Page 33 of The Dead Come to Stay

“Which he did. Sort of,” Gridley said. “There had been a spate of art thefts, the whole Russborough House art robbery thing.”

“Foley was tied to Martin Cahill?” MacAdams demanded. “That was a thirty-million-dollar heist!”

“God no. But he was linked to a group trying to fence stolen goods—that clashed with Cahill’s gang.”

“In fact, some of his set got mysteriously murdered,” Andrews added, now sitting on the edge of Gridley’s desk. MacAdams wondered if he should suggest they pick a single speaker next time.

“Too right, they did. Police put out a warrant for Flannery/Foley, but chances are good he was wanted by the rival gang members,

too.”

“He was in trouble every place with everyone. And that’s when he split—”

“Rhyan Flannery dies, Ronan Foley–slash–Nathanial Connolly is born,” Gridley confirmed.

“That’s a lot of identities, isn’t it?” Green asked. “It can’t be that easy to change your name.”

“Ah! But Foley’s little art-fencing troupe had a side business in forgery!” Andrews said, waving his hands. “It’s the ’80s,

too. Not exactly the cutting edge of technology for spotting a fake.”

MacAdams had been born in the ’80s. And tried not to take it personally.

“Okay, makes sense. But then how does he end up in commercial real estate? I’m not sure if I should be surprised or not.”

“Not,” Andrews said with a grin. “Get this. Flannery’s father was an architect.”

MacAdams had anticipated most of this, but that was news. He’d built a picture of Foley’s youth along the same lines of Tula’s: struggle, poverty, politics. Andrews pulled

up an old newsprint on his machine.

“Flannery Sr. ultimately takes a job teaching architecture, and we found some documentation for his son as enrolled in engineering. If he’d kept his nose clear, he might

have ended up in the same career.”

“Instead, he knows just enough to work in real estate development as a bulldog job boss,” MacAdams said, turning back to the

board. “Burnhope made the man sound like uncultured muscle. Instead, he’s got a whole back history in art theft, meaning he

knows art well enough to value it. He’s got some sort of background in architecture, too, and enough brains to keep several identities

popping.”

“That doesn’t necessarily make him cultured,” Green said.

“No, but— but . . .” Gridley interjected. “He’s a bad boy with brains who knows how to turn on charm when he wants, especially with women.” Perhaps the exception being, MacAdams thought, Jo Jones; she hadn’t seemed to describe him that way at all. But nonetheless.

“All right, let’s say Ava found him intriguing,” Green said. “Ava wasn’t the woman who just turned up at the Abington Arms.”

She had a point. But MacAdams had an idea.

“Tula gave us reason to believe he was ready to do a runner again.” MacAdams dropped Foley’s picture down to the cleared space

on the board. “Everything changed six months ago . So let’s start there: six months ago. Foley sells his house. That’s approximately, by Struthers’s estimate, when he stopped

drinking and smoking. It’s also when Foley starts coming here to Abington, according to his hotel records.”

MacAdams moved a photo of the now-seized butty van next to Foley.

“Why here?” MacAdams next drew down a photo of the posh hotel. “Abington Arms has been known for its... privacy, let’s

say. We need to take a long look at the regular guests, especially those that overlap with his stay.”

“You think it’s related to the art deal?” Gridley chewed the end of her pen. “I mean, it’s a good place to hide a love affair,

but it meant he could hide his real identity from her , too. By Foley’s admission, they’re going to have a baby. You think he means to cut and run?”

“A hotel willing to protect your privacy is good for all sorts,” MacAdams said, somewhat grimly. “But I don’t think Foley

planned to abandon this new lover like he did Tula Byrne.”

MacAdams had started to sweat, despite the fan’s feeble attempts to circulate air. He hadn’t had time to print new photos,

so he drew a picture of a locker, and one of a shoe in dry erase marker.

“At Foley’s flat, everything was disposable.”

“Boring, even,” Green added.

“Just so. Everything except the clothes he was wearing—or, I suspect, planning to wear. And over at the Abington Arms, the locker held a different suit of clothes, fancy attire for a woman and fifteen hundred in cash.” MacAdams rubbed the marker between his hands as though trying to start a fire.

“They each had a fine set of clothes waiting for them, almost like a bug-out bag. Where were they going?”

“Vacation?” Andrews asked.

“A cruise?” suggested Gridley—but MacAdams shook his head.

“Honeymoon,” he said. “Very possibly as Mr. and Mrs. Connolly.”

“But Ava is already married,” Green said. “Oh. Shit, he’s leaving Ava for someone else.”

MacAdams tapped his nose. “He knows he’s in trouble, right? So he invents not one identity but two. Both of them were going to flee. But something didn’t go as planned.”

“Yeah, he got murdered,” Andrews said.

“Yes, but before that. The mystery woman never picked up her gown from the locker; he didn’t get his shoes or suit from his flat.” MacAdams

closed his eyes hard enough to restart the distant pounding from his head injury. The plan had been put in motion. Foley had packed in a desperate rush, toppling shaving cream, grabbing only his shirt. He had come to Abington, perhaps to

pick up his girlfriend, but she didn’t arrive. In fact, she only now came looking for her locker. Why wait? Unless you were afraid.

“We need to find Foley’s girlfriend,” MacAdams said. “Because I think whoever was targeting Foley means to target her next.”

Green had been following along, but with increasingly stiff posture.

“You haven’t said this out loud yet, but you’re going to. If Ava is the jilted lover... then she might have murdered Foley

before he could leave her.”

MacAdams thought about Ava; above the fray somehow, protected by wealth and position, seemingly beyond mortal emotions. But he also thought of her fierce protection of her maid, and that ever-cool self-possession.

“It’s not our job to guess,” he said. “It’s our job to suspect, and to follow through. Right now, Foley’s lover is our priority.

Because I suspect she might be in danger.”

He meant the mystery woman; of course he did. But without meaning to, he was also thinking about Jo Jones.