“What time what?”
“What time do we chat tomorrow?”
“Monday morning.”
“I thought we agreed on day’s end.”
“That would be midnight. A threat on Sunday could be at any time.”
“That means I don’t get an exclusive in the paper until Tuesday.”
“But you’ll put it online with your byline within minutes of us talking.”
Grant watched Ferguson chew on that. Finally, the reporter nodded.
The commander was satisfied. At least Ferguson was a solid newsman who had enough integrity to stand by the veracity of his findings.
Grant was halfway down the hall when Ferguson called out.
“Would you advise me to skip morning services, Commander?”
“Totally your decision, Monte. Unfortunately, I don’t get a choice.”
IX
Grant had kept going to church each week after his wife passed. At first, he did it out of respect for his better half who was the churchgoer in the family. But as the weeks and months pressed on, he had found deep comfort there. Not wanting to admit that loneliness was settling in, especially with retirement on the horizon, Grant had convinced himself that Sunday mornings at Saint Matthew’s were something he could rely on, a constant in a world that had changed more in the past year than the previous half century.
But on this particular Sunday morning, all of Grant’s synapses were on full alert. Not that he expected chaos to erupt in his very own church, but he spent the majority of the priest’s sermon watching his fellow parishioners’ every movement, looking for anything that seemed out of the ordinary. Thankfully, the service concluded without interruption and Father Gill still in one piece.
Afterward, Grant approached the priest, whom he had personally called the previous day to warn him to be extra careful on this Sabbath. Grant had told him that once midnight rolled around, they’d be able to take a communal deep breath.
“If nothing happens, are we supposed to go through the whole thing again next Sunday?” Father Gill had queried.
Grant hadn’t even considered that.
“I think we take this one day at a time,” Grant had replied.
The priest had thanked Grant for coming, then retreated with the other clergy into the church. Grant couldn’t help but admire his calmness, the dedication to his flock and service to God. The commander wished he believed in something so pure—but he’d witnessed too much horror in his three decades of public service.
It was one of the many reasons he was retiring.
He skipped the weekly visit to the cemetery, promising Allison that he would make it up to her. Soon enough, Grant would have plenty of time on his hands. He spent the remainder of the day checking with patrols, churches throughout London, and with any member of clergy he could find.
As each hour passed, Grant could feel his insides churning more, convinced that the killer was torturing him and his brethren, stretching the moment till the last possible second when he would unleash his knife and make his literal mark—throwing Grant and the whole of Scotland Yard into complete chaos.
Eventually, the midnight hour arrived. And nothing came to pass.
“I guess I’m happy to be proved wrong,” said Everett when he phoned Grant shortly after twelve and was told all of London’s clergy were safe and accounted for.
“I feel the same way,” agreed Grant, as he tossed his keys on the hall table of his house in the Maida Vale section of London and locked the front door.
“What happens now? Same thing next Sunday?” asked his brother.
“Right now, I just want to get some sleep,” answered Grant.
X
He got about three hours.
When the phone rang, it was 4:15. By the time Grant picked it up, he was wide awake. Nothing good ever happened at 4:15 in the morning.
Especially when one was a commander at Scotland Yard. “Grant here.”
The first thing he noticed was the faraway hiss and ever-so-slight delay that signaled the call wasn’t local. “Commander Austin Grant?”
The next thing was the voice. Officious—yes. British—no.
“Yes, who is this?”
“My name’s Frankel. Detective John Frankel, NYPD. Sorry to wake you; I know it’s early there.”
“That’s all right, Detective. How can I help you?”
The question was easy enough. He had a sinking feeling about the answer.
“I got pointed in your direction by reports that came over the homicide wire about a series of murders you’ve had there in England. Throats slashed. Marks carved on foreheads.”
“Yes,” replied Grant. “That would be my investigation.”
“Well, I’ve got a DB here with the same MO.”
“DB?”
