Unholy Order

by William Heffernan

  “Who’s Ginger?” Adrianna asked, as Devlin slipped back between the covers.

  He picked up the book he’d been reading when Ollie called. It was Stuart Kaminsky’s Blood and Rubles. The older he got, the more Devlin identified with Porfiry Petrovich Rostnikov, Kaminsky’s aging and always beleaguered Russian detective. He had been reading it tonight to distract himself, to try to push away the threat that had been made against Phillipa.

  “She’s a high-class call girl who happens to be spending some time with our prime suspect,” he said.

  “So you’re leaving soon to meet Ollie Pitts and a high-priced call girl?”

  “Afraid so.”

  Adrianna turned to him, propped on one elbow. “You’re lucky you have an understanding girlfriend,” she said.

  “I know I am.” He also knew she was using it—playing this little game—to further ease the pressure she knew he was feeling.

  Adrianna poked him in the ribs. “Just leave your wallet and credit cards at home,” she said. “I’m not that understanding.”

  “I doubt if she takes credit cards,” Devlin said, playing the game out, grateful for it. “Hooking is usually a cash-and-carry business.”

  She poked him again. “Leave them anyway.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Adrianna nestled into the crook of his shoulder and ran her fingers through the hair on his chest. “You were great with Phillipa tonight,” she said.

  Devlin nodded, still doubting it was true. “I hope she thinks so,” he said. “Maybe not tonight but someday. I just want to keep her safe, and I want her to grow up knowing how much I love her.”

  Adrianna put her arm across his chest and hugged him. “She will, and she does. More often than you let yourself think,” she said.

  Boom Boom was just getting ready for bed when the door of his room flew open and Thomas rushed in, followed by two large young men.

  “Hey, what’s goin’ on here?” Boom Boom demanded.

  Thomas smiled as his eyes flashed around the sparsely furnished room. “A little inspection, Ramon. I hope you don’t mind.” He spotted the Palm Pilot and cellular phone and went directly to them. “And what are these?” he asked, picking up the small hand-held computer.

  “Hey, man, you know what that stuff is. You’re not exactly a novice when it comes to technology.” He offered Thomas a smile with the compliment, then put on the most innocent look he could muster, and added, “What is this?”

  “Why do you have them?” Thomas demanded.

  “It’s for my job with the city. No big deal,” Boom Boom said.

  “But you’re not supposed to have them here. No form of outside communication. You know that, don’t you, Ramon?” Thomas was smiling coldly now, enjoying the power of the moment.

  “Hey, I had to go out on a call to a city office in Brooklyn. I finished late and didn’t go back to the main office, so I brought my stuff back with me. What’s the problem?”

  “The problem,” Thomas said, pausing for effect, “is that I don’t believe you. I don’t believe you’re who you say you are. I don’t believe you’ve joined us out of a true spiritual conviction. I don’t believe anything you say.”

  “Yeah? Well maybe I don’t belong here then. So maybe I’ll just pack up my stuff and blow this place.”

  The two large young men stepped in front of him as soon as he had spoken the words. Thomas’s smile widened. “I don’t think so,” Thomas said. “At least not until we search your room and search you.”

  Boom Boom took a step back. “In a pig’s ass you’re gonna search me,” he snarled. “Stan, get up here. Room Four-oh-five. Use the elevator on the left.”

  The words seemed to startle Thomas. “Who are you talking to?” he demanded.

  “The fucking Holy Spirit,” Boom Boom snapped. “Better watch out for bolts of fucking lightning, you piece of shit.”

  “Stop him,” Thomas hissed.

  The two young men moved in. The first one was on his knees almost immediately, as Boom Boom kicked him in the groin. The second threw his arms around the much smaller detective but went staggering back from a head butt to his nose. Boom Boom moved past them, heading for Thomas, and watched with satisfaction as he backed away.

  “Time for you to turn the other cheek, tough guy.”

