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“Anything in his bloodstream that would have made a healthy person like him suddenly want to throw himself off a roof ? Like flakka or something? Crystal meth? We have some indication that

he might have thrown up prior to the fall.” “No, nothing,” she said, surprised. “A little alcohol in his blood was all. You think he threw up? I don’t know about that. He had food in his

stomach.” “Is that so?” “Yep,” Dr. Linder said. “Food and this.” She lifted a plastic evidence bag on her desk beside the autopsy report. There were two items inside of it. One of them was

yellowish and thin and looked like a deflated balloon. The other item looked like a thin slip of paper. “What the hell is this?” I said. “How was this in the guy’s stomach? A piece of paper

in a condom?” “With numbers written on it,” the doctor said. “They seem random. I counted them twice. There are twenty-four of them altogether.” “That’s just—” “Yep,” Dr. Linder said. “Like

the way people sometimes smuggle drugs,” I mumbled, turning the bag over in my hand. “The same exact way,” Dr. Linder said. “Have you ever seen something like this, Mike? Because this is a

first for me.” CHAPTER 8 “SO TELL ME, Una. Mary Catherine was a nut when you guys were teens back in Tipperary, wasn’t she? Remember, I’m a cop, so don’t try to lie. I’m highly trained in

the art of truth detection.” “How did you know, Mike?” said Una, a very funny, heavyset forty-something with long black hair. “Oh, Mike, she was just mad, so she was. Closing down discos,

out-drinking full rugby teams, all the lads chasing her. She was a sheer panic of a woman, a true holy terror in high heels.” “I knew it,” I said and smiled at Mary, blue-eyed and blushing

beside me in the van. I was driving down Broadway in Midtown, on chauffeur duty for Mary and Una, her cousin visiting from Ireland. They were going to see the new musical _School of Rock_ at

the Winter Garden Theatre, then to drinks and a late dinner at my good buddy Emmett O’Lunney’s joint across the street. I’d already called ahead and told Emmett to pull out all the stops,

the full red carpet treatment. Not so much for Una, but for Mary, our house martyr. The kids had insisted that she enjoy herself without us in her hair for once, on a much-deserved girls’

night out. I stole a glance at Mary again. So heart-swellingly pretty, done up in makeup and a little black dress. I remembered a line from an old drunk cop at a retirement party I’d taken

her to over the holidays. “Your wife, Mike,” the former emergency services cop said, with a drunkenly wistful and old-fashioned earnestness, “your wife is an Irish beauty.” I’ll say, I

thought, as I watched Mary blush even more under my gaze. Though, technically, she wasn’t my wife. _And why not, Bennett? You complete idiot!_ came my interior Catholic. Funny how he always

sounded sort of like Grandfather Seamus. “Penny for your thoughts,” Mary whispered, squeezing my hand as Una took a call on her cell behind us. “As if I don’t know.” “You want to know what

I’m thinking about right now? You really want to know?” I whispered back. “Yes,” she said. “I’m thinking about dropping Una off at the next corner,” I said. “And then?” she said, stifling a

giggle. “What are you two whispering about up there?” Una called out. “I’m not interrupting anything, I hope.” “Una, we were merely conferring about how best to honor your visit here, upon

the shores of this fabulous free and just land,” I said, gesturing at the insane snarl of traffic. “Mary thought the Empire State Building might be nice, but I said no. We first must book

you some ice time at the Rockefeller Center rink.” “Oh, was that it?” Una said. Mary gave me a wink. “I may not be as highly trained in the art of truth detection as you, Mike,” Una said

after a beat. “But we from the Emerald Isle do know a little something about ripe blarney.”