“Not yet,” commanded Gatz.
“What do you want?” asked Michael impatiently.
“What? Some friendship and conversation.” He lifted a judge’s gavel and rapped it against the desk. “Good wood,” he remarked, then moved around, sat down in the chair, raised his legs, and laid them on the finished walnut. “Me and Rizzo were down in the Tombs the morning, so I couldn’t help but think of the courageous district attorney, who once had so many friends down there behind the bars. Still smells pretty bad. Remember that stink? Sure you do.”
Michael interrupted. “Take your feet off my desk.”
Gatz waited, took out a cigar, then removed his feet. “Rizzo, I never told you about Mr. Farmer. A very famous D.A. but he didn’t like the way the police handled the animals in the cages. In fact, I don’t think he liked the police at all. He was very tough in court, after someone else did the dirty work. Very thorough. And apparently honest, if you disregard the fact that he was accepting bribes from some nasty people in exchange for favorable plea bargains.” Gatz smiled thoughtfully. “Never could prove the bribe angle.” He turned to Michael. “But that was a long time ago. Mr. Farmer’s come a long way!” Gatz rose, walked around the desk, and stood in the middle of the room. “The chair is uncomfortable. I hope you don’t mind if I stand?”
“I don’t mind if you die.”
“You have a one-track mind. Death and more death. That’s very unhealthy!” He waved his finger at Michael. “You’ve got to think about less violent subjects. Than you might stay out of trouble.”
“Cut the crap! Say what you have to, then get out or don’t say anything and get out now!”
Gatz backed off and lifted his hands, palms outward, as if to ward Michael off. “I just want some conversation, like I said.” He turned to Rizzo. “Isn’t that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then talk!” Michael demanded.
“Perhaps some subjects of current interest. Like the new city taxes. A paycheck ain’t worth nothing no more! Or the hospital strike. Interested?”
“No.”
“Perhaps.” Gatz tapped his lower lip with his index finger. “A body that was found in a vacant lot on the upper West Side, though he wasn’t killed there. Interested?”
“No.”
“Come now. This is a very intriguing subject. What’s more interesting than a stiff?”
Michael silently stared.
Gatz continued. “A detective. William Brenner. Mutilated. Seventeen stab wounds. Quite dead!”
“So?”
“That’s what I said,” added Allison. “I don’t see what that has to do with us.”
Gatz smiled. He walked to the bar and poured himself a drink. Scotch. With a little soda. Two ice cubes. He raised the glass, toasted, “To your health,” then sipped the whiskey and watched them. He laughed to himself. He knew what Farmer was thinking. The nerve of that cop bastard. To walk to my bar and grab a drink without an invitation. The thought of an angered Michael Farmer was pleasing. He would remember to refill the glass.
“It seems,” said Gatz, “this Mr. Brenner specialized in some strange activities. Drug smuggling. Arson. Murder. Rather unique vocations, don’t you think?” He snapped his fingers. Rizzo sifted through a packet of photos, pulled an eight-by-ten and handed it to Gatz, who walked to Michael and shoved it in his face. “Notice the wounds. Single-edged knife. The killer was right-handed. Look at his face. He didn’t die of pleasure. You wouldn’t have known him, would you?”
“No,” said Michael.
“Of course not. What would an ex-assistant district attorney be doing with a guy that the police have been trying to bust for the last five years?”
“Frustrating, isn’t it?” Michael asked.
“Yes, it is.” Gatz scowled. “Sooner or later he would have been caught. Too bad someone killed him first.” He turned to Allison. “Did you ever hear Brenner’s name before?”
“No.”
“You’re sure now?”
“I’m sure.”
Gatz stepped to the couch and handed Allison the picture. She studied it briefly and looked away in disgust.
“Rizzo,” Gatz said, as he handed the picture back, “take good care of this.”
“Yes, sir.”