  But the man he had kicked proved less injured than he thought. He grabbed Boom Boom from behind, pinning his arms to his sides. Thomas stepped forward now, and Boom Boom lashed out with his foot, catching him squarely in the knee. Thomas howled in pain. Next Boom Boom brought his foot down sharply on the instep of the man holding him, and felt his grip loosen. He swung his arm back and pulled up his hand, grabbing the man’s testicles. The man let out his own howl of pain as Boom Boom held on and kept pulling up. One final pull and the larger man collapsed to the floor.

  Boom Boom moved back so he could keep all three in sight, then dug one hand into the waist of his baggy trousers and with the other pulled the small automatic from Sharon’s garter holster.

  “Freeze, you pricks,” he hissed. From his back pocket he removed his shield and held it up. Slowly, taking pleasure in the stunned look on Thomas’s face, he began to recite the Miranda warning.

  “You’re … you’re … a cop?” Thomas’s eyes were wide and horrified; his mouth hung open.

  Boom Boom grinned at him. “This ain’t a Boy Scout badge, hump.”

  The door flew open again and Stan Samuels filled the frame, his pistol held out in front of him in a shooter’s stance.

  “Hey, here’s the Holy Ghost,” Boom Boom said.

  Samuels took in the room: Thomas still on the seat of his pants, holding one of his knees; a second man on the floor, his testicles cupped in both hands; a third, with blood dripping down his face. “I thought you needed help,” he said, glancing at Boom Boom.

  “I didn’t know they’d turn out to be a bunch of pussies,” Boom Boom said, grinning again.

  “So whaddaya wanna do now?” Samuels asked.

  “I wanna lock their sorry asses up for assaulting a police officer,” Boom Boom said.

  Samuels stepped over to him and leaned into his ear, still keeping an eye on the men in the room. “Let’s check with the boss first,” he whispered.

  Boom Boom thought about that and grimaced. “Yeah, you’re right,” he whispered back. “He ain’t gonna be happy. Lemme get my stuff and we’ll get out of here. We can call him from the car, then come back for these humps if that’s the way he wants to go. But first I gotta find Peter and tell him to get his ass out of here. These humps will go after him next.”

  “Do it,” Samuels said. He turned back to the three injured men. “Don’t even think about moving,” he said.

  “Hey, it’s unethical for me to talk about my clients.”

  They were in Devlin’s office, Ginger seated in a chair with Ollie, Sharon, and Devlin facing her.

  Ollie let out a snort and leaned forward, bringing his big square head within inches of Ginger’s. “What do you think you are, a fucking shrink?”

  Devlin put out a hand, touching Ollie’s shoulder. Sharon Levy sat to Ollie’s right. Devlin had called her in, hoping her presence might help the interrogation.

  “You’ve got two choices,” Devlin said. “You talk to us or you spend the night in the tank.”

  Ginger stared at him, unmoved. She gave him a warm, inviting smile. “Maybe I should talk to my lawyer,” she said.

  Now it was Sharon’s turn. “Hey, whatever makes you happy. The phone’s on the desk. Call him.” She paused a beat. “But when he comes, you won’t be here, sweetie. And I think he might have a little bit of trouble finding you. We’ve lost a lot of people lately. Seems they get taken to one precinct for booking, then everybody finds out it’s just too crowded so they get moved to another precinct, and somehow their paperwork gets misplaced, and their lawyers just go around in circles looking for them. By the time the paperwork gets found, they’ve spent an ugly, ugly night with some peo
ple you wouldn’t want to meet in your worst dreams.”

  “You wouldn’t do that,” Ginger said.

  Sharon placed a hand over her heart. “Me? Of course not. I would never do that to another woman. Unfortunately, I’m not the one who’s gonna book you.” She inclined her head toward Ollie. “He is. He’s the one who brought you in. And Detective Pitts? Well, I’m afraid Detective Pitts is not a nice man.”

  Ginger glanced at Ollie, who gave her a toothy grin. She turned to Devlin. “You gonna let them do this?”

  “I’m going home to bed,” Devlin said. “I came down here to talk to you, but cooperation doesn’t seem to be your thing. So I’m ordering you held as a material witness. Where you go is up to Ollie, here. He knows departmental regulations. I’m sure he’ll follow them to the letter.”

