VC03 - Mortal Grace (39 page)

She moved on to the next communicant, a gray-haired lady wearing a diamond pendant on her jacket.

“The blood of Christ.”

Her hand trembled lifting the chalice.

When she looked back, the boy had left the railing.

In the vesting room, Bonnie had one arm out of her surplice when she heard a sound behind her. She turned and her heart jumped backward in her breast.

“Hi.” The boy was standing there.

She hadn’t even heard the door.

His hand was extended, lazy and menacing at the same time. “I’m Eff.”

The organ was booming out a postlude, the Widor toccata, and she doubted a scream would be heard.

The extended hand was empty, but she couldn’t see the other one. Panic rose in her throat. She swallowed, forcing it back. “You’ve been following me.”

“I’ve had my eye on you.”

“Why?”

“Come on. Let’s be friends.” The hand stayed there, unwavering, demanding that she shake it.

Instinct told her to chance it. A step forward brought her within switchblade range.

“I’m Bonnie.” Her hand closed lightly around his.

Right away it felt like a mistake. His hand gripped hers. And held on. And very slowly pulled her toward him.

“Nice to meet you, Bonnie. Real nice. And I mean it.”

She could feel his body pumping out heat. Suddenly he let her go. She stepped back.

He was reaching into the rear pocket of his trousers. He pulled out a flattened cylinder of something. As he unfolded it she recognized one of her flyers.

“Is this thing serious? Ten thousand dollars’ reward for information leading to identification of”—he had trouble with the next word—“assailant who mugged Father Joe Montgomery?”

The silence seemed to dangle. She pulled in a deep breath.

“It couldn’t be more serious.”

“And you mean this?” He pointed to two words at the bottom of the flyer: NO PROSECUTION.

“Absolutely.”

“Then you got yourself a deal.” Three strutting steps brought him to the mirror. “I was there when Father Joe got mugged.” He unbuttoned his shirt to the navel and winked at his reflection. “I can identify the guy that did it.” He turned, grinning. His eyes locked in on hers. “It was me.”

A glassy stillness rippled across the room. She knew he was lying: Father Joe had said his assailant was black.

“Are you willing to repeat that statement in front of the police?”

“I’m not afraid of cops.”

“The bank’s closed today. I won’t be able to get the money till tomorrow.”

“I can wait a day.”

Now came the hard part. “I need your name and address.”

“What for?”

“For the check.”

“No checks.”

“The parish would never let me withdraw that much cash. I’ll give you a banker’s check. Certified. It’s exactly the same as cash.”

He looked at her a long, evaluating moment. “Francis Huffington. Two F’s. Care of Snyder.” He spelled out the name. “Five seventy-three West Sixty-ninth Street. Apartment four F.”

There was a knock on the open door. “Am I interrupting?” Ellie Siegel was holding a sheaf of Xeroxes.

“Not at all,” Cardozo said. “Ellie, you remember Reverend Bonnie Ruskay from St. Andrew’s.”

Ellie’s eyebrows arched up. Her eyes seemed to take a moment deciding whether to be cordial or not. “Of course I remember the reverend.”

“It’s good to see you, Detective.” Bonnie rose from the straight-backed chair. “Have you been well?”

“Always. I’m always well. And you? Don’t get up, please.” Ellie smiled coolly. “I did some microfilm searching at the newspapers, but it can wait.”

“We’re not doing anything but waiting ourselves,” Cardozo said.

“Really.” Ellie’s tone was absolutely flat.

“It’s my fault,” Bonnie Ruskay said. “I asked someone to meet us here and he’s late.”

“What have you got?” Cardozo said.

“Pretty much what we expected.” Ellie perched the copies on the desk on top of a teetering pile of departmental paper. “The white press never linked Vegas and Wills or Gilmartin. The stories got buried in the back pages and they suggested that the victims were black or Hispanic. What it reminds me of is the black hooker murdered at the Soldiers and Sailors Monument the night the white lady jogger was wilded in Central Park.”

“What about the
Amsterdam News
?”

“They carried all three stories, but basically they published the NYPD handout. They did run one editorial saying the police should investigate links, but there was no follow-up.”

“El Diario?”

“
Nada.
It’s all there. Enjoy.” Ellie waved and was gone.

“What did she mean,” Bonnie Ruskay said, “‘the white press’?”

