Jack was mopping the linoleum floor of his kitchen when it came. It wasn't good.
The body of Sister Margaret Mary O'Hara had been found in Flushing—a guy chasing his runaway dog had discovered it. No other details were available. Police would not discuss the state of the body or anything else.
Sickened, Jack put down the mop and dropped into a kitchen chair. Two of the three women were dead. He knew each of their killers. Brady and Jensen had buried Jamie Grant alive. And Cordova… Jack wasn't an eyewitness, but he didn't have to be. He knew.
Question was… what should he do about it? How should he deal with these two without exposing himself?
He closed his eyes and rolled the people and the circumstances around and around in his brain… like a concrete mixer.
Brady, Jensen, Cordova, Blascoe, the temple… Blascoe, Brady, the temple, Cordova, Jensen…
And slowly, painfully, a plan began to form.
2
Goddamn stupid dog!
Richie Cordova sat in Hurley's and wanted to rip the TV off the wall and boot it through the front window.
He'd stashed the nun's body where no one would find her—at least no human—until she began to stink. He hadn't counted on no runaway dog.
He sat at a corner table and stuffed another donut into his mouth. Hurley's put out coffee and donuts and bagels on Sunday morning. Of course the bar was open too in case you wanted a Bloody Mary or something. But Richie had been feeling so good he didn't need no drink. Not anymore.
Shit, he thought as he washed the donut down with black coffee. This complicated things. The Jack guy she'd told him about already had the advantage of knowing what Richie looked like, while Richie didn't know him from Joe Blow. Richie's one advantage had been surprise—Jacko wouldn't have had a clue someone might be looking for him. But now he'd be on guard. That was, if he connected the nun's death to Richie. If he didn't, well, that would be great, but Richie had to assume the worst.
He'd awakened this morning feeling lots better than last night—over the shakes and actually feeling kind of good. Almost like he'd feel after a night of sex. Kind of peaceful inside. At ease. Like he could go for a Sunday morning drive and not get pissed at the other drivers.
But all that was ruined now. The stink of spilled beer cut through the smell of the coffee and Richie lost his appetite. Hurley's wasn't so inviting no more.
Richie paid up and stepped out into the bright morning sunlight. Now what?
He thought about heading for the Upper West Side and finding this Julio's. The nun had said she'd met Jack there twice, both times in the day, and that the guy had been alone at a table near the back wall.
So why not check out Julio's? Hang out on the street and watch the comers and goers, maybe peek through the window and see who's got a table by the back wall.
Richie liked the idea. Sort of preliminary surveillance. Get to know the lay of the land.
He turned and headed toward the subway.
3
Ron Clarkson twitched like an ant who'd found coke in a sugar bowl. If he'd had antennae he'd have been hovering a couple feet off the ground.
"I gotta be crazy for letting you in here," he said as he led Jack down a fluorescent-lit corridor. Tiled walls, drains in the concrete floor. "I'm gonna lose my job, I just know it."
Ron was rail thin with pale shoulder-length hair and a goatee. He earned his daily bread as an attendant at the City Morgue in the basement of Bellevue Hospital. He didn't owe Jack any favors, he simply liked cash under the table. Every so often—rare, but it happened—Jack had need of a body part. He'd place an order with Ron and they'd agree on a price. They'd usually meet off campus, say at a McDonald's or a diner, and make the exchange.
Today was the first time Jack had asked for a viewing. And he'd handed over a stiff price for it.
He didn't want to be here. He simply knew he had to be. He felt he owed it to Sister Maggie.
"You're not backing out, are you?" Jack put a menacing edge on his voice. "You took the dough, you do the show."
"Never should have said yes. Man, this is so crazy."
"Ron…"
"All right, all right. It's just…"
"Just what?"
"It's just that this case is hot—I mean it's steaming. Cardinal Ryan is all over City Hall, the mayor's all over the commish, the commish is all over the ME and crime scene crew. We got maybe a half hour before they start posting her—on a Sunday, can you believe it?—and here I am bringing you down for a look-see. I must be crazy."