  Ginger looked at Ollie again and got another grin. She looked up at the ceiling and rolled her eyes. “If Charles finds out about this, you guys are costing me an easy five hundred a week.”

  Ollie leaned in again. “You can kiss those five C-notes goodbye anyway, lover. Your boy Charles ain’t gonna be around to pick up the tab.”

  “Tell us about Meyerson,” Devlin said.

  Ginger looked at him, then shook her head again. “He’s weird. What else do you wanna know?”

  “Tell us how weird he is,” Sharon said.

  Ginger let out an unladylike snort. “Tell you! Shit, I’ll show you.” She reached down and picked up her carryall, placed it on her lap, and opened it.

  The call from Samuels and Boom Boom came in just as they were sending Ginger on her way. Devlin listened quietly as Samuels put the best possible spin on it.

  “Was Boom Boom hurt?” Devlin asked, when Samuels had finished. He listened again. “Okay, then, no charges. We’ll hold the possibility of future charges over their heads, but to be honest I don’t think the DA would touch it unless they threaten to sue the city.” He listened again, his eyebrows rising, as Samuels explained about the condition of the three Opus Christi men. “Three guys, and Boom Boom cleaned house?” he said. “Sonofabitch.” He shook his head and fought back a laugh. “Okay, both of you pack it in for tonight. But I need you here first thing in the morning to start on that new list Boom Boom found on Meyerson’s computer. Make it early,” he ordered. “And tell Boom Boom not to worry. Getting caught was always in the cards. One more thing. Did that kid Peter get out okay?” He listened to the affirmative response. “Okay, that’s good. Both of you get some rest. I need you both sharp tomorrow.”

  When Devlin explained what Samuels had told him, Sharon stared at him in disbelief. “Boom Boom?” she said. “That skinny little shit kicked ass in a rumble with three guys?”

  “Hey, he’s a macho little guy,” Devlin said, fighting off laughter.

  “You know what this means, though, don’t you?” Ollie chimed in.

  “Yeah,” Sharon snapped. “Now we’ll have to listen to his bullshit about being a fucking superhero.”

  “No,” Ollie said. “I mean with the mayor.”

  Devlin looked at him. He had already thought the same thing. “Yeah, I know what it means,” he said. “Big-time.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Father Arpie and Father George sat together on a sofa in Howie Silver’s office, looking, Devlin thought, like a pair of grand inquisitors. The mayor and Devlin sat opposite in two chairs, both very much hot seats at the moment.

  “What you did, what your people did, was unconscionable,” Father George said, his heavy jowls shaking with anger. “First you used deception to get inside our facility in Westchester County—which was out of your legitimate jurisdiction, I might add—and then you turned it into a shooting gallery that placed the lives of our people in serious jeopardy. Now we find out you also infiltrated our headquarters in New York and placed one of your men in a position to spy on our most sensitive computer files. But even that was not enough. When our people discovered your spy they were viciously attacked and held at gunpoint.” He shook his head angrily. “I must tell you, Mr. Mayor, that I am astonished by these unwarranted Gestapo-like tactics, which I regard as a complete violation of our rights of religious freedom.”

  “I fully agree,” Father Arpie chimed in. His face was red and angry—and just a bit pleased, Devlin thought.

  The mayor turned to Devlin, his eyes pleading for something that would ease the situation.

  “I don’t agree,” Devlin said.

  Both clerics seemed surprised by the terse, unrepentant response.

  “You don’t?” Arpie said. His voice dripped with sarcasm. “Would you care to explain why?”

  “I’d be happy to, Father,” Devlin said. He leaned forward and raised one finger. “First, the man your people discovered in your headquarters was, as you say, a detective who worked for me. It is also true that he went there on my orders. But it is not true that he attacked your people. They in fact attacked him and he defended himself. We can prove it. He was wearing a wire—a recording device—for his own protection at the time, and we have both a tape recording of their attack and the testimony of the officer who was monitoring the wire to back that up.” Devlin paused and looked at each man in turn. “That’s a crime, by the way—assaulting a police officer—but it’s something we don’t intend to pursue … at present.”

