Thomas O`Callaghan - Bone Thief

“What now?” asked Margaret.

“Your homework. I’m sure your crew of technicians have already scoured the Internet highways and byways, but it might be a good idea to do your own search. Your instincts may lead you to something they overlooked. It can’t hurt. Remember, you guys will have to stay one step ahead of the G-men, or they’ll be the ones cracking your case. Hasta la vista!” she added as she slipped out the door.”

“So, where do we start?” Margaret asked.

“There’s a great big World Wide Web out there, and you and I are gonna surf it.”

“I’m no surfer, John. I don’t even like getting my feet wet.”

The door opened, and Moira stuck her head inside. “Don’t waste your time in the FBI files, Lieutenant. They haven’t a clue in the case.”

The door slammed shut.

“Out of the mouths of babes,” said Margaret.

Driscoll cleared his throat and turned his attention to Margaret. “You OK with all that we said earlier?” he asked.

“I’m fine. It’s nice to know we share the same feelings.”

“You understand that I can’t act on those feelings, right?”

“Right.”

“So can we put those feelings aside for a moment and get down to the business of catching this bastard?”

“You bet. But I’ll need a little help getting started. I’m not that computer savvy.”

“All right, then,” Driscoll said, flexing his fingers over the keyboard. “Here at the Command Center we use Netscape as our Internet browser. That’s that little icon on the screen with the ship’s steering wheel. I’m clicking on it, see? Now we got search instruments: Lycos, Yahoo, Gopher, and lots more. We’re gonna use them to look up everything we can find on every detail of the case. Now, type ‘bones’ in the search line…OK, now click ‘Search’…That’s it…There’s your list of everything on the Internet dealing with bones. Just click the mouse on those topics you want to know more about. Keep going down the list. You find something that may be a lead, give me a holler. I’ll be doing the same thing over here with ‘Gaelic’…Ready?”

“Ready.”

“Then let’s start surfing.”

Hours later they had downloaded volumes of data on bones, Gaelic, torture, sadism, and abductions, had printed reams of pages, and had amassed vast quantities of information. None of it pointed to any one suspect or in any particular direction. Their search was a strain on both the head and back.

Margaret pushed back her chair and glanced at the wall clock. It was 1:48 A.M.

“Jesus, I’m starving,” she grumbled. “How ’bout Indonesian?”

Driscoll’s stomach rebelled. “You want me to eat food where they load everything with chunky peanut butter? That’s not for me. I’ll pass.”

“What then?” Margaret said, arms outstretched, caught in midyawn.

“You’re the one who’s hungry.”

“Yeah. And you ain’t helpin’. You’re supposed to suggest the place.” Margaret’s head was cradled in her palms, her elbows on her knees. Her body signaled exhaustion.

“How ’bout my house? There’s a new dish I’ve been dabbling with, and I’ve almost got it right.” The notion brought a smile to Driscoll’s face.

“You cook?” Margaret’s blue eyes were riveted to his, and Driscoll wasn’t immune to what those eyes conveyed. Her gaze spoke volumes, and those volumes begged for a romantic relationship with him. Driscoll wasn’t blind to that, and he certainly wasn’t blind to the woman’s beauty and charm. There was no question about it. Margaret was a very desirable woman. This would be so much easier if he were single. He knew Colette would never awaken from her coma, so it could be argued that he was already single. The man trembled at the thought. Reason took hold. He was a married man. He’d have to maintain a platonic relationship with Margaret. But every instinct he had said he couldn’t. What was he to do?

“I’m married to a French girl,” he said lamely. “It was she who taught me to cook.”

“I’m beginning to feel like the other woman.”

“That’s not fair. To me or to you.”

He imagined his wedding band being fitted around his neck and tightened like a hangman’s noose. His situation seemed hopeless.

“I’m too tired and too hungry to worry about what’s fair. Tell me about this dish,” Margaret said.

“Saumon au vin blanc,” Driscoll said.

“I love the sound of that. Tell you what, there’s an all-night Food Emporium near my apartment with a great seafood selection. What say we raid the joint and head for my place, not yours?”

His imagined noose just got tighter.

“But it’s almost 2:00 A.M.,” he said.

“Whadya got against missing a little sleep?”

Driscoll hesitated, eyes fixed on Margaret.

“So what’ll it be?” She reached for her purse and nervously withdrew her compact. The sheen of her lipstick had faded. On the verge of trembling, she applied a fresh layer.

“Why the hell not? Let’s go.”

Pineapple Street was lined with quaint brownstones, with impatiens and geraniums adorning stoops and windows. The street was silent except for the whine of a stray cat.

Inside 124 Pineapple, the pair climbed the oak staircase to Apartment 2A. It was Driscoll’s first visit to Margaret’s place.

A clap of Margaret’s hands turned on a ceiling-high row of track lighting that illuminated a fair-sized living room. Driscoll smiled, for he knew Margaret found solace in this living space, where a modular sofa encircled a traditional fireplace. In the center of the circle, a coffee table in glass and chrome stood on an earth-colored Oriental carpet. Driscoll eyed the high-tech entertainment center that supported a JVC stereo system, a Sony nineteen-inch color TV, and a stack of assorted CDs. Adorning the wall opposite the fireplace was an abstract painting in blue and green. Margaret had good taste. That was evident, and what was comforting was that the furnishings made Driscoll feel at ease.

The dining room was adjacent to the living room, and boasted an oval-shaped white pine table with four American Colonial chairs. In the center of the table, a crystal vase held a bouquet of blue irises. Again, a very comfortable room.

“Welcome to my place.”

“I like it. It suits you.”

“I think the living room could use some dressing up.”

“Looks fine to me.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Well, that just saved me $1,400 for the Henredon wall unit I had my eye on.”

“You have quite the eye for interior design.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“It’s funny you should say that. Before I decided on police work, I took a couple of courses at Parsons.”

“It shows.”

“Let me have your topcoat,” she said, helping Driscoll out of his Burberry. “Can I offer the chef a drink?”

“Scotch.”

Driscoll stepped into the kitchen while still carrying the shopping bag crammed with food. A Jenn-Air gas range, set in a tiled island, took up the center of the room. Against the wall stood a Viking refrigerator with full-length steel doors. A battery of copper pots Driscoll recognized as Bourgeat hung from an overhead rack. Depression-era glass filled the windows of oak cabinets.

“Very impressive,” he said, accepting a tumbler filled with whiskey.

“I had the place redone a couple of months ago. I’m glad you like it.”

“I do.”

When Driscoll entered the dining room, steaming dish in hand, Margaret had changed into a simple black dress, and her hair had been pulled back into a chignon. The table had been set for two, with Noritake china and Georg Jensen flatware. Two elongated candles were burning in Lalique holders.