“I’m sorry,” Tobias replied, “but we do not allow anyone to talk to our residents. Unless, of course, you have a warrant. Do you have a warrant, Mr. Jojola?”
“No, I don’t have a warrant. I was hoping you would be willing to assist me with the investigation of the murder of four little boys.”
Tobias gave his best sympathetic shake of the head. “Well, I don’t see how I could help. And until you do have a warrant, I’m afraid my hands are tied…. And if that time does come, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to contact our attorney first. Shall I give you his name and telephone number? I believe he’s the former attorney general for the state of New Mexico.”
Jojola stared at Tobias and fought to control his anger. He knew I was coming…that’s why he made the big deal about the warrant…. Asher, that bastard! He lost the battle of control. “If I get a warrant, you smug little prick, I will kick the door down and drag whoever you’re protecting out into the road.”
Tobias’s face twisted in anger. “Well, until then, I think I’ve tired of this macho display, Mr. Jojola. You’ll excuse me.”
“There is no excuse for you,” Jojola called after the administrator, “or for what the church is doing out here…. Oh, Dr. Tobias, one last question.”
The doctor stopped walking but didn’t turn around. “What is it?”
“Does one of your clients walk with a limp, you know, the big guy?” Jojola asked. He couldn’t be sure but it seemed that Tobias flinched. However, the psychiatrist quickly recovered and began to walk again as he called over his shoulder. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Now I really must get to my afternoon prayers.”
“Yes, you do that,” Jojola replied. “Pray for the bastard who killed my kids because when I catch him, there will be a reckoning for him and for anybody who protected him.”
The last comment got the reaction Jojola had hoped for…the doctor’s forward momentum slowed, he seemed to consider saying something, but then kept going. Pray doctor, Jojola thought, that someday I don’t come back for you.
22
THE BLOWSY BLONDE TOTTERED UP TO ANDREW KANE WITH her older husband in tow. Lost somewhere in her late forties, she was wearing a low-cut blue Versace that exposed ample portions of her store-bought breasts. However, she’d poured far too much body into far too small a dress; it did not flatter the mound of her belly or the saddlebags that clung to her upper thighs, but she was too drunk and too wealthy to care.
Although she had her eyes on Kane, she managed a slurred greeting to Archbishop Fey, who was once again beaming benignly at his side, only this time it was at Kane’s penthouse for a highbrow cocktail party/fund-raiser for his mayoral campaign. After all, the television spots showing him with his coat slung over a shoulder and his shirtsleeves rolled up talking to construction workers having lunch on the wall outside of Rockefeller Center, or escorting small black children into their gang-infested schools, cost money. Lots of it, he thought, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to spend one cent of my own on them.
While the woman’s husband turned to speak with the archbishop, Kane let his eyes rest on the woman’s cleavage and inwardly smirked when he saw the marble-size points of her nipples grow larger in response to his gaze. Slut, he thought, as she pretended not to notice and babbled on about the last time she’d seen him. “The Barbra Streisand Farewell Tour at Carnegie I believe, such a wonderful evening.”
They fall on the floor and spread their legs at the slightest whiff of money or power, he thought, as outwardly he allowed the other Andrew Kane to chuckle with delight at the recollection of Barbra’s jazzed-up “Hello, Dolly,” which the real Kane found repulsive. Hell, this one would do me now with the archbishop and her husband watching if she thought there might be a bright bauble in it for her. Maybe thinks she could be the next Mrs. Kane. Fat chance. Something younger, toned, perhaps. Of course that would mean the archbishop would have to be so kind as to grant yet another annulment, this one from the third, I believe, Mrs. Kane. She who is recovering from a love affair with cocaine at an undisclosed location in the Bahamas, though the press believes it’s a humanitarian effort to work with underprivileged Third World children. Still, I might be persuaded to bounce Mrs. Whitehead around for a large campaign contribution…better at least keep her on the line.
