hoped he had.
But there were still organizations in need, people who didn't know how to coax grants and donations from the various fat cats. And at least it was something she could do, something that kept her mind off herself. And her apartment had never felt so empty.
The tempo of the city began to take its toll» She threw herself into fund-raising—an auction for the AIDS Connection, a costume ball for the homeless. She hadn't been too thrilled with that particular idea. The thought of overdressed socialites swilling champagne to benefit the brutally poor bordered on the hypocritical, but she was overruled.
She even accepted her most recent client after some initial revulsion. There could be no connection between the Children of Eire, an organization dedicated to improving the quality of life for the children of Northern Ireland caught in the crossfire, and the murderous Cadre. She had the investigators check twice before she was finally satisfied.
But once she accepted Liam and Siobhan O'Malley, there was no stopping her. She worked nonstop, knowing perfectly well why she was doing it. As some sort of penance to the children and the people who were victims of the Cadre's fanaticism. She'd believed in what Patrick had wanted, she truly had. She was simply revolted by his means.
She fell into bed at night exhausted, too tired to think about Patrick, about St. Anne. About Michael Dowd. It was only when she slept that the dreams came. Some slow and hot and blatantly erotic, some fast and dark and dangerous. Sex and violence, intertwined. Both stemming from Michael Dowd.
In the daytime she could laugh at what little wisps she could remember, shaking off the lingering emotions. Michael Dowd was an English schoolteacher, a man of middle-class values and, when he chose to use it, world-class charm. A harmless, gentle man.
But that still didn't explain the three dead men on Baby Jerome.
She'd been back in New York for almost a month, but this hot July night was different. She came home alone, as always, but she stopped at the corner and bought herself a chilled split of French champagne. Ignoring the messages on her answering machine, ignoring her mail, she proceeded to drink every last drop, toasting her monumental decision. That very morning she'd gone through with what some people might call rash, ill-informed and downright stupid. She'd liquidated as much of her comfortable trust fund as she could and turned it over to the pathetically grateful representatives of the Children of Eire.