"If you'd have gotten it done instead of running your mouth, I'd be on my way out by now."
"Yeah, but—"
"Just one quick look. A peek. That's all I want."
"I never figured you for getting off on something like that."
They passed some empty gurneys, and one not so empty. A green sheet covered a still form. Jack was about to ask if that was her but Ron wasn't slowing. Guess not.
"I knew her."
"Oh, shit. Then maybe you don't want to see her. I got a glimpse and…" He shook his head. "It ain't nice."
"All the more reason."
But he didn't want to see her. He felt as if his legs were slowly turning to stone, refusing to move him down the hall. He forced them forward, one step after the other after the other…
"I don't get it. Why?"
Because I need to do this to make sure I don't hesitate when I do what has to be done.
"None of your business, Ron."
"Okay. But you'll be sorry."
I know, he thought. But not as sorry as someone else.
Ron pushed through a set of steel double doors into a green-tiled room where a guy who looked like Malcolm X was studying a chemistry book.
"Crime lab," Ron said, jerking his thumb at Jack. "Needs another look. She still in 12-C?"
The black guy nodded and went back to his chemistry.
Through another set of double doors and into a big white-tiled room that felt like a refrigerator. Latched drawers lined the walls. Ron made a beeline for a drawer near the floor. The rollers screeched as he pulled it out.
"Needs a little lube," he said with a quick, weak smile.
A black body bag lay on a steel tray. Ron made no move. Jack looked up and found him staring at him.
"Well?"
"You're sure?"
No. Not sure. Not sure at all. But he nodded.
"Do it."
Ron grabbed the zipper, pulled it halfway down, and spread the flaps.
Jack caught flashes of a crimson mosaic of torn flesh, then turned away.
"Jesus God!"
Probably could have stared indefinitely if he hadn't known her. But he had. A sweet woman. And someone had turned her into… a thing.
"Told you, man."
Jack spoke past the bile collecting in his throat. "Close her up."
"What? That's it? I risk my neck bringing you down here and—"
"Close. Her. Up."
After he'd heard the zipper, Jack turned around and stared down at the glistening surface of the body bag.
You poor woman…
He tried to imagine how she must have suffered before she died, but it was beyond him. He felt the blackness he kept caged in a far country of his being break free and surge through him.
He looked up and Ron jumped back.
"Hey, man! Don't blame me. I didn't do it!"
Jack voice was a metallic rasp. "I know."
"Then don't look at me like that. Shit, for a second there I thought you were gonna kill me."
"No… not you."
4
"You locked the door?" Abe said as Jack approached the rear counter.
Jack nodded.
The Isher Sports Shop was otherwise empty, but it could have been any day of the week. Traffic in Abe's store was never exactly heavy.
The darkness still suffused him, but he had it under control. At least for the moment.
Abe was leaning on the counter
, wearing what he wore every other day.
"I need some hardware."
"So you said. Hardware I got. What kind?"
"A Beretta 92."
It would have been so much easier to discuss this over the phone, but one never knew when the Big Ear might be listening. And the code Jack and Abe had developed wouldn't cover the specifics of this particular purchase.
Abe frowned. "You've already got a PT 92 Taurus. It's the same pistol. Except for the safety, of course."
"I know, but I need a Beretta."
"Why?"
"I'll explain later."
Abe shrugged. "Okay. You're paying. I'll call around tomorrow and see who—"
"I need it today, Abe. And in stainless steel."
"Stainless steel? Gevalt! Impossible! You're asking me to move mountains, and believe me, my mother didn't name me Mohammed. You want a Glock 19, fine; you want an HK-MP5, that I can do. But a stainless-steel Beretta 92 on a Sunday? As my Italian neighbors in the Bensonhurst of my boyhood used to say, Fuhgeddaboudit."
"Got to have it before tonight, Abe. Really important. I'll owe you."