“The major media.” Cardozo glanced through Ellie’s Xeroxes. After ten minutes of shuffling paper and counting dust motes in the air, he looked again at his watch. “Francis Huffington either forgot he had a date or he never intended to show in the first place.”

“He could be held up in traffic,” Bonnie Ruskay said. “Or on a subway.”

“Believe me, if a kid like this wants to get somewhere, nothing holds him up. It’s obvious what’s happened.”

“It’s not obvious to me.”

“He tried to work a scam on you, you tried to out-scam him, and he couldn’t think of a bigger scam to get around yours.”

She sat with a stunned look, as though he’d taken out a .45 Magnum and blown a hole through her lace blouse.

“This kid has mugged you, he’s broken into your office, he’s stalked you, he’s robbed you. You didn’t seriously expect him to walk in here and give himself up.”

She stared at him a moment before picking up her handbag. “Sorry to have wasted your time.”

Cardozo felt a trickle of impatience. “I didn’t say it was a waste. It’s the smartest way of handling him. You called his bluff and you scared him off. He’ll think twice before he pesters you again.”

“I’m sure you’re right.”

The phone rang. “Cardozo.”

“The printing on the obituary envelope doesn’t match the anonymous note.” It was Lou Stein. “My handwriting expert says we’re dealing with someone else.”

Bonnie Ruskay mouthed a good-bye and headed for the door.

“Hey.” Cardozo covered the mouthpiece. “Remember to reset the alarm.”

“I’ll remember.”

“We’ve found three partials on the obit,” Lou was saying. “Two we can’t identify. We don’t have any matches on file, so they’re not anyone we’ve comparison-printed. We compared the third partial with the prints on the duplicate obit.” Lou sighed. “Of which there are many—mostly yours.”

“I’m sorry, Lou. I couldn’t exactly snap on a pair of plastic gloves in front of Mrs. Schuyler.”

“Assuming the only other prints on the dupe are hers…”

“Which they are.”

“Then we have a match. Mrs. Schuyler mailed the obit.”

“Hallelujah.” Cardozo took a long swallow of room-temperature coffee. He stared out the window at the brick wall across the alley. So the rouged, fluffed-up old puppet had more than just a mean tongue. “She’s got a mean pair of hands to go with it.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Sorry. Just thinking out loud.”

“Okay. Moving along to those manila file folders. You’re right on the money. At some point in their history, they were stacked together—the same cup of mocha coffee with nondairy creamer spilled on them all.”

“Can you date that coffee spill?”

“It’s hard to date coffee, but assuming the rancid butter on the Vegas file was spilled at approximately the same time, judging by the bacteria I’d put it in the vicinity of two to four weeks back.”

Cardozo ran a quick calculation through his mind. “That fits our time frame.”

“Glad to shed light.”

As Cardozo replaced the receiver, Ellie came gliding back into the cubicle. Her face had a mysterious kind of smirk.

“Okay, Ellie—how can I help you?”

“If that’s a serious offer, you could fix the New York State lottery for me. Or pay my Con Ed bill. Or shoot my ex-husband.”

“Not now. Please.”

“I love to watch you get angry. I love the way you scrunch up your face when you’re on the verge of losing it.”

“Not funny.” He leaned back in his chair, palms upraised. “Give it a rest…please?”

“I was only trying to lighten the mood a little.”

“Sure.”

“Vince, you have to keep a little perspective on yourself—and on her too.”

“I can handle it.”

“By letting her use your office to make dates?”

“She thought she was helping.”

“Watch out.” There was fatigue in Ellie’s eyes, but there was caring too. “Look what that woman’s done to her ex…. You want to wind up like Ernie?”

“How’s he wound up?”

“Fixated. Addicted to a memory. He’ll never find satisfaction with another woman. Let alone peace of mind or self-respect. There are women who do that to men.”

“What’s with all the insight? Did I ask for a guru? Did I send for a shrink?”

“I was only trying to be a friend, okay?”

“Fine. Be a friend. But keep one thing straight. You don’t own me.”

She stared levelly across the desk, stretching the moment of sudden silence. “Who’d want to?”

“Okay.” Cardozo brought his swivel chair upright. “Truce.”

“Did I miss something? Was there a war?”

“There was about to be. Do us both a favor. Get off her case. Keep an open mind.”

