Gardened of the Damned

by Blake Banner

  I glanced at her to see if she had finished. She was waiting.

  “I had to be sure.”

  “Sure of what?”

  “That he wasn’t part of it.”

  She made little shakes with her head in a ‘what the hell are you talking about?’ gesture.

  I sighed. “It could be one of two ways, Dehan. Either Hagan was a part of it or he wasn’t. If he was, we had a very different kind of set up on our hands. You saw him, you spoke to him, and this guy is a damn good administrator. He is efficient and he rules with an iron fist. He has never been arrested. He has never been the subject of an investigation, even though every cop in New York knows he is the head of the Hagan Clan.”

  She was frowning. That was a good sign. It meant she was thinking. “What’s your point?”

  “My point is that if Hagan was involved, we were looking at a very well organized criminal operation involving child prostitution, one that was probably still operational.”

  “Okay…”

  “But if he wasn’t involved, we were looking at Father O’Neil, an incompetent fool, we were looking at Mick Harragan, who relied on violence, terror and low cunning, but didn’t have a fraction of Hagan’s intelligence—and in any case has been dead for the last ten years—we were looking at a businessman and a bishop, both of whom were dabbling, and ‘H’, all three of whom needed to remain as uninvolved as possible. A very different proposition, Dehan, a small group of sick pedophiles, with no competent organizer at the head.”

  “So you confronted Conor to see how he would react.”

  I turned off West 230th onto the Deegan Expressway and began to accelerate.

  “I was pretty sure by then that Hagan was not involved, but I needed to be sure.”

  “Did he kill father O’Neil?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so. Why would he?”

  “But you must have been aware of the risk that Hagan would come after Sadiq!”

  I frowned at her. “Dehan, I need you to think this through. This gang of pedophiles, who were prepared to murder fourteen young girls to conceal their crime, cheated one of the most dangerous men in New York, one of the most dangerous gangs in the country. He donated money, probably tens of thousand of dollars, to the care and education of these girls, and they used that money to enslave, rape, and murder them. And you think that it was my actions that put Sadiq at risk.” She turned away from me and stared straight ahead at the expressway without answering. After a bit, I glanced at her. “I have never lied to you, Dehan, and I never will. So I have to say to you that, in the first place, I don’t think it was my actions that put him and his family at risk, I think it was his actions. And in the second place, if it was, I don’t honestly give a good goddamn. He had it coming.”

  She didn’t talk again until we were approaching the junction with the Cross Bronx Expressway.

  “Just tell me this, Stone, did you deliberately have him executed?”

  She watched my face as I answered. “No, but I knew Hagan might. I weighed it up, Dehan. In the end, I followed the investigation in the way I had to and Sadiq had to face the consequences of his own actions.”

  The second call came as we were approaching the 43rd. I put it on speaker and laid it on the dash.

  “Stone.”

  “Detective Stone, I believe you have been trying to contact me.” The voice was cultured, and supremely arrogant. “This is Bishop Robert Bellini.”

  I waited a beat, and then asked him, “Can you speak freely, Bishop?”

  “Yes, I am alone.”

  “Good, are you back in the States?”

  “Why don’t you tell me what it is you want, Detective?”

  “You heard that Father O’Neil was murdered.”

  “So I am told.”

  “Were you also told that Sadiq Khan has been murdered, too?” He didn’t answer. I gave him a minute and went on. “Were you also told that the bodies of the girls have been dug up from the churchyard? I tell you, Bellini, you step out of the country for a couple of days and all hell breaks loose.”

  I waited, but he still didn’t speak.

  “You don’t want to talk to me, Bellini, that’s fine.”

  I reached out to hang up and his voice, rich with contempt, said, “What do you want, Stone?”

  “People keep asking me that these days. What do I want? I want to see you in person and talk to you.”

  “What for?”