Gatz took a deep swig of whiskey and began to pace again. “Mr. Brenner’s blood type was AB, RH negative. Interesting, isn’t it?”
“You missed your profession. You should have been a vampire.”
Ignoring Michael, Gatz added, “And it should prove even more interesting after they break down the other components and match them against the blood that was found on Miss Parker.”
“I can’t wait,” Michael observed.
Gatz readied himself for a few conclusions. “Let’s look over a few of the facts.” He drew a mousetrap from his jacket and cocked the spring. “Miss Parker has her story, which we’re all familiar with, and she still clings to it, right?”
“Yes,” said Allison.
“Now we mix it together with the background of some of the individuals involved and add the major ingredient, which up to now has been missing…a body…and what do you think we might have?”
“I couldn’t guess in a thousand years.”
“Murder.”
“Nonsense.”
“Murder. Or something like it.”
“Something like it? Like what? Passing a red light or parking in a school crossing?” Michael was livid.
Gatz looked at his empty glass, walked to the bar once again, and refilled it, this time adding a little more scotch, a little less soda, and a ready-sliced thin lime rind. “I approve your choice of liquor,” he said, as he continued. “Now let’s take the case of a rental agent named Joan Logan. Nice looking. Even sexy in a funny way, or so I’ve been told.”
“A very funny way,” Allison added.
“She was the rental agent for Miss Parker’s building.”
“Was?” asked Allison.
“Was,” replied Gatz.
“Say what you mean!” demanded Michael.
Massaging his chin, Gatz announced, “It seems Miss Logan has disappeared off the face of the earth. There are no records of her existence, other than her agency registration, and the ownership papers to the building where she had her business. Apparently, she lived in a vacuum and one day decided to disappear or perhaps was removed forcibly.”
“What day?” Allison asked, knowing the answer.
“As near as we can tell, the same day that our friend Brenner was ventilated,” Gatz answered.
Michael sat down on the couch next to Allison, put his arm around her shoulder, and tried to steady her trembling body. She looked straight at Gatz, shocked and confused.
Gatz released the spring on the mousetrap and placed it back in his pocket. He grabbed a match from the bar, struck it against the heel of his shoe, and relit the cigar stub, which had long since burned out. He puffed hard; billows of strong-smelling smoke curled into the air and settled along the ceiling. “Coincidence?” he asked.
“Coincidence!” Michael replied. “People disappear all the time. As for the detective, people also frequently pop up in this city full of holes.”
“The facts say no coincidence and facts are never wrong. They’re like brilliant suns in the night.”
“You’re making me sick.” Michael said disgustedly.
“How unfortunate.” Gatz’s expression hardened. “Why did Miss Logan disappear and how? Why is it that the detective’s wounds are so easily explained in Miss Parker’s story and why is a fine gentleman like yourself seemingly involved in yet another mysterious death and an apparent disappearance.”
Michael jumped from the sofa. “Your reference to our friendship was presumptuous and the conversation you so desired has prov
en to be a big downer. If you have nothing else to say, put your drink back on the bar, and get out. You’ve got proof of nothing and I don’t want to see your face in my apartment again.”
Gatz smiled. He drained the last drop of Scotch, replaced the glass, grabbed his hat form the armchair, and walked over to Michael. Pointing his finger at Michael’s face, he said, “You’re right. I’ve got no proof, yet. And I’m not sure how these pieces fit, but my nose tells me that they do, and like I’ve said a thousand times, my nose has never been wrong.”
“It was wrong once.”
“As far as I’m concerned, never!”
“Get out!”
Gatz saluted Allison and walked to the door. Rizzo followed him out.
Michael slammed the door. “That monster is getting on my nerves.”
Allison sat motionless on the sofa. That one bit of information. Joan Logan definitely missing. Why? And then the detective. Could he have been the person she’d stabbed? The man Michael had said had come in the door? But if he was, how did he get to the lot? Transported by her father and two naked women? And what was he doing in the building at that time of night? Every question offered no answer, just many more questions. “Where could Miss Logan have gone and why are there no records of her existence?” she asked meekly.
