Cassie's eyes finally focused on mine, and I was shaken by the concentrated, diamond-hard hatred. "Legion," she said.
We pulled Jonathan in the next day: I rang him up and asked him, in my best professional voice, if he would mind coming in after work, just to help us out with a few things. Sam had Terence Andrews in the main interview room, the big one with an observation chamber for lineups ("Jesus, Mary and the Seven Dwarves," O'Kelly said, "all of a sudden we've suspects coming out of the woodwork. I should've taken away your floaters sooner, got ye three off your lazy arses"), but this was fine with us: we wanted a small room, the smaller the better.
We decorated it as carefully as a stage set. Photos of Katy, alive and dead, spanning half a wall; Peter and Jamie and the scary runners and the grazes on my knees across the other half (we had a shot of my broken fingernails, but it made me far more uncomfortable than it could possibly have made Jonathan-my thumbs have a very distinctive turn to them, and already at twelve my hands were almost man-sized-and Cassie said nothing when I slid it back into the file); maps and charts and every bit of esoteric-looking paperwork we could find, the blood work, timelines, files and cryptically labeled boxes stacked in corners.
"That ought to do it," I said, surveying the final result. It was actually quite impressive, in a nightmarish way.
"Mmm." A corner of one of the post-mortem shots was peeling away from the wall, and Cassie absently pressed it back into place. Her hand lingered there for a second, fingertips lying lightly across Katy's bare gray arm. I knew what she was thinking-if Devlin was innocent, then this was wanton cruelty-but I had no room to worry about this. More often than we like to admit, cruelty comes with the job.
We had half an hour or so before Devlin got off work, and we were far too antsy to start on anything else. We left our interview room-which was beginning to freak me out a little, all those round watching eyes; I told myself this was a good sign-and went into the observation chamber to see how Sam was getting on.
He had been doing his research; Terence Andrews now had a nice big section of whiteboard all to himself. He had studied commerce at UCD, and though his marks had been unimpressive he had apparently gained a firm grasp of the essentials: at twenty-three he had married Dolores Lehane, a Dublin debutante, and her property-developer daddy had set him up in the business. Dolores had left him four years ago and was living in London. The marriage had been childless but hardly unproductive: Andrews had a bustling little empire, concentrated in the greater Dublin area but with outposts in Budapest and Prague, and rumor had it that Dolores's lawyers and the Revenue knew about less than half of it.
According to Sam, though, he had got a little overenthusiastic. The flashy executive pad and the pimpmobile (customized silver Porsche, tinted windows, chrome, the whole enchilada) and the golf-club memberships were all bravado: Andrews had barely more actual cash than I did, his bank manager was starting to get restive, and over the past six months he had been selling off bits of his land, still undeveloped, to pay the mortgages on the rest. "If that motorway doesn't go through Knocknaree, and fast," Sam said succinctly, "the boy's banjaxed."
I had disliked Andrews well before I knew his name, and I saw nothing that changed my opinion. He was on the short side, balding badly, with beefy, florid features. He had a massive paunch and a squint in one eye, but where most men would have tried to conceal these infirmities he used them as blunt weapons: he wore the belly thrown out in front of him like a status symbol-
