“She remained with the artifacts you were bringing into the country. When they reached the New York warehouse you shipped them to, she continued on to our monastery in Bedford. She’s still there, at my direction.”
“I think she should remain there,” Charles said.
“But what about the police?” George insisted. “We certainly can’t tell them we don’t know where she is.”
Charles stared at him coldly. “I don’t want the police speaking with her. Not yet. The religious artifacts we brought into the country are the problem. Several of those items were not supposed to leave Colombia. It was a violation of their laws when we moved them. We also had to … compensate & some Colombian officials for looking the other way. In addition, the items were far more valuable than we indicated to U.S. Customs. If any of that comes out … well, it would be embarrassing at the least.”
“But there’s no reason for them to find out,” George insisted.
Charles was becoming irritated. The man was an idiot. “George, the police have been told that Sister Manuela was visiting her family—that’s how we’ve explained her presence there—and that Sister Margaret merely accompanied her. If Sister Margaret now tells them that a shipment of artifacts was the real reason they were there, the police will certainly become suspicious. God, drugs were involved in this nun’s death! When the police learn about the shipment, they will want to see those artifacts. And I do not want that to happen.”
George seemed thoroughly exasperated. “Then what am I to do with this police sergeant who keeps hounding me? She called again this morning, saying she wanted to see Sister Margaret forthwith. Her exact words, mind you. Forth-with, of all things.”
“Just keep stalling her,” Charles said. “I’ll send someone to Bedford and make it clear to Sister Margaret that she has to remain quiet about the artifacts. Then we can let this sergeant see her.”
George seemed to ponder that idea. “I’m not sure that’s wise,” he said at length. “This woman sergeant is somewhat of a bully. I’m not sure Sister Margaret is up to dealing with her.” He hesitated for a moment. “Frankly, I get the impression she’s one of those deviants the police department seems willing to tolerate these days.”
Charles stiffened in his chair. “A homosexual?”
“I suspect as much,” George said. “Matthew spoke with her earlier, and he had the same impression.”
“What’s her name?” Charles asked.
“Detective Sergeant Sharon Levy,” George said.
“A Jew,” Charles added, as though that too held some significance. He had begun tapping his fingers against his trousers. “I’ll look into the matter,” he said. “I’ll look into it very thoroughly.”
The squad gathered for a late-afternoon briefing. An oversized bulletin board had been set up in the squad room with a morgue photo of each victim pinned to it. Beneath each photo, written on index cards, was every scrap of information the squad had gathered. To Devlin the large board seemed obscenely bare.
“All right. It’s Saturday. It’s getting late in the day. I know all of you are anxious to get out of here, see your families, get your weekend started. Well, it’s the old good news, bad news gag. Good news: I only need you for about half an hour. Bad news: Everybody works tomorrow.”
Not one groan, not even a grimace. It surprised Devlin. It was very unlike a group of cops. He wondered if the frustration they were facing at every turn had begun to attack their sense of professionalism, if it had begun to piss everyone off.
“Okay. Ollie, Stan, and Red. Tomorrow morning I want you at each of the churches where a priest was murdered. Each of you take one. I don’t care who goes where; decide among yourselves. I want you at every mass, talking to every person you can. Contact the pastors before you leave today and get a handle on their Sunday schedules. Also, ask each of them to announce from the pulpit that you’re there and to urge their parishioners to go to you with any information they might have.”
He turned to Sharon. “Okay. You don’t have to spend all morning in church, but I do want you at Opus Christi headquarters. Part of that job will be to loosely monitor Boom Boom. If he comes out, and he’s alone, get to him and find out what he’s been doing. He said he’d send us e-mails if he could, but so far nothing’s come in.
“Second, you’re still being stonewalled about this Sister Margaret, right?” He waited while Sharon nodded. “Then I want you to stop and question every woman who comes out of there. Anybody knows anything about Sister Manuela or the whereabouts of Sister Margaret, you bring them down to the office and contact me on my cell phone.”
Devlin turned to the bulletin board and shook his head. It was a sorry display for all the work they’d put in. “Ollie, tell us what’s new on the priests,” he said.
Pitts leaned back in his chair, the irritation in his eyes almost palpable. “I checked on any counseling or group therapy each of them might have gotten. It was another big zero.” He shook his large head. “From what I’m told, the archdiocese provides any counseling that’s needed. But it’s all in-house. All of it done by other priests who get trained in that sort of thing. None of our priests took advantage of it. One of the pastors told me it’s not a pleasant experience. Ends up dealing more with their sins than their problems. But the archdiocese did know about all three of them. Any claims a parish makes for insurance gets reported back.”
“What about the insurance company?” Sharon asked.
Pitts shook his head. “Each parish has its own policy. It’s more expensive that way, but it also keeps the cost in the parish. That way the archdiocese doesn’t have to cover the nut for all of them. The reports the parishes file are really just a check on what money is coming into the parishes, and what the health of the priests are, stuff like that. It’s supposed to help the archdiocese figure out where replacements might be needed so they can plan for it.”