“I don’t know,” answered Michael, his temper worn short.
She trembled, not out of remorse for the agent, but from the overwhelming pressure of events. “And that detective, could he…”
Michael interrupted. “That detective had nothing to do with this.” He sat down and gently stroked her hair.
She stared at him ambivalently, not sure whether he was involved in a terrifying scheme to drive her mad or legitimately concerned for her welfare. She lifted her hands and laid her head into the cup formed by the meeting of her two palms.
“I didn’t get the material translated,” he said to distract her, “but I’m going to hear from someone by Monday, who will have the answer.” He knew that was a lie, but he still didn’t know what the inscription meant, and for some irrational reason thought it best to conceal the little he had learned.
He kissed her on the forehead.
She wept.
23
Michael looked in both directions…toward Fiftieth Street and toward Fifty-first…satisfied himself that no one was approaching, circled the brown metal gate and disappeared around the side. It was late, approximately four; the moon was in its first quarter; the shadow was short, thin and almost imperceptible. As he crept quietly next to the building, he examined the first row of windows, barely two feet above the ground. They were barred, heavily plated, and fused shut with gray mortar.
He stopped and looked back over his shoulder at the spires of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, which rose into the sky and formed a proscenium for the stars and hovering moon, then he continued forward, musing that he now was doing the precise thing for which he’d sent countless felons to jail. Imagine if he, Michael Farmer, were caught burglarizing, of all places, the Archdiocese of New York.
He crawled to the fourth window, took a chisel from his picket, and unsuccessfully attacked the shielded bases of the bars. They were buried too deep; he’d have to get into the building another way. He looked at the second row of windows about eight feet above the ground. The one he wanted was directly over him. He stepped onto the lowest ledge and reached upward; his hands touched the edge of the sill. He stepped onto the next ledge and pulled himself up. The window was now accessible, the sill at chin level. Forcing the chisel into the mortar, he pushed under the bottom edge of the frame and jiggled violently. The heavily encased glass shuddered; the coating cracked like dry sand. He began to push upward. Slowly, the window started to move, until in one violent spasm, it slid halfway up the frame. He leaned against the wall, replaced the chisel in his pocket, and climbed into the building.
Standing in the darkness, he closed the window and lowered the shade. He waited until his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, then reached into his pocket, drew out a flashlight, and laid the beam on the wall. Part of the crucifix filled the circle; it seemed more prominent in the solitary light than it had that afternoon when the vastness of the room had mitigated its commanding effect. He hesitated. The figure of Christ was comforting and majestic, but at the same time it was a big brother watching his every action. He moved the beam, studied the pictures of the Pope and Cardinal and then tiptoed to the file cabinets from which Monsignor Franchino had removed the Father Halliran folder that afternoon.
They were open. He searched until he located the G-J file; quickly, he pulled it open, inspected the contents, and removed the manila folder that contained the information on Father Halliran. Laying it across the open drawer, he examined the papers once again. There was nothing of additional interest; nothing had been added since that afternoon. He replaced the file and selected several more at random, finally concluding that if there was material of any relevance in Monsignor Franchino’s office, it would be in a more secure location…possibly the locked file cabinet behind the desk.
He quietly closed the last drawer and tiptoed back across the room. Lifting a cloth from his pocket, he wrapped it around the handle of the chisel and inserted the point beneath the double-locked drawer. Then he grabbed a bulky stapler from the desk and slammed it against the tool. A sharp crack shot through the office. He listened; the risk of noise was unavoidable. He hit the chisel again, but the drawer wouldn’t budge. The combination lock had to be broken first. He removed the chisel and placed it under the edge of the dial. Once again, he rammed the chisel with the stapler. Then again. The dial snapped off, the mechanism broke, and the combination lock was freed. He reinserted the chisel into the side space, smacked it authoritatively, and wedged the drawer open.
