VC03 - Mortal Grace (20 page)

Eloise Barth did not answer. Cardozo could feel a cold current running just under the silence. She rose from the chair.

“It wasn’t only Father Joe who counseled Martin to confess.”

Cardozo watched her. “But he was the first?”

“No.” An odd little glow came to her face, as if she’d set a trap in a game of chess and he’d fallen into it. “Father Chuck Romero of St. Veronica’s in Queens also works for Barabbas. He was the first.”

Her eyes were making such a show of hard-contact openness that Cardozo had to wonder what it was that she was not telling him.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Barth, but that doesn’t quite answer my question.”

“Then I don’t understand your question.”

“Are you sure your husband killed the girl?”

“Aren’t
you
sure? You have the proof. You took it from his closet.”

“But you’re his wife. What do you feel?”

“Feelings aren’t facts, Lieutenant.” She hesitated. “But if you want my feelings—I feel that for many years I didn’t know the man I was married to. I feel that in the last year and a half I’ve come to know him. And to accept him. And yes, I’m sure he killed that girl. And I’m sure that without Father Joe and Father Chuck, Martin would still be carrying that crime in his heart.”

TWENTY-SIX

“DOES IT STRIKE YOU
there are some odd differences between the crimes?” Cardozo said.

Assistant District Attorney Harvey Thoms reached for the coffeemaker and refilled Cardozo’s cup. “There are always differences.”

“But these are the wrong kind. And too many for both killings to be the work of the same man.” Cardozo sipped. The coffee was a mocha hazelnut vanilla blend, and it tasted borderline cloying. “The girl was a sadistic killing. Martin Barth didn’t know her. He had no reason to kill her except he wanted the kick. The crime was carefully planned. She was bound and tortured and then dismembered and disposed of in a public park. Whereas…”

Thoms leaned back from his desk. His swivel chair creaked. He was watching Cardozo with subtly bored pale blue eyes.

“Whereas Barth knew the lady accountant. She was about to turn him in for breaking company rules. It was a straightforward utilitarian murder: shut the bitch’s mouth. He struck her on the head and left her dead in her apartment. If there was any planning, it escapes me. More like pure impulse.”

“Come on, Vince—a killer can’t change his M.O.?”

“There’s no law against it—but you don’t often see it with sadistic murders.”

Thoms’s hand rested lightly on the Basket Case file, fingers drumming. “Dr. Vergil Muller says Barth didn’t learn to be a sadist till he killed the accountant.”

“Do you trust Muller’s judgment?”

“He’s done good work for the department. He’s knocked down insanity defenses, gotten convictions where we wouldn’t have stood a chance without him.”

“But we have dangling threads.”

“Such as?”

“The van Barth says he rented exactly resembles trucks owned by Father Joe Montgomery and Father Chuck Romero.”

Thoms sighed. “A van is not a one-of-a-kind product.”

“Father Joe and Father Chuck were both involved with kids very much like the girl in the basket—and while Barth was in prison, they counseled him to confess to her murder.”

Thoms frowned. “Am I hearing you right? It sounds like you’re saying Barth took a fall for a priest.”

“Or for
someone.
Look at the timetable and tell me it’s coincidence. Monday the body is discovered; Tuesday we start questioning priests. Wednesday the priests are counseling Barth. A week later Barth confesses.”

“How would Barth know so many details of the killing if he wasn’t the murderer? The basket was held back from the newspapers. The dismemberment was held back. The nipple ring was held back. Barth not only knew about that ring, he had it in his possession. The ring links him to the victim and it validates the confession.”

“One of the priests could have given Barth the ring. Barth could have slipped it to his wife on one of her visits.”

“Why would Barth confess to someone else’s murder?”

“He’s in prison anyway, serving a life sentence—what’s he got to lose? A second killing shows he’s insane. An insanity defense could get him out earlier.”

“No way we’re going to allow a change of plea. So he’s got nothing to gain by going that route.”

“My gut still says we’re making a mistake if we close the case.”

Harvey Thoms’s features locked into a mask. Agreeable. Interested. Let’s-talk-it-over. “Have you got any proof against any other person?”

“One or two possible leads.” It wasn’t exactly a lie: more of an exaggeration.