  Both men had stunned expressions on their faces, and Devlin hurried on before they could regain their composure, raising a second finger. “Next, on the question of your Westchester facility. We repeatedly asked officials at Opus Christi headquarters to tell us where we could contact Sister Margaret. She traveled from Bogotá with Sister Manuela and was one of the last people to see her alive. It was imperative that we interview her. However, we were repeatedly told that Sister Margaret was not available, her whereabouts not known. All the while that information, we later learned, was right there in the order’s computer files.”

  A third finger joined the first two. “Next, when we finally learned where Sister Margaret was—”

  “And how did you learn that?” Father George demanded.

  Devlin blew out a long breath, letting the priest know he did not appreciate the interruption. “The officer we placed in your organization found that information in your computer records.”

  “Private records, I might add,” Father George snapped.

  Devlin ignored the comment and went on. “That officer was brought into your organization voluntarily by one of your people, and there was no pressure, no threat of any kind, made against the person who brought him in. That officer was then assigned to your computer room by you. He never requested the assignment. His sole job from our standpoint was to see if he could learn where Sister Margaret was by talking with other members of your order. Any information he got from your computer system was purely accidental.” He hurried on before Father George pressed the matter further.

  “When we did learn where Sister Margaret was, Sergeant Levy and Detective Cunningham were sent to conduct this crucial interview. When they arrived at your Westchester facility, Sergeant Levy identified them as police officers, and a young nun let them in and told them where they could find Sister Margaret.”

  “Your sergeant told the nun she had been sent from our headquarters,” Father George snapped. “A deliberate fabrication that violated our religious sanctuary.”

  “Not so,” Devlin said, shutting him off. “Sergeant Levy—and this has been confirmed by Detective Cunningham—told your nun they were from headquarters, that’s true. But she meant our headquarters.” The lie flowed easily from Devlin’s lips, so easily it almost surprised him. “Technically,” he added, “we are a headquarters unit, even though we work directly for the mayor, so she was simply explaining where they were coming from.” Again he hurried on before Father George could press the issue.

  “And it was fortunate that we found out where Sister Margaret was and got there as quickly as we did. We’ve since learned that Sister Margaret was the only person who had seen Sister Manuela’s
killer—both in Bogotá and again when they returned to the United States. She was also the only person who knew that Sister Manuela left the airport with her killer. She could both identify him and testify to those facts.”

  Father George started to speak, but Devlin raised a hand, cutting him off. “This man, Emilio Valdez, was sent there to kill Sister Margaret. He had already attempted to kill Sergeant Levy because he feared she would reach Sister Margaret before he did. And if Sergeant Levy hadn’t been there—and hadn’t recognized him—there is no question in my mind that Sister Margaret would have been murdered.”

  Again, Devlin raised a hand, even though no objection had been made. “I would like to point out, gentlemen, that Detective Cunningham was wounded by this killer when he used his body to shield Sister Margaret. Frankly, I think you should be thanking both these brave officers, rather than condemning them for their actions.”

  “But … but …” Father George stuttered.

  “No buts about it,” Devlin said. He kept his eyes hard on the man. “This man, Valdez, works for a Colombian drug cartel. His sole job for them is killing people. We have this directly from Colombian authorities. Somehow, he got Sister Manuela to smuggle drugs into this country inside her body, and when that went wrong he killed her to recover those drugs.”

  “That’s only supposition,” Father George snapped.

  “No, it is not, sir,” Devlin countered. “It is a fact of forensic evidence—evidence, by the way, that up to now we have withheld from the media to protect the good name of your order and of the Catholic Church.” Devlin paused, allowing the implied threat to linger in their minds.

  “It is also a fact,” he continued, “that had we known what we do now—that Sister Margaret could positively identify Sister Manuela’s killer—we would have insisted that she be placed in protective custody, and this whole incident at your Westchester facility could have been avoided.” Devlin hardened his stare. “Your organization kept that information from us and, in doing so, jeopardized that nun’s life and put my detectives at risk.”