Walking the Perfect Square (8 page)

All of that was nothing compared to his expression when I gave him the news about the body. I conveyed the message using more conventional methods: “It’s not Patrick.”

His face went blank, but within a millisecond it was tearing itself apart; relief fighting desperately not to reveal powerful, guilty disappointment. Relief winning a narrow victory. Strangely, I couldn’t bring myself to blame him for his disappointment. Bad news really is sometimes better than no news at all. Even if there were issues between Maloney and his son that I didn’t understand, the weeks of living in limbo must have been hell for his family.

“How can you be sure?” he asked.

I rested my cane against my good leg, held up my right arm and tapped my left index finger against it.

He played dumb: “What’s that, Prager, the bunt sign?”

“No tattoo. And though it was hard to tell, I didn’t see the earring either.”

Again he seemed impressed, angry too, as he pushed past me. How had I found out about the tattoo? What else did I know that he wanted kept secret? Had he come right out and asked, I wouldn’t have told him. To have leverage with a man who so coveted control and secrecy, I would have to keep secrets of my own or at least pretend I had them to keep.

Rushing in to fill the void Maloney’s abrupt departure had created, came a dark-haired woman in a sailor’s peacoat. About thirty, she stood 5’6” or so with pleasant blue eyes, a triangular face and too-thin lips. Her ringless left hand shook terribly, the ashes from the cigarette it held blowing onto the hem of her Navy coat. As she had been standing several feet behind and to the left of Maloney during the whole of our brief exchange, I had been vaguely aware of her presence. Even so, there were no grounds for me to have assumed a connection between the two. Now she demanded more than a fleeting cruise through my short term memory.

“Are you sure?”

I didn’t have to ask about what. “Pretty sure,” I said and started to explain: “But I didn’t really know—”

She didn’t let me finish. Putting her right hand on my forearm, she thanked me, smiled and ran toward the water.
Something about her smile got to me; her touch was electric, magnetic.

It was going on 4:30 when I got back to my car. I decided not to go directly home, choosing instead to drive on toward the Brooklyn Bridge. I picked up some coffee at a bagel shop, parked the car in Brooklyn Heights and found a park bench on the promenade. And though the skyline of lower Manhattan spread out before me like a glorious deck of badly shuffled cards, I could not stop thinking of that woman’s smile.

I GUESS IF the New York Jets and Giants could play in New Jersey and if Cincinnati’s airport could be in Kentucky, it was kosher for the Mary the Divine Hospice of New Haven to be in Hamden. At least it was still in Connecticut, right? The hospice, like many of the huge Victorians along Whitney Avenue, was exquisitely detailed with gingerbread turnings, a wraparound porch and a variety of patterned shingles. The pumpkin, brown and hunter green color palette didn’t exactly thrill me, but given its proximity to what I guessed was a lake and lush parkland, I could see why the diocese had selected this sight for a hospice. I told the woman at the front desk as much.

“Oh,” she said, “it was serendipity, really. A wealthy Yale alum willed this property to the church a few years back. Before that, we were located in New Haven between a crack house and an abandoned supermarket.”

That explains it, I thought, but didn’t bother her with my meanderings about NFL franchises or airports. When I did get around to asking for Sister Margaret, the receptionist’s face took a decided downward turn. “Are you Mr. Prager?” she wondered.

I could feel my heart sinking into my shoes. “Is he—”

“No, Mr. Bryson hasn’t left us yet, but . . .” she trailed off in a less than reassuring tone.

“So he’s all right.”

“No one here is all right, Mr. Prager.”

“I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant.”

“I understand,” she said.

I doubted it. I repeated my request to see Sister Margaret, the nun who had called me earlier that day.

“She’s in with Mr. Bryson and Father Izzolino.”

“Last rites?”

“I’m afraid so, yes. But you’ve got to have faith, Mr. Prager.”

I restrained myself from laughing. “Maybe,” I suggested, “if Mr. Bryson knew I was here, he might hang on a little longer. Can I—”

“Sorry, but that’s impossible.” Rubbing her chin, the receptionist pondered how to proceed. “Sister!” she flagged down a woman in a blue habit with a simple kerchief-type wimple.