“Ah, yes, a wonderful evening, Mrs. Whitehead,” he gushed, taking her small, sweaty hand in both of his curiously effeminate and long-fingered ones. Stepping back a little as though to take in the fullness of her beauty, he added, “My, you look like Aphrodite herself this evening.” He let the reference to the Greek goddess of love sink in for a moment, before continuing. “I hope we’re going to be able to count on the Whiteheads’ legendary generosity for my campaign to put this city back on top where it belongs.”
Mrs. Whitehead’s usual facial expression looked as if it had been paralyzed into a permanent mask of happy surprise by too many injections of Botox. Now, her face nearly split like a ripe melon as she effusively assured Kane that he could count on their financial support.
“And if there’s anything I can do personally to help,” she said huskily, leaning forward to give him a better view of the shadowed valley between her breasts, “you know, stuff a few envelopes, lick a few stamps…all you need do is ask.” She giggled at what she considered her clever innuendo, her hazel eyes swimming in champagne.
The real Andrew Kane sneered and allowed himself a quick vision of Mrs. Whitehead tied to his bed with dark red welts rising on her generous bottom. Naughty girl deserves a spanking. “I can always use another eager volunteer,” his alter ego said with a wink, and turned to her husband. “Do you think you could spare her?”
Mr. Whitehead grunted. He’d followed Kane’s gaze and noted his wife’s reaction to it. Slut, he thought, hell, she’d fuck him right now if he asked. But except for the natural jealousy of any wealthy man when a rival dared mess with one of his possessions—even one he had no further use for—he wasn’t particularly disturbed by the current Mrs. Bernard Whitehead IV’s willing infidelity. She was his second wife, a trophy twenty years his junior when he first seduced her fifteen years earlier and decided it was time to trade in the first Mrs. Whitehead, the mother of his ungrateful son and daughter. But all the plastic surgery—the boob job, the butt implants, the tummy tucks, Botox injections, and face peelings—couldn’t dam the sands of time from running out on this model. If Kane wanted to occupy her attention, it would leave him more time for his “secretary,” a lovely twenty-year-old Latina. She could neither type nor spell, but she could suck a tennis ball through a garden hose, so who cared about clerical duties. In the meantime, it didn’t really matter to him whom his wife was screwing. Besides, it wouldn’t hurt to pave the way for greater access to the runaway favorite to become the next mayor of New York.
Whitehead came from a long line of bankers going back to the days when New York was a British colony. They’d become one of the largest family-owned banks in the world and larger still after merging with a national chain in exchange for a seat on the board and a large percentage of the stock. The Whiteheads had, however, not achieved their status in the banking community without skirting some of the rules. For instance, at his direction, his bank practiced redlining home and business loans to exclude certain neighborhoods. Applications from those who wanted to live or establish a business in those areas—defined on a map by a red Magic Marker line drawn around them—were rarely approved. Of course, these were predominantly black, Latin, Asian, and recent immigrant neighborhoods.
Whitehead thought of it as protecting his bank from people who couldn’t be depended upon to repay their loans. But when it came right down to it, he simply didn’t like “those people, especially the niggers.” Forget that they were all criminals and drug addicts, he hated the way they looked and dressed and smelled. He didn’t appreciate the insolent way the males had of swaggering down the crowded Manhattan sidewalks, making better men move aside or risk a confronta
tion. He personally avoided ever walking on the Avenue of the Americas because it drove him insane to listen to all that jabbering in foreign languages, as well as their butchering of the English language. Most of all, he hated seeing some darky walking with his arm around a white woman.
Redlining was, of course, a violation of federal and state banking laws. But it was difficult to prove and enforcement was generally relaxed unless some new mayor, in a misguided attempt to garner the race vote, got a burr up his ass and insisted on an investigation. So if Kane wanted to fuck his wife, let him; that should later entitle her understanding husband to some sort of gentlemen’s agreement about his banking practices. And if that wasn’t enough for a small favor or two, Kane could be made to understand that it wouldn’t do his political ambitions any good if the press found out that he was boning the wife of one of his faithful campaign contributors. He made a mental note to have Mrs. Whitehead followed by a certain private investigator who did the occasional dirty job for him. Photographs might come in handy.