“An open mind about Reverend Bonnie?” Ellie mustered a smile. “For you, Vince, anything. Even the impossible.”

FIFTY

“W
HEN ARE YOU AND
Anne going to get married?” Bonnie asked.

“We’re thinking of early autumn.” Ben lifted his glass of mineral water as though to toast her. “But we haven’t picked the date.”

“Every year you say you’re thinking of early autumn. Tell me the truth. Is it ever going to happen?”

“Why the rush?”

They had finished their meal and were lingering over
café filtre.
Tonight had been her brother’s turn to pick the restaurant. He had chosen a new place, The Cottage, a brownstone in Turtle Bay. The restaurant was one of a new wave—throwbacks to the French eateries of the fifties.

“You’re still a Catholic,” Bonnie said, “and a conservative one. You make very brave noises about living with a woman, but it doesn’t suit you.”

“Maybe it suits Anne.”

“Maybe Anne’s wrong and the Church is right.”

He gave her a look of quiet amazement.

“Not about everything,” she said. “But maybe they’re right about the sacraments.”

“Okay…something’s on your mind. I’ve felt it all evening. Tell me what the problem is.”

“This was supposed to be our fun dinner.”

“Out with it, little sister.”

Music was playing softly on the sound system. It sounded like an accordion, a guitar, and Yves Montand. The walls around them were brightly splashed with the blues and whites and earth-reds of Provençal pottery.

“I’ve just been wondering… What if the Catholic Church is right about ordaining women?”

“Now you wonder.” He sighed, shaking his head. She could feel his good humor, completely lacking in mockery.

“Lately I’ve felt I don’t have the kind of strength a priest needs. And I keep feeling it’s because I’m a woman.” She picked up an unused butter knife that the waiter had forgotten to remove. She carefully aligned it with the edge of the table. “I’m sorry. Am I being insensitive to discuss this with you?”

“Hell, no. Why would you think that?”

“You wanted to be a priest and they turned you down.”

“They turned you down too.”

“But you abided by their decision. I didn’t. Maybe I’m getting what I asked for.”

“What’s really bothering you? Specifics, please.”

“It keeps coming up in counseling. Some of my parishioners’ problems are idiotic. One woman’s been dropped from the party A-list. One man is losing his hair. But they’re really suffering. I feel their pain and it’s like a wall I can’t get past.”

“That’s the way it should be.”

“Father Joe never brooded about A-lists or falling hair.”

“You’re not Father Joe.”

“But I’m trying to fill his shoes. And I don’t know if I can.”

“The trouble isn’t that you’re a woman—the trouble is, you’re human.”

“You’d say anything to make me feel better. You’re my little brother and you’ve always been like a big brother to me. I should be taking care of you and instead I’m crying on your shoulder.”

“What’s a brother’s shoulder for?”

“I’m worried, Ben. What will I do if Father Joe doesn’t come back?”

“Of course he’ll come back.”

“You don’t know what’s been going on. You don’t know all of it.”

He looked across the table at her, serious now. “Then tell me all of it.”

She didn’t answer. She moved her wineglass in a tight circle.

“Is it his eyes?” Ben said.

“His eyes will be fine. At least the right eye will be. It’s something else. The police are trying to hurt Joe.”

“Explain, please.”

“They found pictures in his talent file. Young people who never played in Joe’s shows. One was the dead girl in the hamper in Vanderbilt Garden.”

Ben stirred a tiny teaspoon of sugar crystals into his coffee. “And the others?”

“Young people found over the last three years the same way.”

“In hampers?”

She nodded.

“How did the pictures get into his file?”

“I don’t know. Joe doesn’t know.”

“Do the police know?”

“They think they know. They think they know a lot of things. They think Joe wasn’t mugged. They think he hurt his eye fighting with the housebreaker.”

“What difference does it make?”

“They think he killed the housebreaker.”

“That’s crazy.”

“But it’s what they believe; I’m sure of it.” Her hand shook and half her coffee went into her saucer. “I was in the precinct today.”

He studied her face. “Why were you in the precinct?”

“I offered a reward to anyone who witnessed the mugging. A boy came forward and confessed.”

“Good. Then you have proof.”

“He was lying. He’s white. Father Joe’s mugger was black. But I thought if the boy made a statement, it would help Joe.”