“I’ll see what I can do.” The nun put her hand on my arm. “It may take several minutes. We have a small chapel through that door, if you’d like to reflect.”

“Thank you, Sister,” I smiled, “but no. I wouldn’t want to be disrespectful. I’m Jewish and—”

“So was he,” she said, pointing to a crucifix. “Let me go see if I can get Sister Margaret.”

I asked the receptionist if there was a quiet place where I could use my cell phone. There was a lounge, she said, just past the chapel. She thought I would be fine there.

The empty lounge looked out onto a lovely sloping lawn, a flower garden and the water just beyond it. I punched my daughter’s number in. As I waited for the connection to be made, I noticed the wall clock, checked my wristwatch to confirm the time. 4:50 P.M.; in another four minutes it would be exactly eighteen years since Sarah’s birth. As I listened to her phone go unanswered for a third ring, it struck me that a hospice was a pretty macabre venue for phoning in birthday wishes. Then again, maybe not. Maybe it was the perfect place.

Someone rapped on the wall behind me. “Mr. Prager?” a woman’s voice called my name.

I clicked the phone off and turned. “I’m Moe Prager.”

“I’m Sister Margaret. So nice to meet you.” She pumped my hand. “Thank you for coming.”

“Same here,” I mumbled. “I mean, I’m glad to have made the trip.” I think I was taken aback by the fact the sister was dressed in a pale blue nurse’s uniform.

She took note of my confusion. “Yes, Mr. Prager, I am fully qualified. Some of our guests call me RN squared; real nun and registered nurse. Just a little hospice humor. You need that, that and faith.”

Sister Margaret was built like a snowman with penny copper eyes and button nose. Though she wasn’t smiling, exactly, she did exude a sort of calm that seemed to fill the room. I guess that’s a
valuable asset in a place where the folks have been at, knocked on and passed most of the way through death’s door.

“How’s Mr. Bryson?”

“Not very well,” her eyes frowned. “The cancer has spread to most of his vital organs. Though he hasn’t shared his burden with me, I suspect he’s got something he needs desperately to share with you before leaving us. I think it’s the only thing that’s kept him alive these last few days.”

“Can I go see him, sister?”

“Unfortunately, he was in such pain we had to load him full of morphine. He’s lost consciousness for the moment. It could be hours before he comes to. If—”

“—he ever does regain consciousness,” I finished her thought. She suggested I get something to eat. The New Haven area, Sister Margaret proudly assured me, was famous for its brick-oven pizza. There were several wonderful pizzerias within a short driving distance. There was even one I could walk to, but she didn’t recommend it. Their cheese was too salty. She would take my cell phone number and call if Mr. Bryson’s condition improved sufficiently to allow us to speak.

I hesitated.

“Can I ask you something, Mr. Prager?”

“Certainly.”

“I’ve read the article Mr. Bryson keeps with him about Patrick Maloney, but I’m not clear about your connection. I confess,” she blushed slightly, “to being more than a bit curious.”

“And I’m probably more curious about Mr. Bryson. Tell me, sister, does the RN squared get a dinner break? Because if she does . . .”

“I’ll call and order the pizza. What’s your phone number? I’ll leave it at the front desk. We can be back here in five minutes. Oh,” she turned back after I gave her the number, “what do you like on your pizza?”

“Anything but anchovies.”

She gave me the thumbs up and fairly ran to the front desk. I punched in Sarah’s number once more, the real anniversary of her birth having passed unmarked some minutes before. Just as before, the phone went unanswered.

WORKING AGAINST THE coffee, it took a three-jigger visit with my bottle of Dewars to put my head to the pillow. When I was on the job, I’d taken great pains to guard against falling into the bottle. Now, between my lunch with Sully and this morning’s nightcap, I’d consumed more hard liquor in two days than in the last few months. Over the years, I’d seen old John Barleycorn take down more good cops than all the bombs, bullets and bribes combined. And by a long stretch, too. The pattern was pretty much the same: one drink to unwind after a shift became two, became three. Soon, the line between the shift and the unwinding became a drunken blur.