“Sorry. Dead body. Guess you have different terminology over there. My victim was impaled on a cross above the altar in Saint Patrick’s Cathedral.”
Grant felt his mouth dry up. “By any chance, is your victim a priest?”
“Father Adam Peters. He’s been at Saint Paddy’s for over forty years.”
“And the marking on the forehead. A capital I and capital V—like a Roman numeral four?”
Grant heard the detective’s intake of breath on the other end of the line.
“A number. That answers a few questions. We thought maybe someone was trying to spell out something—like a name.” Frankel cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose this is a lucky guess on your part?”
“No. Not lucky.” Grant sighed. “Not lucky at all.”
PART ONE
Little Town Blues
1
Grant hated heights.
He blamed it on the family cat and Everett. His younger brother had let Frisky slip out the door and the pet had promptly chased a bird up a giant elm. The next thing nine-year-old Austin knew, he was climbing after him and up fifty feet in the air. When he reached the top, Frisky was back on terra firma and Austin was holding on to the tree for dear life. Yelling, he lost his grip and dropped twenty feet before grabbing a branch, where he swung until his father rushed out to rescue him. Young Austin ended up blubbering uncontrollably all night. The tears subsided the next morning, but the feeling of nausea and panic he’d suffered when up on high returned again and again.
So Scotland Yard Commander Austin Grant made sure to book an aisle seat on the 777 British Airways jet to JFK out of Heathrow. Intellectually, he knew he was firmly ensconced in the finest machinery that brilliant engineers could devise. He’d read the statistics—the chance of being involved in a fatal auto crash was a thousand times more likely than an air catastrophe. That didn’t alter the fact that an airplane window provided a forty-thousand-foot view of the Atlantic Ocean. Grant was totally content limiting his line of sight to the well-worn airline magazines and boring rom-com on the TV monitor on the seat back in front of him.
He resisted the urge to kiss the Jetway upon arrival at JFK and entered the terminal on somewhat wobbly feet. He didn’t relish a return across the pond and having to be sky-high soon; he figured his presence wouldn’t be required that long by NYPD Detective Frankel.
It was still light out when he reached the cab stand, a benefit of catching the morning flight and getting to turn his Tag back five hours. He was on the Long Island Expressway (which his cabbie called the “world’s biggest parking lot”) when the sun began its descent behind the massive Manhattan skyline—bathing the city in a pinkish glow that could have come courtesy of Monet’s water lily palette.
The gargantuan buildings left him awestruck. He was immediately aware of what was missing: the Twin Towers. It had been nearly two decades since they crashed down with a roar that changed the world, but it was still impossible to imagine the city without them. Thoughts of an early retirement had swirled through his head right around the Millennium, but those disappeared after 9/11. That tragic day on the tip of Manhattan had left him determined to do his part in keeping his countr
ymen and loved ones safe. He realized if the Towers were still there rising in front of him, he might not be heading into New York City on the trail of a maniac who was well on his way to holding two cities hostage.
A jolt courtesy of a pothole snapped Grant from his remembrance and he discovered that they were suddenly in a Midtown traffic jam. He wondered if rush hour was a 24/7 occurrence that plagued New Yorkers and mentioned as much to his driver, a dark-haired, overweight escapee from the Bronx.
“Who the fuck knows what’s going on?” cried the driver. “Probably some Third World cocksucking country having their weekly parade down Fifth Avenue.” The cabbie slammed the taxi into park and jumped outside. Grant could hear him screaming at someone. He marveled at the man’s ability to string so many invectives into one run-on sentence. Seconds later, the driver had returned.
“Fuckin’ garbage truck. Asshole decided to take up half the street to grab a cup of coffee.” He glanced in the rearview mirror, meeting Grant’s eyes. “Bet you Brits wouldn’t stand for this kinda shit.”
“Absolutely not,” replied Grant, putting on his best faux upper-crust Bond Street accent. “We’d guillotine the tosser in the middle of Trafalgar Square.”