"Already you owe me." When Jack said nothing, Abe shrugged again. "All right, and I owe you too, but…"
His voice trailed off as he stared at Jack. It made Jack a little uncomfortable.
"But what?"
"But nothing. I'm seeing that look on your face."
"What look?"
"I know it, Jack. I've seen it before. And more often than not, when I see it, someone winds up shuffling off their mortal coil."
Jack knew he tended to let his guard down with Abe, but even with reins on the darkness, was it that obvious? He'd have to watch himself.
"Maybe it's because it's not yet noon and I've had a very bad day."
"Something's wrong? Gia and Vicky—?"
Jack held up a hand. "They're fine. It's no one you know. At least personally."
Interest lit in his eyes. "And that means?"
Abe knew Jamie Grant from reading The Light. Maybe Jack could use her as a carrot.
"The Beretta, Abe? Get me that Beretta before tonight and I'll tell you what happened to Jamie Grant."
"The Light reporter?*" Abe made a grumbling noise. "You make your best friend in the whole world earn a little news?"
"In this case, yes. Here's the math: Beretta equals story. Because without the Beretta there won't be any story to tell. At least not this week."
"For next week I can't wait. I'll start making calls. And then you'll tell me?"
Jack nodded. "If it goes down, yeah."
He had to position the pieces where he needed them, otherwise he'd lose this week's window and have to move it to next. Didn't want to do that. He wanted this to go down tonight.
5
Jack closed the top drawer of Cordova's receptionist's desk. He now had the fat man's phone numbers—home and cell. Next stop, the filing cabinets.
He leafed through the folders in the top drawer, checking out age and sex of the clients. Some contained photos. Jack pulled out males in their thirties until he had a stack of six. Then he started dialing, pretending to be calling from the electric company.
All of the first batch were home. So he went back to the cabinet. One in the second batch didn't answer. Lee Dobbins. Jack studied his picture and vital statistics. Lee lived and worked in Queens. He'd suspected his business partner in their real estate firm of dealing with the competition. The wad of photos in the file—taken by Cordova, no doubt—had confirmed his suspicions. Jack memorized the salient points, then filed Dobbins back with all the others.
He then turned on the computer. He typed a note and printed it out under the Cordova Investigations Ltd. letterhead. He tri-folded it and stuck it in a pocket.
Hey, Lee Dobbins, Jack thought as he exited the office. You just got yourself a new best buddy. Me.
Jack knew he'd have to tread carefully here. Had to assume that Sister Maggie had told Cordova everything she knew—which wasn't much beyond Julio's and how Jack looked. He'd have to alter his appearance some.
The other possible hitch was Cordova calling to check Jack's story and finding Dobbins home. Jack could finesse that by calling Dobbins just before he met Cordova. If still no answer, he was golden. If he picked up… well… forget finesse then.
6
Richie Cordova jumped when his cell phone started ringing. Who'd be calling him on a Sunday afternoon? Sure as hell wouldn't be Neva. Eddy?
He'd been chilling—in the physical as well as the slang sense—outside Julio's for a couple of hours. The place wasn't real busy but had a steady trickle in and out. Richie had taken a couple of peeks in the front window. From what he could see through all the dead hanging plants—what was up with that?—it looked like a typical neighborhood bar. Reminded him of Hurley's, and how he wished he was nursing a shot and a beer there instead of hanging out here on a street far from home. He'd promised himself to stay around until three or so, then head back to do just that. The Giants had the four o'clock game against Dallas and he didn't want to miss it.
Hours of watching and still nobody sitting at one of the rear tables. Everyone clustered around the bar where the TV was.
And now someone was calling him. He pulled out the phone, flipped it open, and thumbed the SEND button.
"Yeah?"
"Mr. Cordova?" said a funny-sounding voice he didn't recognize.
"Who's this?"
"My name's Louis Gorcey and—"
"How'd you get this number?"