Sharon leaned forward. “Wait a minute. I read somewhere that there’s a computer network that keeps track of any insurance claim that gets filed. There was a lot of controversy about it. HMOs were requiring doctors to report any illnesses they treated to this network so all insurance companies could get access to that central information. The problem was, the network was also selling that information to private corporations and banks and just about anyone who wanted it, even though medical information was supposed to be confidential. The upshot was that people were getting turned down for loans and jobs and credit cards based on medical problems that had turned up on the computer.”
Devlin turned to Pitts. “Check it out, Ollie. See if anyone has asked for information about these priests.” He turned back to the bulletin board and jabbed his finger at the morgue photos of the three dead priests. Their names were printed on cards pinned above the photos. “Anybody notice anything about our victims, about the order in which they were killed?”
All eyes went to the bulletin board. Pitts was the one to see it first. “Shit,” he said. “Donovan, Falco, Hall. They’re in fucking alphabetical order.”
“Bingo,” Devlin said. “I just noticed it when I got back here today and put Father Hall’s picture up.” He turned back to Ollie. “That suggests a list, my friend. So first, find out if there’s a central list of all people treated for AIDS. If there is, see if anybody’s checked out all the people on that list by profession. If not, let’s get a list of every priest working in the archdiocese and then check this computer network and find out if anybody has asked for medical information on all the priests working in the archdiocese. It’s a big job, but unless this is just one big coincidence, somebody just may have found a way to put together a hit list on gay priests.”
“What about the archdiocese itself?” Sharon asked.
“I’ll handle that part,” Devlin said. “I doubt a list would have come out of there. Knowing the archdiocese, I think that information would be very closely held. But I want it. I intend to ask them for the name of every priest they know about who’s infected with
AIDS.”
Pitts grinned at him. “We’re gonna stake out the one whose last name comes next in the alphabet.”
Devlin tapped the side of his nose. “You bet your ass we are.”
Chapter Nine
“A cop? You know the kinda heat comes down when somebody puts away a cop?”
“I don’t think the police department will be terribly saddened this time. This particular police officer is a lesbian. I had that confirmed through a source I have. I also obtained her home address and her description. She’s tall and she has red hair. She shouldn’t be hard to identify.” He handed Emilio a slip of paper.
Emilio stared at the address and shook his head. “What if this source you got remembers you asked about this cop when she turns up dead?”
Charles stared at him. “I assure you it can never come back to me. Do you think I’m a fool?”
Emilio looked away, as if not wanting to answer that last question. “I dunno. This thing we got going here is getting out of hand,” he said.
They were seated on their regular bench in Central Park. Charles’s entire body stiffened under Emilio’s rebuke.
“This detective is investigating a murder, and in doing so she’s poised to discover the work I’ve done for the people you work for,” he snapped. “She’s trying to locate the nun who was with Sister Manuela. This whole problem would not exist if Sister Manuela had not been killed.”
Charles glared at Emilio. The man had been in Bogotá when the shipment of artifacts was prepared. He had then followed the two nuns and the shipment to the United States. There was no question in Charles’s mind that he had somehow coerced Sister Manuela into carrying a separate cache of drugs for him and then had brutally killed her when she became ill. Emilio denied it, of course. He insisted she was transporting the drugs for someone else. His boss didn’t seem to care, as long as the deal Charles had set up with him was not affected. Sister Manuela had become nothing more than an unfortunate casualty.
“If you’re worried about the cop getting to this nun, why don’t we just put away the nun?” Emilio asked. “It would be easy and a lot safer.”
The man seemed angered by the suggestion, and the reaction brought something close to a smile to Emilio’s lips. This man could order the death of priests without even blinking his eyes, but the idea of killing some little nun offended him.
“Sister Margaret has done nothing to deserve punishment,” Charles snapped. “Therefore, nothing will be done to her unless it proves absolutely necessary. Do we understand each other?”
“Hey, you just give me the names, and I do the work.”
“I’ve given you a name,” Charles snapped. “And an address.” He paused a moment. “I will also compensate you for this extra job, since it wasn’t part of the original arrangement. It will be something private between us, something your boss doesn’t have to know about.”
Emilio’s eyebrows rose with pleasure. “How much?” he asked.
“How does five thousand dollars sound?”
Emilio let out a barking laugh. “Hey, man, that’s pretty cheap. This is a cop we’re talking about here.”
“What, then?”
“Ten sounds fairer to me.”
Charles’s jaw tightened. It wasn’t the money. It was the question of negotiating from a position of weakness. It was something he had never allowed himself to do—until now, and with this cretin. “Consider it done,” he snapped. “Cash on delivery.”
Emilio looked away, trying to hide how much he enjoyed playing with this man. “Usually, it’s half up front,” he said. “But since we know each other—”
“Cash on delivery.” Charles’s hands began to tremble with rage.
“You drive a hard bargain, man,” Emilio said.
There was laughter in Emilio’s voice. It seemed to strike at every nerve in Charles’s body.