  “Well, you see, I figure we can do this one of two ways. I can be Detective John Stone, the ruthless, unrelenting investigator who always gets his man, or I can be a friend to you and to the Church.”

  “What makes you think I need a friend?”

  I sighed loudly. “I haven’t got time to fuck around playing your stupid games, Bishop. Call me when you’re ready to talk sense.”

  I reached over and hung up. I pulled into the parking lot and killed the engine. Dehan was staring at me with no expression. I counted to nine and the phone rang.

  “Stone.”

  “I need a little more than your words.”

  “You, Mick Harragan, Sadiq Khan, and…” I paused. “Let’s just call him ‘H’ while we’re on the phone. O’Neil made a full confession. I am sitting on that confession for now. But on the strength of it, I dug up the churchyard. We’ve found the bodies of fourteen young girls; we also found photographs that Sean O’Conor was holding, of the twelve girls who made up the first class that Alicia was going to teach. Father O’Neil identified the girls… Shall I carry on, or is that enough for now?”

  “It’s enough.”

  “Listen to me, you piece of shit. Mick Harragan was your friend. Now I am your friend, you understand me? The big difference is that Mick was stupid and I am not. Now, if you play your cards right, we can make this profitable, and a lot of fun for everybody involved. Play them wrong, Bellini, and I will hit you so hard your fucking head will be spinning for a week.”

  “Very well, you are my friend. Now what?”

  “We meet.”

  “Where and when?”

  “In your office. I don’t want to be seen with you in public. I have legitimate reason to come and see you to discuss Father O’Neil. When are you back?”

  He sighed. “I am at the airport now.”

  I felt a sudden wave of disgust. “I had a feeling you might be. I’ll see you this afternoon, at four. And Bellini?”

  “What?”

  “I want you to think long and hard about this. Have you any idea what they do to men like you in prison?”

  He was quiet for a moment. Then, he said, “I am not going to prison, Stone.”

  He hung up. I played it back and we listened to what he said with care. When it was finished, Dehan shook her head. “It’s not enough. He doesn’t want to incriminate himself.”

  “I agree. We’ll see what we get this afternoon. Right now, there is one thing we have to come out with from his office.”

  “What?”

  I lifted up my hand and wiggled my fingers. “Prints.”

  She nodded once. “Yes…”

  “I am going to scare the bejaysus out of him. I am going to make crazy demands and blackmail him. While he’s focusing on that, I’m going to get his prints.”

  She nodded and said, “It’s a good plan.” Then she climbed out of the car, slammed the door and walked inside.

  TWENTY-ONE

  When I got inside, she was sitting at her desk. She was on the phone and writing something on a piece of paper. I dropped into my chair.

  She said, “And he is willing to talk to us…” She nodded a couple of times, then said, “Thank you Mr. Foster. That’s very helpful.”

  She hung up. She drew breath to tell me what it was about but I interrupted her.

  “Have we got a problem?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it going to jeopardize the investigation?”

  She stared at me hard and seemed about to say something, then stopped herself. Finall
y, she said, “I don’t know.”

  I tried to keep the anger from my voice but didn’t do a great job.

  “How long is it going to take you to find out?”

  She sighed. “That was David Foster.”

  “I know who it was.”

  “He managed to track down…”

  “Arnav Singh and he is willing to talk to us, I got that.”

  I saw tears spring to her eyes and she gestured at the paper in front of her. “I have his number…”

  I watched her face a moment. I felt a sudden rush of irritation, which was probably more fear than anger. “You going to call him, or shall I?”

  She picked up the paper and tossed it over to me. Then she stood up and walked out. She might have gone to the toilet or she might have gone to the captain. It was impossible to tell. I dialed the number. It rang twice and a very pleasant, cultured voice that could almost have been English said, “This is Arnav Singh.”

  “Mr. Singh, this is Detective John Stone of the NYPD.”