“Hey, Andy,” Whitehead said, extending a hand while the other patted Kane on the shoulder. “You son of a gun, saw the Times article that practically had you moving into Gracie Mansion tomorrow. Apparently, we don’t even need to bother going to the polls to vote for you…though I dare say my wife would love to do what she can to help.”
“Ha, ha,” Kane laughed. He detested being called Andy or touched without his permission. Smarmy bastard, he thought, practically bending his wife over for me, and then plans to use it after I’m in office, maybe even to blackmail me.
The acknowledgment made him smile even more warmly than before at the man in front of him. He’d made it a point to know the secrets of powerful men and was aware of Whitehead’s secretary and what value that information might be to Mrs. Whitehead in a divorce. He also knew about the redlining, as well as certain other bank practices, such as those that allowed drug dealers to launder large amounts of unreported cash in violation of a half-dozen state and federal statutes. When the time came, he planned to add Mr. Whitehead and his bank to his own holdings, like a new butterfly to the collection of an entomologist. He could use the laundering services for his own enterprises. He already had all the photographs he needed. And just for fun, I might force him to watch me fuck his wife and his secretary at the same time.
“Well, you never know about the voters. That’s why they play the game, ha ha,” Kane said in his between-friends voice. “And I’m quite sure I’ll be able to find some important position for your lovely wife.” He turned to look at Mrs. Whitehead. “You are indeed a lucky man…no need to stray from the fold with a fine woman like this waiting for you at home.”
Mr. Whitehead frowned at the last statement. Son of a bitch, could he know? But Mrs. Whitehead didn’t notice her husband’s discomfiture; she was too busy thinking of a question of her own. I wonder if he’s got a big…
“Come along, my dear,” Mr. Whitehead said, taking her by the elbow before she could finish the thought. “Time for this old boy to get home and perform his husbandly duties, ha ha.”
Mrs. Whitehead rolled her eyes and waved a dismissive hand at Kane. “That’ll be a first. Ouch! Bernard, don’t pinch!”
• • •
As the Whiteheads left, Father O’Callahan entered the front door of the apartment wearing civilian clothes, a Brooks Brothers button-down and tan slacks, which still made him hopelessly out of place in a room full of people who actually shopped at Saks Fifth Avenue on Fifth Avenue, and were on a first-name basis with the sales staff at Bergdorf Goodman. His eyes immediately sought out Kane, who motioned him toward a hallway leading to his study. The priest followed his boss with his mind racing, still trying to find a satisfactory way to put the proper spin on recent events.
It was hard to say exactly when the gyroscope of Kane’s plans started to wobble. Certainly the ill wind was blowing back when the terrorists bombed the courthouse and the files disappeared. But there’d been a number of smaller issues that also conspired to rob him of a good night’s sleep.
For instance, several of the protected priests who had their sexual abuse of members of their parishes covered up by payoffs and promises to treat and/or dismiss them, had disappeared since January. The police suspected foul play, and O’Callahan wondered if some of the offended families of the victims were learning of the priests’ return to duty and exacting revenge.
If that wasn’t worrisome enough, now the Lichner issue was threatening to blow up in their faces. Once that morning, and then twice that afternoon, he’d received troublesome calls from New Mexico.
The first had come from Tobias, who told him to stand by for a fax, as he did not want to talk on the telephone. A few minutes later, the fax arrived stating that Tobias believed that Hans Lichner
is too dangerous for this facility to deal with. He is a severely disturbed individual exhibiting antisocial tendencies, possibly psychopathic, and belongs in a secure mental health institution or, perhaps, even a prison with a psychiatric ward. I have reason to believe that he may be involved in the disappearance and murder of local children. The chief of police of the Taos Pueblo was here two weeks ago, asking about a man who fit Lichner’s physical description in connection with the disappearance of one child. I sent him on his way, but he has continued to nose around, and of late in the company of a woman named Marlene Ciampi, who you may know as the wife of the New York District Attorney. I have a hard time believing that her appearance in Taos is purely coincidental.
