That was the voice of bad boy, Bryan Mahoney, a man who had inherited his daddy's worst genes and had made them even worse. I once described him as a spoiled brat with a 44. The man just looked mean.
"What have I done to deserve this honor? I believe it is Detective MacKenzie, am I right?"
"Close enough. And this is Sgt. Willis."
"Gentlemen, what can I do you for?"
"We were wondering if you heard that Archbishop Collins was found dead yesterday."
"Yep, I read it in the paper. I can't say I shed many tears over the news."
"Why would that be?"
"Oh c'mon, officer, don't take me to be a fool. you know d*mn well I hated the saintly son*f*b*tch."
"Because of your father's funeral."
"Among other things."
"He's a phony, as phony comes. What he preached and what he did were mighty far apart if you ask me. Like my father's funeral ... it hadn't anything to do with no sacred ground, it had to do with me not willing to grease his palms with a hefty contribution to his slush fund."
I could see that Irish blood pressure rising, reddening that bull neck of his. "Sounds as if you had a mighty deep resentment against the old man."
"Look. If I wanted him to come to harm, it would've happened long before now. No, Officer, I had nothing to do with the Archbishop."
"Then can you think of anyone else who might have had something against him."
I didn't expect an answer, but I was looking for that momentary pause that indicated that he had someone in mind but chose not to reveal it. I got the pause.
"Nah. I don't run in his circles. If there's not anything else, I'd like to get back to get back to our meeting, if you don't mind."
I gave a tip of my fedora, Tommy gave a tip of his matchstick and that was it. We were back in the parking lot.
"Tommy Boy, he knows."
Tommy nodded, "Yep. He knows."