Night Of The Blackbird by Heather Graham Page A

arms around his waist. “Hey, Dad,” she said softly.
    â€œMoira Kathleen!” he cried, spilling a bit of draft as he set the glass down, spun around and picked her up by the waist. He lifted her high, and she kissed his cheek, quickly protesting his hold, worried about his heart.
    â€œDad, put me down!” She laughed.
    He shook his head, beautiful blue eyes on her. “Now when the day comes that I cannot lift my girl, that will be a sad day indeed!”
    â€œPut me down,” she said again, still laughing, “because I feel as if everyone in the pub is looking at me!”
    â€œAnd why not? Me daughter has come home!”
    â€œYou’ve got another daughter in her—”
    â€œAnd I’ve already made quite a spectacle of Colleen, I have. Now it’s your turn!”
    She managed to regain her footing, then hugged him fiercely again.
    â€œYou know the boys at the bar, eh, daughter? Seamus and Liam, Sal Corderi, the Italian here, Sandy O’Connor down there, his wife, Sue—”
    â€œHello!” Moira called to them all.
    â€œWell, now, I’d be taking a hug and a kiss,” Seamus told her.
    â€œAnd you’d not leave me out!” Liam protested.
    â€œOne more for Dad, then I’ll come around the bar,” she said, holding her father closely to her once again. “Are you supposed to be working this hard?” she asked him softly.
    â€œAh, now, pouring a draft isn’t hard work,” he told her. Then he pulled back and frowned. “And you, did you fly in alone?”
    She smiled. “Dad, I live and work in New York City. I travel all over the country.”
    â€œBut there’s usually someone with you.”
    Puzzled, Moira shook her head. “I took a cab to the airport, got on a plane, then took a cab here.”
    â€œBoston’s not the safest city in the world these days,” Liam said. Moira noted that he and Seamus had a newspaper spread out between them at the bar.
    â€œI don’t think it’s ever been crime free,” Moira said lightly. “No major metropolis goes without crime. That’s why you raised intelligent, streetwise children, Dad.”
    â€œHe’s thinking about the girl,” Liam told her.
    Moira frowned. “What girl?”
    â€œA prostitute found in the river,” Seamus said.
    â€œDead,” Liam added sadly.
    â€œStrangled,” Seamus finished with sorrowful drama.
    She looked at her father, finding the situation sad, as well, but wondering why this news should suddenly make him worried about her. “Dad, I promise you, I haven’t taken up the world’s oldest profession as a sideline.”
    He shrugged. “Now, Moira—”
    â€œHe’s afraid there might be a serial killer in the city,” Liam said, shaking his head. “Apparently the woman plied her trade around the hotel and attracted men of means. Therefore, you see, any lovely lass might be a target. But we’re not here to get you down, Moira, girl. There are fine things happening as well. Let’s look to the good news! We’re getting one of the most important politicians in Northern Ireland for our very own Saint Patrick’s Day parade. Mr. Jacob Brolin is coming here, right to Boston, can you imagine?”
    â€œOh?” Moira murmured, afraid to say more. Josh, who hailed from the deep South, had told her about a round table he had attended where men still sat together, engaging in deep and sometimes passionate discussions regarding the American Civil War. Josh was an American history buff. At Kelly’s, too, often they relived battles—and the fighting that had eventually led to the Irish Free State and the Republic of Ireland. They drank to the Easter Rebellion solemnly, bemoaning the fate of the freedom fighters executed after the surrender. They argued the strategies of the leaders, they spoke for and against the hero Michael Collins and ripped