He searched the drawer; the first folders were clearly labeled and obviously irrelevant. But in the rear was one that read: WILLIAM O’ROURKE/MATTHEW HALLIRAN.
He removed it, sat in Franchino’s chair, and opened it on the desk. It was divided into two sections. The first was on William O’Rourke, the second on Halliran. He decided to review the Father Halliran material first. It was identical to the other Halliran file, except that a picture of a shriveled old man…obviously the blind priest…was stapled to the upper right inside corner of the manila folder. He focused the light on the wrinkled face and noted the worn, tired features, the most striking of which were the eyes; they were wide and glassy and possessed a strange glow that gave Michael a chill. The focus and intensity were those of a lunatic, but there was something more, something he couldn’t define. He turned the file over, hiding the picture, placed it to the side, and picked up the written material once again. Yes, it was the same…from 1952 onward…and like the file in the other cabinet it contained no information for any period prior to that date.
He frowned and picked up the papers on O’Rourke. He started to read rapidly, then slowed. The information was startling. It gave the life history of William O’Rourke, a teacher from Boston, who was born in Brockton, Massachusetts, in 1891. And though the history contained nothing extraordinary other than an extended reference to an attempted suicide, the termination date was mind-boggling. It ended in 1952.
There was a police document dated July 12 of that year, certifying the disappearance of a man named William O’Rourke on July 9. And there was a picture. Although the man was young, with a fine complexion, well-spaced eyes, and a handsome shock of sand-colored hair, there was no mistaking the fact that this man was the same one who appeared in the snapshot of Father Halliran. They were the same person.
He analyzed the information, unsure of its meaning or significance. He flipped the resume over and removed an additional piece of paper from the rear of the file. It was a deed to realty. The paper vested the ownership of the brownstone to a David Caruso. Obviously, Franchino knew him or knew of him, and just as obviously the Monsignor had been aware
that Michael was not the attorney for the building and that the whole interview had been a charade.
He quickly flipped through the double folder once more, replaced the deed, and put the file back in the drawer. He grabbed the remaining folders and took them to the desk. Carefully, he began to examine each one. The first was labeled: ANDREW CARTER/DAVID SPINETTI. The pattern of the file followed the other. It gave a history for Father Spinetti, a Jesuit priest, dating from June 1921 until July 9, 1952, the day on which Father Halliran’s identity was assumed. In the second section of the file was a long resume’ on a man named Andrew Carter. He was born in 1863, spent most of his life as a professional soldier, participating in the Spanish-American War as a member of Roosevelt’s Rough Riders, the First World War in France and, prior to those two conflicts, as a soldier of fortune for the Turks in the Russo-Turkish War. By the date of his disappearance on December 25, 1921, he’d retired and was working as an instructor at a military academy. The only additional things in the file were the two pictures, one of Father Spinetti, the other of Carter, both the same, plus a detailed description of Carter’s two attempted suicides.
Michael laid the file aside, adjusted the position of the flashlight and opened the next file in the pile. This one was labeled MARY THOREN/MARY ANGELICA. Again, the pattern was the same. An ecclesiastical identity…a nun…evolving from a secular. And again, an attempted suicide.
He reanalyzed the information and concluded that at given interval certain laymen had vanished, only to reappear with completely manufactured clerical identities. The question was why? And why were the files so carefully secreted?
He riffled through the next. The most immediate was in French, unintelligible to him. So were the next three. Then there was a series in German, then French again. The only information he could glean from these files were the dates. They went back at least as far as A.D. 731.
Hastily, he gathered the folders and replaced them in the cabinet. He closed the drawer, pondered the missing knob, and opened it again. It was ridiculous to replace the files; Franchino would certainly know someone had broken in. He took the most recent out again and laid them on the desk within easy reach, ready for his exit.
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