Those Who Trespass: A Novel of Television and Murder

  “Jesus,” Shannon said.

  “He didn’t help me,” Liam Mooney continued. “Nobody could help me. And nobody could do anythin’ about it. No court, no law, nothin’. Well, some old ladies found me layin’ there in the alley, took me in, and cleaned me up. I couldn’t walk, so some Provos from the Flats came over and picked me up in a car. When I got home, me mum was furious. Me dod was drunk and didn’t care. But it was left ta me. What was I gonna do?”

  Liam Mooney stopped speaking and looked at Shannon. He was waiting for the question. The Irish love participation. “So what did you do, Liam?”

  “Two months later, when I was back on me feet, I went to see the commander of the Provisional IRA, the Provos, in Armagh, outside of Belfast. I explained my situation and told him I wanted ta sign on. The man already knew what had happened and agreed ta give me a mission: to put a canvas bag underneath the bar in a pub where British soldiers drank their pints. The Provos believed a boy of eleven could get in and out of the pub with little problem. And I did it. I didn’t look in the bloody bag but I knew what it contained. And I didn’t care to hang around afterward when the bomb went off. Six Brits died, and fifteen were sent home less than whole. So, what do ya think of that, lad?”

  “Sounds like they deserved it,” Shannon said.

  “’Tis war,” Liam Mooney said. “Same as you got.”

  “What?”

  “Same as you got, lad. These people took your life’s work and destroyed it. They hurt you, the same as those soldiers hurt me. And from what I’m hearin’, not a damn thing will happen to those sods who ruined ya. And they’ll probably do it again ta someone else. Or am I wrong, here?”

  “No, you’re not wrong,” Shannon Michaels said.

  “So the question of the ages, lad, is what are ya gonna do about it?”

  Shannon Michaels did not answer. In truth, he did not know what to do. He lived in America, not Northern Ireland. He was a professional journalist, not a terrorist. What could he do?

  Liam Mooney was not about to offer a solution. It was not his way. When asked, he advised, but he did not encourage. He knew he had posed a difficult question to Shannon Michaels, one that the man would eventually have to deal with. But Liam had one more thing to say on the matter.

  “If ya decide to act, lad, there’s a man to contact for help. His name is Sean and he lives in South Boston. I’ll give you his number before ya leave. Mention me name or he’ll never talk to ya. If you have questions about retribution, this is the man to see. And remember, lad, this is a tough world. As the ol’ sod Mao Zedong was fond a sayin’: ‘Proper limits have to be exceeded in order to right a wrong, or else the wrong cannot be righted.’

  “In other words, you can forgive those who have trespassed against you—as the Church teaches. Or you can take another road, and make damn sure these devils never trespass again. It’s up to you, lad. Up to you.”

  Shannon stared at Liam Mooney. He did not know what to say. He did, however, have an option he had not seriously considered before.

  * * *

  24

  MANHATTAN

  DECEMBER 1994

  Just as Tommy and Jackson were pulling up in front of Newscenter Six, across town on 78th and First, they heard the call on their car radio. A sidewalk Santa had been shot dead on Broadway and 97th Street. Using his portable phone, Tommy called to say he and Jackson were too busy to take on the investigation. He was told that two other homicide detectives could get quickly to the scene—that he and Jackson could go ahead with their appointment.

  The detectives walked into the lobby of Channel Six, which was dominated by huge pictures of the on air talent. Tommy and Jackson paid special attention to the blown-up photo of Diana Troy, the blond anchorwoman who, it was rumored, was having an affair with the NYPD’s Director of Communications, who was a woman. It was great dish, and most cops couldn’t get enough of it.

  “I think we should put Ms. Troy under surveillance,” Jackson said.

  “Yeah, you and Bob Guccione,” Tommy replied.

  “I’m glad you brought that up,” Jackson said. “The articles in Penthouse are extremely accomplished, I want you to know.”

  “I concur, Jack. It is a profound, erudite publication. I wonder if Mr. Worthington reads it.”