  “Ah, David said you might call. Look here, I’d rather not have this conversation over the telephone.” He laughed in a self-deprecating way and added, “And please don’t use any buzz words. I am a little paranoid, let’s meet.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m in Washington. Can you come here?”

  “Yeah. Tomorrow?”

  “Good. Do you know the National Gallery Gardens on Madison Drive NW?”

  “Sure.”

  “There’s a café, the Pavilion. I’ll meet you there. One PM.”

  He hung up.

  I spent twenty minutes tapping a pencil on my desk and spinning it in my fingers. Dehan came back with two beef sandwiches and two cups of coffee. She put one of each in front of me and started to eat. I looked at mine a second and felt sick.

  “Are you coming to see the bishop?”

  “Of course.”

  “I thought maybe you’d gone to see the captain.”

  She shook her head.

  “I phoned Arnav Singh.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He’s in DC. I arranged to go and see him tomorrow at one PM. I figure on the I-95 it should be four hours, four and a half at most.” She nodded and ate in silence. “So I thought I’d leave about seven, beat the traffic and have a look around before he arrives. It’s not likely to be a trap in such a public place, but still, with two witnesses dead, I’d like to see him arrive, and see who arrives before him and with him.”

  “Makes sense.”

  “You going to be there?”

  “Yes, of course. Stop asking that.”

  I sighed and picked up my sandwich. I didn’t feel like eating but I forced myself.

  Bishop Robert Bellini’s offices were on the top floor of a large, gothic building on Beach Avenue, beside the Church of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. We were led up six flights of stairs by a lackey in a black hassock who tapped reverently on the huge, studded oak door and opened it to announce us. As he stepped in, he said, “Your Excellency, Detectives Stone and Dehan to see you.”

  I heard him mutter something and the lackey stepped aside to let us in.

  Bellini was handsome the way Italian men are handsome. He was short and had tight black hair that was graying at the temples. He was dressed in a black suit that was probably from Armani’s Bishops line, a black shirt from their Mafia line, and a dog collar from their special Sub-Dom line. He was standing by a window that was considerably taller than he was, and watched us come in. He studied Dehan with prurient eyes.

  “I thought you would come alone.”

  “Did you deal with Mick, or with Mick and Kirk?”

  He didn’t answer, but strutted behind his vast mahogany desk and settled into an equally vast black leather chair.

  “Michael Harragan was a well connected man. I have made some inquiries about you, Detective Stone. You are not a well connected man.”

  “Yeah? Who did you ask, the Pope?”

  “People who take an especial interest in the affairs of the Bronx. There is a long-standing Italian community in the Bronx, Detective Stone. Somebody has to look out for their interests, keep an eye on them and protect them.”

  “The way the girls at Father O’Neil’s orphan’s program were protected?”

  “That was very lamentable.”

  “Lamentable?” It was Dehan.

  He smiled at her without warmth while he undressed her with his eyes. “Sadly,” he said, “it is human nature to give in to the appetites of the flesh. It is not for us to judge, however, but to offer up prayers and beg for forgiveness for our own sins.”

  Before Dehan could answer, I said, “Are you done? Because I have had a bellyful of bullshit. Are we going to do business or what?”

  He sighed deeply and pulled one of those expressive Italian faces where the eyebrows go all the way up and the mouth goes all the way down.

  “Business, Detective, what are you selling?”

  “Our silence and cooperation. You interested or not?”

  He shrugged like he couldn’t give a damn.

  “I hear a lot of talk, but I have not seen anything. Where is this confession? You have even a copy of it? What are you going to take to the DA? What are you going to adduce in court? Your word? The word of two corrupt police officers against the word of the Roman Catholic Bishop of the Diocese of St. Mary’s?”

  I sat forward. “Let me ask you something, Bellini, do I look stupid? You think I am stupid enough to bring O’Neil’s confession to your little Mafia HQ? You think I don’t know you’re in bed with Vincenzo? The confession stays where it is until I see the cash. A copy? You want a fucking copy? What am I, your fucking office boy? I have every word of his confession in my head. You want me to run through it for you? You want to discuss the details of what you and those fucking animals did to those little girls? Or would you rather see it reported in the New York Times tomorrow morning?”