Devlin came up behind her and slipped his arms around her waist. The scent of Adrianna’s hair—sweet and clean and fresh—filled him as he bent to kiss her cheek. His hands ran lightly along her stomach. What he really wanted was to take her back to bed. Spend the next hour lost in her warmth. Then a leisurely Sunday breakfast, with the rest of the day devoted to some much-needed time with Phillipa. The idea filled him like her scent had. It would all be possible if he handed in his shield and returned to the disability pension he had given up when he took over the squad. Howie Silver had lured him back with the promise that he could pack it in whenever he decided it was time. The pension was there, waiting for him. It would work. The drop in income would never be noticed. Adrianna’s success as an artist had removed financial concerns from the equation. They could spend their weekdays at the beach house they owned in the Hamptons. Phillipa could go to a civilized country school, and they could all come into Manhattan for the weekends. It would be an idyllic life.
Adrianna leaned back against him, almost as if reading his thoughts. He knew she wanted the very same things he did. They talked about it from time to time—the hours and the days and the weeks his job took away from their lives; how good it would be to have that time together before Phillipa was grown and off finding her own life. Each time they spoke of it, it seemed to reinforce his thoughts. So why not just give in? He closed his eyes and pushed it all away. He knew the answer. This was just a game he played with himself: retirement, the idea that reared up whenever he acknowledged how much time he was losing with the people he loved. The game assuaged his guilt. Someday he’d surrender to it, and within two weeks he’d be climbing the walls. You love the damn job too much, he told himself. You feed on it like a starving animal.
So none of what he needed would happen today. Instead, he’d be headed up to Saint Patrick’s to deal with the cardinal’s secretary.
Adrianna’s head leaned back against his shoulder. “How late will you be today?” she asked.
“I’ll be back by lunch. We can go out to eat. You and Phillipa pick the place and we’ll go. Then we’ll do whatever you guys want for the rest of the day.” Guilt, he thought. It was so easy to soothe.
“And you’ll leave your cell phone at home?” Adrianna asked.
“Um….” He began searching for an answer.
Adrianna turned and took his face in her hands. “I’m only teasing you.” She rose up on her toes and kissed his lips.
“Mmmm. Love in the kitchen. I’ll have to write this in my journal for future reference.”
Devlin turned and found his daughter grinning at them. She loved catching them at anything. He was sure she kept a scorecard somewhere in her precocious little mind. Walked in on them kissing. Two points for Phillipa.
“I have to go out this morning, but we’re planning a big afternoon. You and Adrianna get to choose.” He feigned a hard look. “But no rock concerts.”
Phillipa rolled her eyes. “Rock concerts happen at night, Dad. Maybe in olden days, when you were a kid, before they had electricity, they had rock concerts in daylight.” She shook her head. “Now it happens when the sun goes down.”
“You think I don’t know from rock concerts?” He narrowed one eye, playing with her. “You ever hear of Woodstock?”
Phillipa fought off a smile. “I’ve heard about Christopher Columbus too, Dad.”
He looked back at Adrianna in mock horror. “She thinks I’m old,” he said. “I’m thirty-eight. Just thirty-eight.”
Adrianna put a finger against his lips. “You sound like Jack Benny,” she said.
“Who’s Jack Benny?” Phillipa asked.
Devlin looked at her to see if she was serious this time. She was. Her little freckled face was all screwed up with curiosity. God, he was getting old. Just two birthdays away from the big one.
He shook his head. “Suddenly, I feel too old to go to work today. Maybe you could both help me back to bed.”
“Uh-uh,” Phillipa said. “I want to go to a rock concert … this afternoon.”
The cardinal’s secretary gave him a broad smile.
His mother had once told Devlin to watch his step when a priest smiled at him. They’re either getting ready to ask you for money or to do work for no pay. He had only been a child when she said it, but it endured as a truth from his mother’s own lips.
“I appreciate your seeing me, Father,” Devlin said.
Father James Arpie was close to Devlin’s age. He was a slender man, barely average in height and balding prematurely. He also had busy hands, Devlin noticed. They seemed to move constantly, adjusting a paper here, picking up a pen there and putting it down again, brushing a bit of lint from the sleeve of his clerical coat, adjusting another piece of paper. Either the cardinal was a very hard man to work for or his secretary needed a prescription for Valium. Perhaps it was both.
“You said you needed the cardinal’s help?” Arpie began. He was wasting little time.
“It’s about the three priests who’ve been murdered,” Devlin began.
“I know. You explained that on the phone. It’s tragic,” Arpie said coldly. “But still, I don’t see how the cardinal can be of any help.”
“I think there are going to be more. I believe the killer has a list of priests he intends to kill.”
Arpie gave him a skeptical look. “That’s a disturbing prediction.”
Both men were still standing—Arpie behind his desk, Devlin in front of it—the secretary not having offered Devlin a chair or taken one himself. It was as though he expected the meeting to be a short one and wanted to let Devlin know that was his intention.
They were in a small office off a well-appointed reception area. The cardinal’s office was marked by a set of double doors off that same reception room. Devlin had been there once, years ago. It had also involved police business—that time about a priest who had forgotten the commandment Thou shalt not kill. It had been a different cardinal then, and it had not been a pleasant experience. He had hoped this time would be different.
“The three priests who’ve been murdered were all suffering from AIDS.” He let the statement sit. He wanted to force some response.
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