“Seriously?”
“We’d sell tickets too. All in the good name of the Queen’s Trust.”
“You’re shitting me now, right?”
Grant smiled. “A smidge.”
“You know, if you don’t like the way we do things here, you should just go back to where you fucking came from.”
Welcome to New York City, thought Grant.
When making rushed arrangements that morning, Grant had searched for places to stay near Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. It seemed like Divine Providence when a certain hotel popped up, so he chose it as a home away from home.
“Welcome to the London,” greeted the doorman as he swung open his charge. Grant was taken aback—not just by the friendly smile (after enduring over an hour of expletives and Brit bashing) but the dark suit the man wore. He had expected to find employees of a hotel with such a moniker wearing something more Anglo-Saxon—if not a Beefeater’s uniform, at least a traditional morning suit.
Thus began the Americanization of Austin Grant. The lobby with massive jutting abstract pieces someone called “art” was as far removed from the tea-serving sanctuaries he and Allison had taken Rachel to every Sunday in her youth as Grant’s cabbie was from applying for a British passport.
Grant approached the reception desk, where he was handed a registration slip along with a hot towel dipped in a “mixture of regenerative herbs.” Grant dabbed a cheek gently, then gave the towel back to the female receptionist who could double for a flawless mannequin in one of Harrods display windows.
“You’ll be staying with us for a week?”
“I’m not quite sure,” Grant replied. “I might be leaving tomorrow or I might have to extend. Can we leave it open-ended?”
She worked the keyboard with perfectly violet-manicured fingers. “I’m afraid that might be difficult, sir. It’s actually our busiest season with Christmas rapidly approaching. And the New Year immediately after.”
“So, what happens if I need to stay longer?”
“I’m afraid you’ll need to make other arrangements. We can help you find another accommodation, but I wouldn’t wait long. The city gets crowded this time of year. Perhaps your business will wrap up before your departure date.”
For all Grant knew, the killer was upstairs in his room waiting for him, wrapped up in a pretty bow, ready to confess. Along with Father Christmas. Grant sighed inwardly, signed his name, and took the key.
“We’ll have to see. Thank you.”
“I’m sure you’ll be happy to get back to your family in England.” She leaned forward, as if about to impart a secret that would totally enlighten Grant. “You don’t want to be here near Christmas. People tend to go a bit nuts.”
Grant nodded.
I know one person in particular.
The room was smaller than small, barely enough space for Grant and his carry-on bag. The walls were bright—he was tempted to turn off the lights to see if they actually glowed in the dark. Grant crossed to the window and opened the shade. He had a very nice view of a brick building across a service alley. And this was a deluxe room. He had figured, Why not splurge while on the public dole? He couldn’t even imagine the view a standard room offered.
Way too wired to consider sleep and realizing he would just stumble over himself in the tight confines of his room, he decided to go for a walk.
Once outside, Grant was fully aware of what the receptionist had been talking about. Even at nine o’clock on a Monday evening, the city was buzzing with yuletide cheer, even if it was more like “Christmas—The Infomercial.” Every window celebrated, announced, or pushed the upcoming holiday. From “Xmas Slash Sale” to giant Advent calendars, from plastic blow-up reindeers to Santa-clad mannequins, each storefront vied for the consumer’s eye and pocketbook.
It reminded Grant that he wasn’t going to have to rack his brain to come up with the perfect Christmas gift for Allison. As much as he hated the pushing and shoving he had to endure each December to get the desired item, it was worth it seeing Allison’s face light up each Christmas morning as she unfurled the gift his hands had clumsily wrapped in too much paper. Now, with Allison gone forever, a daughter who wouldn’t answer his e-mails, let alone accept a gift, Grant’s Christmas list was quite empty. He understood why so many called these weeks the Most Dreadful Time of Year.
