Angel. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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a sip of water, Rosie straightened up in the chair and gave Kevin a faint smile.
He smiled back. But there was a sadness in his smile and a great deal of pain in his eyes. Rosie knew the pain was a reflection of a deep sorrow that ran through to the very core of him. And it was a sorrow that was almost unendurable. She suppressed a sigh, hurting inside for her brother.
Yet she also knew that Kevin was resilient and courageous and would keep going, no matter what. Continuing to look at him, she realized that his heartache about Sunny had done nothing much to mar his looks, and neither had the life he led as an undercover cop. Her brother was the most handsome of men, with the kind of glamour usually associated with a movie star; he was husky in build, strong and very masculine.
This evening, Kevin’s resemblance to their mother was very marked. Moira Madigan, who had come from Dublin to New York as a young girl, had been born a Costello. ‘I’m Black Irish,’ she had constantly told them as children, sounding very proud of her heritage. According to their mother, the Costellos were descended from one of the Spanish sailors who had been wrecked off the coast of Ireland at the time of Elizabeth I, the Tudor Queen, when King Philip of Spain had sent a great armada of ships to invade England. Some of the Spanish galleons had foundered on the rocky coastline of the Emerald Isle during a violent storm, and the crews had been rescued by Irish fishermen. Many of the survivors had settled in Ireland, and it was a Spanish sailor called José Costello who had been the founding father of the Costello clan. At least, this was the story their mother told, and they had been brought up to believe it was the absolute truth. As far as they were concerned, it was.
And certainly no one could deny that Kevin Madigan was Black Irish since he had Moira’s raven hair and sparkling eyes as black as obsidian.
‘You’re very quiet, Rosie; a penny for your thoughts.’
‘I was thinking how much you looked like Mom tonight, Kevin, that’s all.’
‘Mom would have been so proud of you, proud of your great success as a costume designer, and so would Dad. I remember how Mom used to encourage you with your fashion drawings and sewing when you were still a little kid.’
‘Yes, I do too,’ Rosie said, ‘and they would have been proud of us both. I guess we turned out all right…we’re healthy, sane, doing what we want to do and being successful at it, and that’s what they wanted for us. Dad would have been especially proud of you. You’re carrying on the Madigan tradition as a fourth-generation cop. I wonder, will there be a fifth-generation Madigan to follow in Dad’s footsteps and yours?’
‘What do you mean?’
Rosie regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, then said, ‘Isn’t it about time you started thinking about getting married, having kids?’
‘Who’ll have me?’ he shot back, laughter reverberating in his voice. ‘I can’t offer a woman much, not with my job and living the way I do.’
‘Don’t you have any girl friends, Kevin?’
‘No, not really.’
‘I wish you did.’
‘Look who’s talking. What about you? There you are, sitting in that ridiculous situation, and for all these years. Gavin’s right, it is time you sorted out the mess in France.’
‘Is that really what Gavin said?’ Rosie asked, staring hard.
He nodded. ‘It sure is. Gavin thinks you’re wasting your life, and so do I. You’d be better off moving on now, coming back to the States to live. And maybe here at home you might find a decent guy –’
‘Talking of France,’ she cut in peremptorily, ‘are you coming over for Christmas? You promised.’
‘I know I did, but I’m not sure that I can…’ His voice faltered, and fortunately he was saved the trouble of making a string of excuses as the waitress appeared at their table. She carried a tray laden with dishes of the Irish stew they had ordered, and was all set to serve them dinner. Glancing at her, Kevin flashed her a warm smile. ‘And if it’s not the lovely mavourneen with our food,’ he said, radiating his special brand of Irish charm, a charm most women found irresistible.
Watching him, Rosie thought: What a waste of a beautiful man.
SEVEN
The bar was called Ouzo-Ouzo and it was located on the Bowery not far from Houston Street.
The neighbourhood was not particularly salubrious, but then Kevin Madigan had grown accustomed to the disreputable in his four years as an undercover cop. It seemed to him that he spent half his time in murky hideaways such as this, waiting for every kind of lowlife to bring him what he wanted – namely information of some kind or another.
He mused about this situation now as he nursed his beer in a bosky corner of the little Greek hole-in-the-wall on the outer fringes of SoHo and Greenwich Village. He was sick to death of places like this, there was no getting away from that fact. On the other hand, such places were essential to him. Where else could he have his meetings with the sleazy characters he had to do business with?
It was exactly a week ago tonight that Rosie had suggested he come in from the cold, get himself a desk job with NYPD. He had laughed uproariously that night, but now he wondered if she might be right. This thought hardly had time to take hold before he dismissed it. A desk job would bore him. Worse, it would kill his soul.
When he was out on the street his adrenaline pumped like crazy. He was full of vitality and on top of it all, ready to go the whole nine yards, capable of dealing with anyone and anything that came flying at him. He knew that any job other than the one he had would do him irreparable damage, and not even his sister could convince him otherwise.
But maybe some sort of change was in order. That was one of the reasons he was sitting here at seven o’clock on Saturday night, already running late for his uptown date with his uptown girl, waiting for Neil O’Connor.
Neil was a special kind of guy, an old buddy, and a former undercover cop. He was still with the NYPD, but was now attached to the police department’s Crime Intelligence Division, which specialized in organized crime.
Earlier in the week, Neil had unexpectedly called him, and had asked if he would be interested in transferring over to the Crime Intelligence Division.
Much to his own astonishment, he had found himself saying that he might be, and he had agreed to meet Neil to discuss it. For the past few years he had been part of an NYPD Strike Force working closely with the FBI and the DEA, targeting Colombian and Asian drug-traffickers. He had been highly successful in this job, putting some of the most notorious drug kingpins away for years; they would be very old men before they were out on the street again.
Kevin glanced at his watch; out of the corner of his eye he saw Neil coming in through the front door, and raised his hand in greeting. Neil responded with a nod, striding forward.
His old friend was tall, well built, sandy-haired, with the brightest of blue eyes and masses of freckles on his wide Irish face.
Kevin stood up when Neil reached the table.
They shook hands, slapped each other on the back with the affection and camaraderie of good old buddies who had been through a lot together.
When they drew apart, Neil glanced at his half-finished glass of beer. ‘Want another, Kevin? Or something stronger?’
‘A beer’s fine, thanks. A Bud Light,’ Kevin answered, and sat down.
Neil moved over to the bar, came back a second later carrying a glass in each hand. After putting them on the table he took off his overcoat, threw it on an adjacent chair, and seated himself next to Kevin. Lighting a cigarette, Neil inhaled deeply, then plunged right in, keen to get straight to the point. ‘I want you in my unit, Kevin. Need you. Badly. And immediately. If you say you’re in then I’ll get you