Kilmoon: A County Clare Mystery by Lisa Alber Page A

on her,” Danny said, “but I swear she’s already wrecking my head. I’m fetching ice. Any for you?”
    They shook their heads and waved him on with mannerisms so similar anyone would think they were biologically related. In the kitchen, Danny leaned into the freezer. Merrit Chase. In the plaza with Marcus. At the party. At the crime scene. He’d bet she had more to do with Lonnie’s death than Kevin—little good that did his friend.
    He checked the batteries in his microrecorder and made ready to tackle Kevin.

• 14 •
    Kevin recognized Danny’s professional mask face when he returned with ice in his whiskey. “About to get to the point, are you?”
    “Unfortunately. Let’s go into the kitchen.”
    “You’ve nothing to hide, remember that,” Liam called after them. The confidence in his tone comforted Kevin until Danny set a tape recorder on the counter. A sickening déjà vu enveloped him as Danny settled himself on a stool at the kitchen island.
    “We’re at this again? Why so official?”
    “Because I need to be on this one. And I don’t have an extra man handy to be my note taker. Better this way, actually.” Danny fiddled with the recorder without turning it on. “Listen here, Kev, the shit’s about to blow your way again. Lonnie was knifed in the heart sometime during the party.”
    “Holy shit. Why didn’t anyone tell us?”
    “Oh, I don’t know—because of your temper?” Danny held up his hand to quiet Kevin’s protest. “The news is already out. The journalists have arrived, and Clarkson has started his media games. He’s already sniffing after you on the O’Briens’ good say.”
    Unable to stand still, or sit, Kevin jerked open a cupboard. Of course the O’Briens pointed their fingers at him. It stood to reason, didn’t it, because of his supposed jealousy, his uncontrollable temper?
    He grabbed the cake and frosting mixes he’d bought before deciding to bake from scratch. Chocolate fudge, Liam’s favorite. “I’d have been mad to kill Lonnie. Pure mad. And besides you were with me the whole evening.” He yanked down a bowl, poured in the cake mix, and ruined two eggs in his attempt to crack them against the bowl. “Fucking hell.”
    “How much do you remember about last night?” Danny said.
    “Is this the official interview?”
    “Not yet. We’re two friends, talking. Though you know I ought to treat you like any other suspect.”
    “Oh yes, duty.” Kevin splattered another egg and bowed his head. “I’m grand. I did nothing. I have nothing to hide.”
    “I know that.”
    “Do you?”
    “Yes.” With quiet finesse Danny cracked two eggs into the cake mix. “The reason I ask about what you remember—” He shoved the bowl aside. “Listen, you went missing for a good thirty minutes.”
    “I did?”
    “And I have to include this in my report. In fact, Mrs. O’Brien nattered on about it when she gave her statement this afternoon, so I’m sure others noticed, too.”
    “That cow can’t help herself, always the busybody bitch.”
    “Still, I’m warning you, OK? I’ve got my men questioning the partygoers as we speak, and hopefully they’ll find someone who saw where you went.” Danny dipped his finger into the cake powder and licked it. “How many people do you suppose were in and out last night?”
    “Three fifty? Four hundred? Your men will have more work than a ram in breeding season.”
    “But not nearly as much fun.” Danny swung an arm around Kevin’s shoulder, the manly shake, and then his voice turned serious again. “Remember to answer with the minimum necessary. This is routine. We’re asking everyone to run through their evenings.”
    “Not routine from your boss’s point of view, I’d wager.”
    “And do not, I repeat, do not lose your patience.”
    “Good luck to that.”

Memo of Interview
    Detective Sergeant Danny Ahern questioning Kevin Donellan in the death of Lonnie O’Brien. Sunday, 31 August 2008, at 21.40, in the home