It was closer to dinner than to lunch when I did get up, that stale smell of scotch and coffee on my breath. Again I was vaguely aware of having dreamed, but of what or whom I couldn’t say. I can say that my first thought was of the smiling woman in the peacoat. I elected to believe I dreamed of her. Better her than the floater.

I’d tried Rico several times at the task force office without any luck. Finally, I risked a call to his home and got the second Mrs. Tripoli on the phone. Initially, she sounded about as happy to hear from me as from an oncologist. I don’t think she hated me necessarily, but I suspect she regarded all of Rico’s cop friends as threats. We managed to get through the conversation without exchanging hostilities. She wondered if I’d made any progress in finding Patrick. I told her it was hard to know. She even asked about my knee.

Rico, she said, had been sent down to Florida to pick up a fugitive who was willing to shed light on the task force’s case. She couldn’t tell me exactly when he’d be back. Two or three days, she
thought. Before hanging up, I asked for the Maloneys’ address and phone number. She hesitated, curious about why I didn’t already have that information. I considered telling her the truth, but reconsidered. After all, I was a big boy now. My mom didn’t have to cut my steak for me anymore. I think maybe I was a little embarrassed.

“I lost the piece of paper with that stuff on it.”

“At least you’re honest.” She was unwittingly ironic, slowly dictating the information.

Now I hesitated, wanting to ask Rico’s wife if she might know who the woman in the peacoat was. Not sure how to phrase the question and not wanting to push my luck, I didn’t ask. She promised to have Rico get back to me if he called in from Florida. I thanked her.

I sat staring at the envelope on which I’d written the Maloneys’ address and phone number. I thought about driving up there. I knew in my bones I would have to go sooner or later. Later, I decided. It was late and cold and my knee ached. But the more deeply involved in the case of Patrick Maloney’s disappearance I got, the more convinced I became that where he had come from had something to do with where he had gone to.

IF IT WASN’T for the fact that the New York Jets football team trained there, most non-alums wouldn’t know of Hofstra University’s existence. And with the way the Jets had played since their ’69 Super Bowl victory over the Colts, most non-alums, like myself, were seriously invested in trying to forget. I think the school was founded by a Dutch immigrant family who’d made their fortune in the logging industry in Michigan’s northern peninsula. As to why they picked Uniondale, Long Island, NY, for the campus, your guess is as good as mine. None of the students I asked seemed to know or care. They were having enough trouble giving me directions to the dorm suite Patrick Michael Maloney had once occupied. Marijuana Studies must have been a popular major.

The south part of the campus was actually quite attractive, very Ivy League. But like most schools that had expanded to meet the Baby Boomer explosion, Hofstra had suffered the indignities of late ’60s and ’70s architecture: nearly windowless concrete boxes that looked better suited to protecting German machine-gun nests along the Normandy coast. Patrick Maloney’s suite was located on the side of the campus where the Jets maintained their facilities, in one of four white dormitory buildings that dwarfed every other structure as far as the eye could see. Very tasteful. I think maybe at night they put a crossbar between the towers so the Jets’ kicker could practice field goals in the dark.

I thought I could have talked my way past the security guard at the lobby desk, but showed him my badge instead. Unlike most square-badgers, this guard was highly unimpressed. He shook his head no at my advance towards the elevator.

“NYPD issuing canes these days?” he wondered. “Must be new since I got off the job.”

“Special issue for the gimp squad. We chase the ambulance chasers,” I said. “How long you off?”

“Five years in April. Haven’t looked back a day since I put in my papers.”

Yeah, right. He hated the uniform so much he was willing to go back in the bag to guard coeds and potheads for four bucks an hour. I didn’t feel like arguing the point, so I turned the discussion to Patrick Maloney. Maybe I could use his cop’s instincts to my advantage. Apparently, this wasn’t a very original idea.

“You’re the first guy to show up in weeks. First month, we had every off-duty cop on the planet running in and outta here. I was givin’ out numbers like the deli counter at Waldbaums. I was gettin’ interviewed every ten minutes.”

“How about one more time?”

Surprisingly, he said he remembered Maloney. The old cop said Maloney stuck out from the other students because he was always really polite and impeccably dressed.