  The female security guard stationed at the lobby’s entrance overheard the banter and looked strangely at Tommy and Jackson. The two detectives produced their shields and smiled at her. She looked more confused than ever.

  “Mr. Worthington is expecting us,” Jackson said.

  “Go right up, Detectives. Fourth floor.”

  As Tommy and Jackson entered the empty elevator, Jackson said, “That cute security guard thinks we’re perverted.”

  “Thinks you’re perverted. She likes me a lot,” Tommy replied.

  “How do you know?” asked Jackson, first frowning, then grinning. This was going to be good.

  “It was the way she looked at my shield. I could tell she got hot just by the way I presented it. You, on the other hand, had a limp wrist.”

  “You’re crazy. The ex-wife been calling you late at night again?”

  “That lovely woman downstairs thinks I am an extremely attractive man, Jackson, and that is an undeniable fact.”

  As Jackson Davis rolled his eyes, the elevator door slid open, revealing the vast office space of Newscenter Six. More pictures of the on air talent lined the light blue corridor walls. Tommy and Jackson walked over to a secretary who looked like she knew what she was doing. She did, and they were quickly ushered into the office of News Director Lance Worthington.

  Worthington barely got up from his chair to shake hands. He looked bored. “Coffee, gentlemen?”

  “No thanks, Mr. Worthington,” Tommy said. “We won’t take much of your time, but it has come to our attention that you personally may be at risk.”

  That statement heightened the news director’s interest considerably. Worthington had read about Martin Moore’s death and figured the detectives were merely questioning TV people like him who had done business with Moore.

  “How could I possibly be at risk, Detectives?” asked a rather incredulous Worthington.

  Jackson spoke softly. “I just returned from L.A. and your name came up in connection with Martin Moore’s murder.”

  Lance Worthington looked surprised. “Really, how so?”

  “We have information indicating that Mr. Moore may have rigged some of his research results,” Jackson Davis said. “We believe that his killer may have been hurt by that and decided to take revenge. Do you know anything about bogus research done by Martin Moore, Mr. Worthington?”

  Lance Worthington’s pale cheeks reddened, and his voice became indignant. “I certainly do not. Martin Moore was the consummate professional. He did a major project for us and the results were very well documented. If someone is telling you different, Detectives, that person is way off base.”

  Tommy and Jackson knew the news director was lying. They saw it in the way he tensed up when Jackson laid out the bogus research accusation, and they heard it in the overly defensive way he delivered his denial. Moore’s secretary, who had told Jackson about the rigged research, was a very reliable, convincing witness who had no reason to lie. Worthington had plenty of reasons.

  “What if we told you, Mr. Worthington, that we can prove Martin Moore falsified the research he provided your organization?” Tommy asked.

  “I wouldn’t believe it.”

  “Do you have any verification on the research Martin Moore gave you?” Tommy was leaning forward, trying hard to intimidate Lance Worthington, trying to force him to tell the truth.

  Worthington’s eyes jumped back and forth between Tommy and Jackson. He was thinking furiously, Verification. Christ, these guys have done some digging. Tiny beads of sweat formed on his blond hairline. He decided the best defense was a good offense.

  “I don’t know anything about any rigged research, Detectives, and I resent the
implication that I do. All research done for Newscenter Six is confidential, as it would be in any business. I’m sure you understand.”

  “We might not understand phony research, Mr. Worthington,” said Jackson, his voice soft but menacing. Though they were trying to catch a killer, not reform the broadcast industry, he was signaling that they would make Lance Worthington and his superiors sweat a great deal more later, if necessary. Abruptly, Jackson changed the subject.

  “The main reason we’re here is to tell you that if the person who killed Martin Moore did so because of Moore’s business ethics, then you should be aware of it. We can’t say any more than that, but you should be careful. Security here is okay, but how about at home? Do you have security there?”

  Lance Worthington was inwardly relieved that the research questions had stopped. He cleared his throat and fought the rising tension in his stomach. “Well, I live in Alpine, New Jersey and my home is equipped with a silent alarm that is wired right into the local police headquarters. I also have motion sensors on my house, and two small dogs.”