As a man of God and as a physician, I am finding it increasingly difficult to retain compassion for what is obviously a very sick individual, and to morally condone keeping him in a situation where he continues to present a danger to the public. In that light, I am sending Fr. Lichner back to New York by the first available flight out of Albuquerque. Flight details to follow.
O’Callahan sneered at Tobias’s reference to himself as a man of God. You’re as black as the rest of us, he thought, just hiding behind your Hippocratic, or should I say, hypocritic, oath and doctor-client privilege. He tried to call Tobias but only got an answering machine. The little fuck doesn’t want me to change his plans. We’re going to have to have a little talk about who’s the boss. But that can wait.
The news about the Ciampi woman was disturbing. He didn’t know much about her although he remembered something in the New York papers in January about her receiving a medal for bravery. Apparently, she had gunned down the terrorists who were trying to blow up the courthouse. She was obviously a dangerous woman, but even more so because of whom she was married to, the frigging DA. However, the boss was going to have to decide what should be done with her and the Indian police chief. In the meantime, he’d placed a call and arranged to have Lichner picked up when he arrived at La Guardia and taken to a safe house the archdiocese owned in the hills along the Hudson River north of the city. “Do not let him out of your sight,” he said into the telephone.
The second call had come that afternoon from Sheriff Asher. The sheriff had been on Kane’s payroll for a dozen years and told to keep his eye on the St. Ignatius Retreat, including heading off any investigations into the clientele. But now he was worried because the Indian police chief had come across information that St. Ignatius was harboring a killer.
“We got your friend’s ass out of here this morning, and you know who I mean,” the sheriff growled. “But that don’t mean it’s over. You do know that Jojola’s been nosing around with the wife of your district attorney? Now maybe they’re just spanking the monkey, but my guess is she’s here for another reason.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” O’Callahan said with a sigh. He was getting sick of hearing that name. Marlene Ciampi—the more he heard it, the more it sounded like the tolling of a bell. Although he’d never been particularly superstitious in the past, that thought made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. “Look, whatever Lichner did or didn’t do, he’s out of there now,” he told Asher. “They have no proof of anyth
ing, and they won’t be locating him anytime soon.”
“Well, they better not because if I go down, I ain’t goin’ down alone,” the sheriff blustered.
O’Callahan made his voice as cold as he could manage. “Was that a threat, sheriff? Perhaps, you’d like to make that directly to your employer?”
There was silence on the other end of the line, and then the sheriff answered, his voice apologetic. “No. No need to bother him. You’re right, we’ll jest sit tight and ride this one out.”
“That’s right, sheriff, ride ’em cowboy,” O’Callahan said. He’d hardly hung up when he got another call from Tobias, who had forgotten his qualms about talking on the telephone and was close to hysterical. “That Indian police chief was just here, asking about a priest who limps, and you know who he means. I told him nothing, except that he would have to come back with a warrant and speak to our attorney first. He threatened me, actually called me a smug little prick…me…a priest! I don’t know what to do…this has all gotten out of hand…I…”
“Tobias you are a little prick, now get a grip,” O’Callahan said, pleased when the rejoinder silenced the psychiatrist. “Again, there is no proof that Lichner committed these crimes, and he is no longer your concern. You can rest assured that we will take care of Father Lichner.”
“He’s a sick man,” Tobias interjected. “We did not have the time to properly treat a man as troubled as he is—”
O’Callahan interrupted him with a hiss. “You listen to me, you piece of shit. How did someone as stupid as you ever get to be a psychiatrist? Guys like Lichner don’t get treated. Guys like him talk to idiots like you out of one side of their face as they’re daydreaming of screwing and slicing up the next little boy.”
“You’ve got no right to talk to me like that—” Tobias whined, but again the other priest cut him off.
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