"I was just about to tell you that. I'm friends with Lee Dobbins and he gave it to me. He recommends you very highly."
Dobbins… Dobbins… Oh yeah. The real estate guy. But he didn't have Richie's cell number. Or did he? Richie sometimes gave it out to clients when he needed to stay real close to a situation.
"That's nice of him, but—what did you say your name was?"
"It's Gorcey. Louis Gorcey."
Something about the way he said his's's… he sounded like a fag.
"Well, Mr. Gorcey, I'm glad Lee recommended me, but this is Sunday. My office is closed. If you want to call back first thing tomorrow morning—"
"It can't wait till then. The window of opportunity is tonight. It has to be tonight."
"Sorry, I—"
"Please hear me out. This is very important to me and I'll make it well worth your while."
Well worth your while … he liked the sound of that. But it was Sunday… and the Giants were playing Dallas…
"I'll pay you a thousand dollars cash just to meet with me and listen to my problem. If you aren't interested, then the money's yours to keep."
"This must be one hell of a problem."
"It's not so much a matter of magnitude as timing. We have to meet this afternoon because the window opens tonight."
A thousand bucks… that would be the best hourly rate he'd ever earned. And an hour was all it would be. Richie had already decided to get the money up front, listen, and say no thanks. Then he'd head for Hurley's and the game. Worst-case scenario was he'd miss part of the first quarter.
"Okay. You've got a deal. You know where my office is?"
He didn't, so Richie gave him the address. They'd meet there in half an hour.
A nasty suspicion crawled up his back as he thumbed the END button. What if this was the nun's Jack? What if he'd heard about Sister Maggie and decided to give Richie a dose of the same medicine?
He shook it off. Crazy. The nun had hired the guy to do a job and he did it. End of story. If something happened to the client afterward, so what? Not his business, not his worry.
Besides, not only did this Gorcey sound like a fag, but he knew Dobbins and had Richie's cell number.
Still, maybe he should do a little checking up before the meet.
7
Jack finally found Preston Loeb's number in an old notebook. They'd met in a martial arts class back in their twenties. Preston had been involved in one of Jack's early fix-its.
>
The second ring was answered by a soft, "Hello, Preston speaking."
"Preston? This is Jack." When silence followed he added, "From Ichi-san's class, remember?"
"Jack! How've you been, dearie? You never call, you never write—"
"I need a favor, Pres. A little sartorial guidance."
"You? Oh, don't tell me you're finally going to get with it! At your age? Well, better late than never, I guess. And you want me to do the Queer Eye thing for you? I'm flattered."
Even if he had the time—which he didn't—Jack was not in the mood for banter. But he tried to keep it light.
"I need help looking like someone who might be a friend of yours."
A pause, and then, "Now that's interesting. When would you want to—?"
"Now. As in right away. You free?"
"Just working on some sketches, and you know I don't like football, so, why not? Meet me at… let's see… how about Praetoria on Green Street?"
Way downtown in SoHo. He'd have to hurry.
"I'm leaving now."
8
"And now tell me, dearie, just why you of all people would want to look queer? You haven't crossed the street, have you?"
Preston Loeb stood six-one with a slim build; long, curly black hair—in the old days it had been straight—framed his handsome face. He wore a snug, vaguely fuzzy, short-sleeve, baby-blue sweater. His cream-colored slacks were tight down to the knees where they flared into outlandish bell-bottoms. A black alligator shoulder bag completed the picture.
They stood just inside the entrance to Praetoria, a men's store with a twenty-foot ceiling and front windows nearly as tall. The wan afternoon light filtering through them was swallowed in the glare of the bare flourescents high above. Everything was white except the contents of the clothing-filled racks and shelves that stretched ahead of them.
Jack shook his head. "Nope. Still hetero. And I don't want to look like a flaming queen. More like someone who's, say, just a couple of inches outside the closet."
"Well, as I'm sure you know, a couple of inches can make a world of difference."
Jack closed his eyes and shook his head. "Preston…"
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