  “That should do it,” Tommy said. “Are you plannin’ a trip any time soon?”

  “Just going to a convention in Fort Lauderdale next Monday. I’ll be there for three days.”

  “Where are you staying?” Jackson asked.

  “The Marriott Marina.”

  “Well, be alert, Mr. Worthington. The guy who killed Martin Moore is a pro. Highly effective.” Tommy reached into his jacket pocket, handing the news director his card. “If you come across anything suspicious, please call me immediately. I’d also alert the Alpine police if I were you. Maybe they could watch your house for the next few weeks.”

  “Aren’t you overreacting, Detectives?”

  Tommy looked at Jackson. They both had reached the conclusion that the news director was a weasel and a liar. Why waste any more time on him? “Maybe so, Mr. Worthington. But give us a call if you see anything unusual, okay?” Tommy stood up quickly. Jackson knew Tommy couldn’t stand to be around guys like Worthington. The detectives waved, instead of shaking hands, and walked from the room.

  Outside, the weather was turning cloudy and cold. Tommy and Jackson walked around the corner and into a deli. There was one on nearly every block in New York City. The detectives ordered two corned beef sandwiches on rye with mustard, and two large coffees.

  “That Worthington is quite a guy,” Jackson said while waiting for his order.

  “Michaels is going after him,” Tommy said, his eyes looking around the deli.

  “I know,” Jackson answered.

  Tommy continued to look around the deli, seemingly in thought. He tapped his fingers against the silver counter and turned to Jackson. “We’ve got to end this, Jack. No more righteous slaughter. This time we’ve got to get the bastard.”

  Murphy Brown was getting old. Not Candace Bergen—she was holding up just fine. But the scripts for her sitcom just didn’t have the punch they used to have. At least that was Ashley Van Buren’s opinion. Ordinarily, Ashley was not much of a TV watcher. But on this night she was watching the tube with a vengeance, punching the remote control like a maniac. She was trying to divert herself from a phone call she had to make, a phone call to Shannon Michaels.

  Finally, she could put it off no longer. She dialed Shannon’s number and sat back on her couch. He came on the line after three rings.

  “Hi, this is Ashley. How are you?”

  “Better, now that I’m talking to you.”

  “Always the smooth, slick guy, Mr. Michaels.”

  “Always the cynical, doubting gal, Ms. Van Buren.”

  Ashley laughed. The man was quick, no question. “So I’d like to see you soon, if you’re not too busy, that is.”

  “Never too busy for you.”

  “I was thinking maybe I could take a ride out to your writer’s retreat. I love the water. I’d really like to see it.”

  Shannon paused, measuring Ashley’s voice. It was casual, but a little rehearsed. Shannon sensed the woman had thought out her request very carefully. Was this an O’Malley thing?

  “Ash, you know I like to keep it private. It’s the one place in the world where I have complete privacy. Besides, the house has absolutely no amenities. It’s very basic.”

  “Well, I’m basic too.”

  “No, you’re not, Ash. You’re complicated. Very complicated. Why do you really want to go out there?”

  Ashley was ready for the question. “It has to do with trust, Shannon. I just get the feeling sometimes that you’re suspicious of me. By showing me something special, you’d be demonstrating that you trust me.”

  That was a good answer and Shannon knew it. He didn’t really like the situation, but felt he could handle it. “Okay, Ash, you’re on. I’ve got a heavy deadline early next week. But I could show you around on Saturday. Then we could go back to Sands Point and have dinner.”

  “Let’s play it by ear. It’ll be fun. I’ll drive out there on Saturday morning. It’s about two hours from the city, right?”

  “Maybe a little more. But, fine, I’ll see you out there. I’ll fax you directions tomorrow. Remember, the place has no phone. So if something comes up, call me at Sands Point. When I’m out in Mattituck, I go into town once a day and use the phone booth to check my messages. Are you sure you want to brave the elements on eastern Long Island?”

  “I’m looking forward to it. Good night, Shannon.”

  “Sleep well, Ash.”

