22
NIALL EASED INTO a chair at the police station in Dublin nearest the hotel. The station was so crowded, few people took notice of him. He wore black jeans and a gray untucked shirt with dark sunglasses and a charcoal-colored fedora hat.
Detective Malloy, as identified by his plastic nameplate, tapped on his computer keyboard. “Name?” he asked in a raspy, cigarette-laced voice.
“Niall Finley.”
“Sure, and I’m Santy Claus. Tell you what, try again.” He coughed loudly.
Niall removed his sunglasses. “Niall Finley.”
The detective looked over the tortoiseshell rim of his glasses. “Why it is you. Well, why didn’t you say so?” His tone changed from one of disinterest to one of friendly animation. “Now, what can I do for you?”
Niall was used to this. He began in a gracious manner. “I’ve be