Suddenly, Grant was swallowed up by a horde of happy Manhattanites exiting Radio City Music Hall. Many were jolly families, some executing ridiculous leg kicks. The placards in the building’s showcases advertised the “Holiday Show Featuring the World-Famous Rockettes.” He was swept up by the masses down Fiftieth Street, where the largest Christmas tree he had ever seen was aglow in all its glory with a host of ice skaters swooshing in circles below it.
Grant took it all in and tried to get in the spirit of the season. But this proved difficult, knowing that evil had made its way across the Atlantic to wreak havoc on unsuspecting New Yorkers.
Happy Holidays, everyone, from the worst of Merry England!
Turning away from the holiday lights, he shuffled on.
Saint Patrick’s Cathedral.
It encompassed the city block between Fiftieth and Fifty-First Streets on Fifth Avenue. Grant stared up at the humongous structure. There were cathedrals in Britain that rivaled and surpassed Saint Patrick’s in ornate design and size, but it was the setting that amazed him. Having read up on the cathedral’s history on the plane, he’d learned it was an early nineteenth century Jesuit college that was abandoned to become a cemetery. It had been saved by Reverend Michael Curran, an energetic priest who raised funds to construct the cathedral starting in 1858. Upon completion, it was the seat for the archbishop of the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of New York and had borne witness to celebrations, weddings, and requiem masses for famous New Yorkers like Babe Ruth, Bobby Kennedy, and Ed Sullivan.
And now it was a Manhattan crime scene.
Most remnants of a police presence were gone. There wasn’t a squad car in sight, and only one local news van was present, with a roving reporter doing filler follow-up. Clearly the cops had moved on to the next-worst thing—which suited Grant. He had agreed to meet Frankel the following morning. This way he could get a good look at the church beforehand without being there in an official capacity.
Once inside, he was surprised to see a few dozen people moving through the church, even though it was ten o’clock on a Monday evening. A few were sprinkled in pews, others by small side altars lighting candles. Some sightseers strolled in the back, poring through guidebooks detailing the church’s history and highlights.
But most had gathered up front, where Grant saw the all-too familiar yellow crime tape spread around the altar steps. A gigantic cross hung above it, wrapped in clear plastic. A uniformed patrolman w
as stationed there, motioning for the curious to keep their distance.
“I heard he was missing his entire head and you’re still looking for it,” one female tourist in a camel coat said to the patrolman. “Is that true?”
“I’m not at liberty to say, ma’am,” was all the man would offer up.
“They wouldn’t have allowed us inside the place if the head was rolling around in here somewhere,” muttered her companion, a beefy sort wearing a Syracuse sweatshirt. “Isn’t that right?”
Grant was taken aback realizing that the Syracuse man was addressing him. “I’ve no idea—but I suspect you’re correct.”
The camel-coated woman’s eyes widened. “Are you from England?”
Grant couldn’t hide his accent if he tried. “I just arrived this evening. I’m all bollixed by the time change. Thought I’d go for a walk and take in the sights.”
“And stumbled right into a murder scene.”
“I thought that looked out of place,” Grant replied, pointing at the yellow tape. “What happened exactly?”
He knew he could learn a lot by not flashing his credentials until necessary. People usually buttoned up around authorities. The woman was eager to oblige.
“A priest lost his head and was crucified right up on that cross.”
“He didn’t lose his head, Marla. You watch too many crime shows.”
“Charles!”
“They can be quite addicting,” Grant acknowledged. “Did they catch the person who did it?”
Charles shook his head. “It would have hit the news by now. The body was taken away a while ago—otherwise they wouldn’t have let us in here.”
Grant noticed that one of the pew sitters, a man in his midthirties wearing a winter coat, had risen, looking irritated. Grant lowered his voice, worried they were disturbing praying parishioners. “What would possess a person to do such a thing?”
“I have my theories,” Marla eagerly offered.
The Last Commandment Page 3