“I’ve got files full of possible leads that never paid off.” Thoms’s left hand made a sort of breezy wave toward a stack of folders so tall it was almost toppling. “Next to dope, homicide is the fastest growth industry in this town. There’s just not time to cross every
t
and dot ever
i.
Especially not for a Jane Doe that nobody even knew or cared about.”

“Somebody knew her. Somebody cared.”

The door to the inner office opened and a tall, heavy-set man stepped through. His gray hair seemed to have a wave styled into it. “Harvey, have we got the documents in the Jennings case?”

Harvey Thoms turned. “Came in this morning…. Oh, Bill, I’d like you to meet Lieutenant Vince Cardozo. Vince, Bill Kodahl.”

District Attorney Kodahl extended his hand. He was dressed in Armani’s gentle look, a baggy but expensive suit in summer-weight gray. He was wearing a spotless white shirt with monogrammed cuff links. His fingernails gleamed. “It’s a pleasure to meet the cop who broke Ms. Basket Case.”

“I’m not sure we’ve broken it quite yet, sir.”

“Lieutenant, you did an A-plus job.”

Cardozo could feel the D.A. reaching for charm—reaching hard.

“I’ve given a lot of study to Martin Barth’s deposition,” Kodahl said, “and believe me, it plays. I’m closing the case.”

Cardozo returned to the Vanderbilt Garden that night. He sat on a stone bench just inside the unlocked gate. It was a desolate place after sunset. A lone light glowed above the lilac bushes. Trees were grooved lines in the darkness.

Above him, a solitary star popped out in a space between clouds. There was a footstep behind him. He turned. It was Ellie.

“How did I know when you didn’t show up at the restaurant you’d be here?”

He remembered. “I forgot we had a date—I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t a date. I just thought it might intimidate my ex a little if there was another cop at the table besides me.”

“How did it go?”

“He says he can’t find a buyer at the price I want, so why don’t I accept the price he says he can get, or buy the house myself. He’s cheating me. I know it. He knows I know it. And he knows I haven’t got time to peddle a two-bedroom in Westchester.” She sat down beside Cardozo on the bench. “Don’t ever get divorced, Vince. Divorce is worse than marriage. It never ends.”

Neither of them said anything. For a moment the dark was full of tiny night sounds. Crickets. Creatures rustling in the leaves. Birds. And then a rumbling wave of traffic gathered in the distance.

“What are you doing here, Vince?”

“I’m thinking of that girl.”

“Don’t.”

“Those gold rings in her nipples. She was an exhibitionist. She wanted people to know she was alive. She wanted to be noticed and seen and heard and felt. And instead she wound up in that box—so far from all the other people in the world.”

Ellie looked at him. “Vince. She wasn’t your daughter. She wasn’t your sister’s daughter.”

He knew Ellie and her impulse to comfort. “She was somebody’s daughter.”

“The case is closed.”

“Something is very wrong.” He patted his stomach. “I can feel it here.”

“What you’re feeling is, you haven’t eaten since you had that hot dog and papaya juice at one o’clock.” She stood up. “Come on. I’ll watch you eat dinner. My treat.”

“Guys who do this kind of stuff don’t just do it once and stop.” Cardozo stood. “Believe me, we’re going to hear from this killer again.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

T
HE BUZZ IN PABLO’S
head was getting stronger. The slash of light falling across the wall flickered unsteadily. Pablo squinted the framed Gothic-lettered mottoes into focus:

Suffer the little children to come unto me.

My kingdom is not of this world.

The kingdom of God is within you.

The place reeked dizzyingly of incense.

Pablo’s head slammed against a half-open door. The unexpected pain jolted him momentarily out of his grogginess. “Christ, what the hell was in that pink pill?”

The shadow ahead of him turned. “The same as what’s always in it.”

“This one’s hitting me different—I really need to sleep.”

“You can sleep later. Come on.”

Forcing his eyes to stay open, Pablo hobbled along behind the shadow. The hallway was dark and cold. Somewhere an air conditioner was roaring.

He shivered and started down a flight of stairs. His foot slipped. He skidded down three steps.

Now he was being helped up. He couldn’t tell how many hands were holding him. Nausea swept him. “I need the bathroom.”

“Why didn’t you think of that upstairs?”

