“The last time we talked, I told you I needed more time to think about our relationship. Remember?”
“Like it was yesterday.”
“I think it’s time to make some time for us.”
“Whoa. Talk about changing gears.” Margaret’s grin blossomed into a smile. “You really know how to get a girl’s attention.” Margaret’s heart was in her throat. Don’t screw this up, she thought. “John, you took my breath away. You’re sure about this? Right? I mean, you’ve thought it all through?”
“I’m ready. That is if you are?”
“Ready, willing, and able. Are you kidding? I’ve been dreaming of this day for God knows how long.”
“I want us to be discreet. These guys we work with can be clowns sometimes. You don’t have a problem with us being discreet, do you?”
“Discreet, that street, whatever you want. I’m just so happy I could explode. Can you tell?”
“You do look happy. I gotta tell ya that.”
Driscoll reached across his desk and took hold of Margaret’s hand. A sheepish smile sprouted on his face. “We can make this work. I know we can.”
“I like that word.”
“Which one?”
“We.”
Chapter 72
Driscoll was pleased that Seamus Tiernan had succeeded in transferring Moira to her own room at home. He saw it as a sign of hope. Attended by a registered nurse, the young girl lay without her cocoon, surrounded by stuffed polar bears, Beanie Babies and a Britney Spears poster with five darts radiating out from the center of the pop star’s face. Inert in her own bed, her bruised body was connected to a cluster of instruments that included a pulse oximeter, a suction machine, and a home-care ventilator. Her vital signs were being recorded around the clock as zigzagging lines on amber screens, attesting to the vibrancy of her organs. But the Lieutenant was anxious because her brain still showed as a flat line.
Driscoll, who visited the young girl regularly, stood at Moira’s bedside, listening to the thud of an artificial respirator and the purr of a dialysis machine. The sounds were all too familiar. That realization saddened him. He gazed at the machinery. All the monitors were working properly, keeping his star witness alive, though mute. He had the impulse to shake the girl, provoke her with a well-turned phrase, irritate her, deride her to get some reaction, and in so doing, reignite her adolescent fury, which had so attracted him.
He scanned the room. The shelves were overcrowded with books and mementos, decorative boxes, and a huge collection of teddy bears. Nicole had been a collector too. She had collected miniature dollhouses from around the world. She had played with those houses like an anthropologist would, learning how certain architecture fit a particular type of terrain, like how terra-cotta roofing was favored in hot and sultry climates. She was amazed to discover how the Tuaregs in the Sahara lived in clay houses and kept their living space cool with damp mud.
On a trip to Dublin, Driscoll had happened upon a store that flaunted an Irish village in its window: twenty-one houses, one church, one firehouse, one movie theater, and six pubs. He had purchased the entire ensemble and brought it back to Nicole.
“My God!” she said. “What do you have in the box? Is it a life-sized teddy bear?”
“No. Something much better.”
His daughter had been breathless after she opened her gift: she realized she owned her own town. She had arranged all the houses on her hook rug, with the church in the center, and then stood up triumphantly and told her father he’d been elected mayor.
Driscoll had bowed from the waist, accepting the distinction. “My first directive as mayor,” he had said, “is to impose a curfew of 9:00 P.M. for the entire town. And that includes you, little girl.”
The memory saddened him. He closed his eyes and envisioned Nicole’s face: her rosy red cheeks in winter, the way her little round chin protruded, the softness of her blue eyes, the way his heart would melt when she smiled that crooked little smile at him, her gentle laughter. He missed his daughter. He missed his wife. And now he missed Moira.
A gurgling sound from the dialysis machine brought Driscoll back to the present, to a present where he could find no forgiveness for his part in Moira’s fate. He should have cut her off from the word go. How could he have been so blind to the danger she was putting herself in? This young girl whose body had been inhumanely brutalized had him to thank for it. It was as though he wielded the weaponry himself. Guilt haunted him day and night. Were he Seamus or Eileen Tiernan, he would have come gunning for Driscoll, armed with a bazooka. Driscoll, to this day, couldn’t understand their passivity. He was guilt ridden for them as well. The suffering his mismanagement brought about was inexcusable. As he stared down at Moira’s fractured body he made a silent and solemn vow. He would track down this killer and stop at nothing until he is dead or captured. The killer had now made it very personal. Driscoll was after him with a vengeance.
Overcome with the same feeling of helplessness he had when he sat beside Colette, Driscoll’s gaze fell away from Moira and drifted to row after row of hardcover and paperback books that filled the shelves on the far wall. There were titles like Visual Basic Web Data Base, C++ Builder, and Intermediate MFC. There were also boxes of diskettes, CD-ROMs, electronic gadgets, and PC peripherals.
Were his eyes deceiving him or was that an IBM Thinkpad laptop wedged between two hardcover dictionaries of Delphi Components and Cobal II? My God! She said she worked better under open skies. Of course. She’d need a laptop. And here it was! The police had been scouring the wrong computer. It wouldn’t be her desktop she’d be using-it’d be the laptop. Why hadn’t that registered before?
He retrieved the computer and switched it on.
Jesus! She’s got more programs here than the National Security Agency, thought Driscoll. He kissed the girl’s forehead, placed the laptop under his arm, said goodbye to Moira’s nurse, and proceeded down the stairs. While the team at Technical Services worked on Moira’s desktop, he and Margaret would have a go at the laptop.
Chapter 73
“God, what I wouldn’t give for her password!” said Driscoll.
“Gotta be a doozy.”
Driscoll and Margaret had been sitting at his desk for what seemed like hours, fixed on the translucent surface of the laptop’s screen. They had tried, unsuccessfully, every probable and wildly improbable password gleaned from Moira’s biography. Her date of birth. The date in reverse. Kate Leone, her first grade teacher, followed by every other teacher she had ever had. Her favorite Baskin-Robbins flavor, Muddy Road. Her loyalty to her favorite Jell-O, Raspberry. Citre-Shine, her preferred shampoo. Lafeber’s, the only brand of seed her bird, Chester, would peck at. Vassarette, her brand of panties. And 34B, her bra size. And to frustrate them even further, each time Driscoll typed in a password, the image of Moira’s face flashed on the screen with a finger to her lips, while the teen’s recorded voice jeered through the laptop’s tiny speakers: “Not that one, silly. Read my lips!”
“If I hear that little voice or see that smirking face one more time, I’m gonna scream,” said Margaret.
“She ever mention a boyfriend?” Driscoll asked.
“Just type D-R-I-S-C-O-L-L.”
“Cute.”
“I mean it. Give it a try.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Here…let me do it.” She typed in the Lieutenant’s name.
“Not that one, silly. Read my lips!”
“What’s your middle name?”
“Give me a break!”
“I know…William.”
“Not that one, silly. Read my lips!”
“I think it’s time for a break,” Margaret grumbled, rummaging through her purse, searching for her compact. Finding it, she applied a fresh layer of lipstick.
“Margaret, I could kiss you! That’s gotta be it. She wasn’t shushing me then, and she’s not shushing us now. Don’t you get it? She’s pointing to her lips! Get Eileen Tiernan on the phone. I gotta have the name of Moira’s lipstick.”