  He was cool. He wasn’t shaken. He watched me with dead eyes and said nothing. He was smarter than Sadiq by a long chalk, but he hadn’t made up his mind that I was bluffing either. In the end, he said, “I need more than your word.”

  “It’s all you’re getting till I see your money.”

  “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “Trust me? What’s the matter with you? You can’t trust me. That’s why I’m here, because I’m bent. Make your arrangements, cover your back, do what you have to do, but I want my money, and I want involvement, you understand me?”

  “What do you mean, you want involvement?”

  I put a big smile on the side of my face. “I want you dirty, Bellini. I am not dealing with intermediaries. I am putting my career, and my life on the line here, and so is my partner. You commit, too. If one of us goes down, we all three go down. And any business you and Vincenzo conduct in the Bronx, I’m a part of it. I told you, I want what Mick had.”

  He didn’t look awfully impressed. “I need to think about it.”

  “Seriously, you need to think about it?” I stood and pointed at him. “You’re a fucking asshole. You’re not useless to me, Bellini. You will be useful as an example to those who come after you, and to Vincenzo. Make sure you get the New York Times tomorrow, and expect a visit from the DA.”

  Dehan stood. Bellini held up a hand.

  “Wait. How much do you want?”

  “For what?”

  He frowned. There was suspicion in his eyes. I laughed. “I want a one-off payment, then there is the retainer, and then there are percentages on the jobs. What are you talking about?”

  He nodded once, and then hesitated. “The one-off payment for the confession.”

  I sat back in my chair. I was aware the meeting was coming to an end and I still didn’t have his prints.

  “Fifty grand in used bills.”

  He closed his eyes and sighed. “Where and when?”

  I thought about it a moment. “Ferry Point Park, corner of Emerson Avenue and Shurz
Avenue, by the river. You know it?”

  He gave a weary nod. “I know of it. When?”

  I was suddenly tired. I looked at Dehan. She was staring at the bishop, like she was entranced by some movie. I forced myself to focus. The next day we were going to be eight or nine hours driving, plus however long we spent in DC. We wouldn’t be back before four or five at the earliest, and we might need time to consider whatever Singh gave us.

  “Day after tomorrow. Ten A.M.”

  “All right, Stone. But be aware, I will have you both executed at the earliest chance I have.”

  “Good to know.” I turned to Dehan. “Anything you want to add?”

  She caught the irony in my tone, looked at me a moment, and shook her head. She stood and we left.

  TWENTY-TWO

  The streetlamps were coming on when we got downstairs, but the sky was still light. I walked to the Jag and got in. She got in beside me. She didn’t slam the door. She closed it softly. I fired up the engine and drove straight up Beach Avenue for a block and parked just before the junction with Westchester. When I stopped and killed the engine, she looked at me with a query on her face. I ignored her and got out. She got out after me and we crossed the road to the South of France. A bar that is hideous to look at on the outside, but good enough to drink in on the inside.

  I ordered two beers and took them to a table. I put one in front of her. She said, “You didn’t get the prints.”

  I ignored her and said, “This place closes at two A.M. But we are not leaving until we have resolved this. So talk.”

  She heaved a sigh and slid back in her chair.

  She took a long pull and then set about making interlocking rings on the tabletop with the base of her glass.

  “It’s hard for me to talk about this kind of stuff.”

  I looked at my watch. “We have eight hours. If necessary, we can continue at my place.”

  “Stone, you are the first and only person I have ever trusted, apart from my parents. I was a weird kid from a weird family growing up in a tough neighborhood where weird kids were not welcome. I learned early, real early, not to trust people. Not to trust anybody but my mom and my dad. I made an exception with you.”