“I didn’t need to go upstairs. Is there a bathroom in here?” Pablo pushed to his feet and reached toward a door handle.

“Just hold off a minute, will you?”

Something in that voice was wrong—something in the moment was off-center. There was barely time to register the fact, no time to understand it.

“I can’t hold off.” Pablo pulled the door open.

A hand seized him by the shoulder. A glint of metal sliced down through the air and then blackness fell.

“By any chance,” Douglas Moseley said, “have you ever met Father Joe Montgomery over at St. Andrew’s Church?”

“I had a little business with Father Montgomery,” Cardozo said. “About fourteen months ago. How do you know him?”

Moseley headed the public relations firm of Moseley and Abrams. They were said to pocket twelve and a half percent of every contract let by the city of New York, and last year a tabloid had uncovered a declared taxable income in excess of five hundred million. Cardozo had to wonder how one of the most influential power brokers in city politics was linked to an elderly cleric best known for staging musical reviews.

“Father Joe and I are both on the board of Operation Second Chance.”

“I’m not familiar with Operation Second Chance.”

Moseley gave him a patrician blue stare above a beaked nose. “It’s a psychiatric rehabilitation program for troubled youth.”

“A city program?”

The stare chilled. “Cofinanced by matching city funds. Why do you ask?”

Behind his desk, Captain Tom O’Reilly cleared his throat, pushed a lock of graying hair off his forehead. “What Vince is trying to determine is, what sort of position Father Montgomery occupies in the unofficial hierarchy of the city. Vince naturally gives priority to city cases.”

Moseley nodded. “Father Joe has a real commitment to New York City’s youth and kids. He deserves every possible priority and consideration.”

“Vince will see that he gets them.”

They were sitting in O’Reilly’s office. The captain had one of the three corner offices in the precinct, and the only one to get direct sun. Noon light bounced off a shelf of citations and awards, winked off the silver frames of family photos. On the shelf below, in shadow, photos showed O’Reilly clasping the hands of celebrities and politicians.

“I gather Father Montgomery is in some kind of trouble?” Cardozo said.

It was O’Reilly who answered. “Last night at eleven forty-three, a 911 call came in. A neighbor of St. Andrew’s rectory heard breaking glass. A squad car went up. The cops had to pound on the door till the assistant rector came from across the street. Inside the rectory they found a young man unconscious on the floor. Father Joe was sitting in a chair.”

“In shock,” Moseley said. “There were signs of a break-in. The most probable explanation is that Father Joe struck the burglar in self-defense.”

“We’re sure the man was a burglar?” Cardozo said.

“It stands to reason,” Moseley said.

“What was he struck with?” Cardozo said.

“Some kind of heavy object,” O’Reilly said. “The reason we called you in—he died an hour ago.”

Silence fell.

“Father Montgomery’s been taken to the hospital,” Moseley said. “He’s still in shock.”

“If there’s nothing more to it than what you’re telling me,” Cardozo said, “the worst he’s looking at is justifiable homicide.”

“I’d hate to see him tarred with a charge like that,” Moseley said. “He’s given so much of himself to the community. And he’s having health trouble. I wish there was some way we could spare him added difficulty.”

O’Reilly was watching Cardozo.
Don’t just sit there
,
you bastard
, his eyes screamed:
help me out of this.
“We’ll do our best—won’t we, Vince.”

“Sure. Our very best.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

C
ARDOZO PUSHED THE DOORBELL
.

A young woman, small and Latin-looking, opened the door. She had her hair up in a dish-towel turban.

Cardozo and Ellie introduced themselves and showed their ID’s.

The young woman stepped aside, wordlessly inviting them in.

“Would you mind telling us your name?” Cardozo said.

“Anna.”

“And what’s your last name?”

“Orgonza.”

“And how are you connected with the rectory?”

“I clean it.”

“How long have you worked for St. Andrew’s?”

“Two hours.”

Footsteps came bursting down the hallway. Cardozo recognized the blond assistant rector he had met here fourteen months ago.

“Hi, I’m Bonnie Ruskay—assistant rector of St. Andrew’s. You’re from the police?”

“Ellie Siegel.”

“Vince Cardozo.”

“We’ve met before,” Bonnie Ruskay said. “Last year.”