  As Shannon hung up the phone, he could hear the wind howling, blowing in off the Long Island Sound. The night had turned nasty. Sleet was falling against the windows, and Shannon stared into the fire he had lit about an hour before. Showing Ashley the house in Mattituck would be no problem, he thought, but he was still suspicious of her interest. It had to be O’Malley checking Shannon’s alibi. He knew Ashley still had doubts about him, and O’Malley had seized on that. Well, there was nothing he could do about it. If he wanted to continue to see Ashley, which he did, he’d show her the house and ask her to keep its whereabouts confidential.

  Shannon then turned his thoughts to Lance Worthington. In town later at a pay phone, he dialed up the Marriott Marina hotel in Lauderdale, told them his name was Worthington, and said he was confirming his reservation. The hotel told him the dates and then, upon his request, assigned him a room number in advance. Shannon now knew where Worthington would be staying during the RTNDA Convention. That was useful. The problem was that Worthington would be surrounded by TV people, most of whom would know Shannon Michaels by sight. Worthington would have to be taken by surprise—in private and swiftly—and his getaway would have to be especially well planned. For the first time, thought Shannon, he might have to use a weapon to carry out his mission.

  Weapons were strongly discouraged by Sean, the mysterious Irishman about whom Liam Mooney had spoken in Athens. Shannon, after leaving Liam in the Greek capital, had gone on to Delhi, Bangkok, and Hong Kong. But he kept replaying in his mind the question Mooney had posed during their first conversation: Should he take vengeance against those who had hurt him? The answer he kept reaching was yes.

  Upon returning to New York, Shannon called Sean’s number, reaching him at a bar in South Boston. The bartender took Shannon’s name and number, and told him that Sean would be in touch. Three days later, Sean called collect from a pay phone.

  He had a thick brogue, even stronger than Liam’s. His voice sounded friendly, but wary. If Shannon would like some advice, he would be glad to provide it, he said, but only over the phone. And, in return, Shannon would have to make a sizable donation to the Northern Ireland Relief Association.

  Shannon asked Sean what his area of expertise was. The Irishman laughed sardonically and said he was a consultant on “sanctions.” Shannon knew that was a euphemism for assassinations. In the course of three phone conversations with Sean, the man laid out the general rules of the modern assassin. He did this indirectly, using the term “business plan” as a metaphor.
He told Shannon, for example, to always pay cash for any “services and supplies”—credit cards, even phony ones, he pointed out, could be traced.

  Sean also told him he was a firm believer in never using a home phone for business, never carrying your real identification, and always taking your target by surprise. As for training, Sean suggested that Shannon learn the basics of karate, as well as running or swimming a good distance at least four times a week. In the ruthless “world of business,” Sean liked to say, “you can never have too much endurance.”

  Sean also told Shannon that he could provide him with a false passport, for a fee of course, and that a phony driver’s license was easy to secure through Merc magazine. He suggested to Shannon that on his missions, he should disguise himself in a very simple way—changing his eye color with contact lenses, and wearing facial hair and a hat whenever possible. Sean’s last piece of advice had to do with attitude and decision-making: If he wasn’t positive that his target deserved to “retire,” then Shannon should pass on the mission. Doubt always leads to mistakes, he emphasized.

  And he wrapped up with a few real-life stories that pointed up the wisdom of never actually carrying a deadly weapon on one’s person—there are hundreds of ways to injure someone without using an illegal weapon, Sean advised.

  Shannon digested the information, but waited six months before finally deciding on a course of action. During that time, he took a karate course and got himself into excellent shape. To quell his inner rage, he also tried everything from Transcendental Meditation to Yoga. Nothing worked.

  It was nearly midnight before Shannon snuffed out the fire and headed upstairs to bed. But he couldn’t sleep. Lance Worthington, the last one left and, perhaps the worst of them all, had to be dealt with. Imposing sanctions on him required an unusual amount of planning. Every time Shannon pictured Worthington’s smug face during their last conversation, his jaw clenched. “I hope you’re enjoying yourself tonight, Lance,” Shannon whispered to no one but himself. “You don’t have too many nights left.”