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“Mike, Mary Catherine here said you’re NYPD. So you’ve gunned down a lot of people, then, have ya?”

I raised an eyebrow over the rim of my glossy waiting-room magazine at Billy, the slim, scruffy law-office receptionist typing at his computer.

Like many of the Irish folk I’d come into contact with in southern Ireland over the last week, Billy had a distinctive, mischievous twinkle in his Irish eyes. Akin to hurling and Gaelic football, pulling the legs of dumb Yanks like me seemed to be an Emerald Isle national pastime.

“The land of saints, scholars, and sarcasm,” I whispered to Mary Catherine, who was sitting on the leather couch next to me.

“Well, that depends, Billy,” I said as I went back to reading about what Camilla was up to in my OK! London celeb mag.

“Oh? On what, pray tell, Detective?” the receptionist said, finally turning from his screen.

I casually put down the magazine and lifted the floral-patterned china cup of Gevalia coffee he’d fetched us when we came in.

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