Gatz stopped and caught his breath.
“Is that all?” Ben asked.
“No,” Gatz replied. “We questioned Jennifer Learson for days, and she filled in many of the gaps. According to her, after Allison Parker was released from the hospital, she and Farmer had continued to argue about what had actually happened. Frustrated, Miss Parker went to the rental office. Miss Logan was gone, the office abandoned. The calendar indicated that Miss Logan had disappeared the night Miss Parker had allegedly killed her father. And that jibed with our own information and our inability to locate the agent. That night, Farmer and Miss Parker went to dinner and afterward went into Ripley’s wax museum off Broadway, where Miss Parker saw a statue of a dead woman, one who’d been executed at Sing Sing Prison many years before. It was Anna Clark, a participant at the cat’s birthday party. Panicked, Miss Parker ran away. Left alone, Farmer went to the New York Times to find out who’d placed the newspaper ad for Miss Parker’s apartment. A Times staffer told him that the apartment listing was never ordered and had never appeared. Farmer went home. Miss Parker showed up later that night and said she’d been in a church. Farmer, who admitted to Jennifer Learson that he’d sent Detective Brenner into the house to see if there were any neighbors, or if any strange things were happening, suddenly declared that something peculiar might really be going on. They searched the brownstone. They weren’t able to get into the old priest’s apartment, nor did they find any evidence of neighbors or a murder, but they did find a book. Where Farmer looked at it, it was printed in English. When Miss Parker looked at it, it was printed in Latin. Farmer had Miss Parker write down what she saw, then took the scribbling to Columbia University to have it translated by a Professor Ruzinsky. He translated:
To thee they course by lot hath given
Charge and strict watch that to this happy place
No evil thing approach or enter in.
“We tried unsuccessfully to track Ruzinsky. A year later, his body was discovered in the woods near Bear Mountain. But to go back. Farmer took the translation to the Archdiocese and confronted a priest, a Monsignor Franchino, who was responsible for paying Father Halliran’s rent. Franchino denied recognizing the translation and denied any irregularities concerning Father Halliran. But Farmer wasn’t convinced. He broke into the Archdiocese, opened Franchino’s safe, and stole a series of files, which he showed to Jennifer Learson. The files dated back hundreds of years and covered hundreds of individuals. All of these people had the same M.O.: all had attempted suicide; all had disappeared off the face of the earth one day and then had reappeared with manufactured identities…as priests or nuns, blind and paralyzed. Why? Neither Farmer nor Learson could say. But Farmer found one last file, a file for Allison Parker and a Sister Therese, who she was destined to become. He concluded that Allison Parker was being programmed, hypnotized, and mind-controlled, and that’s why she’d suddenly decided to rent a new apartment, alone, that’s how she saw the rental listing that never existed, and the Latin inscription in the book that no one else could see. He also concluded that she was to be Father Halliran’s successor…some sort of Guardian or Sentinel. And that this conversion was to happen the next night. So he went to the brownstone to stop it. The rest you know: Farmer was found dead. So was the priest. Allison Parker was gone. Jennifer Learson said that Farmer had taken the files with him to the brownstone, but we were never able to find them. We checked everywhere. The Archdiocese of New York, the landlord, a man named Caruso, who later disappeared also, and more. No one had ever heard of a Monsignor Franchino or the inscription. And we had no idea what had happened the last night in the brownstone. Six months later, the case was closed.”
“And should remain closed,” Ben said, banging his fist against the table. “This is the most incredible crock of shit I’ve ever heard.”
“Look, my cocksure, ignorant friend, whether you like it or not, the nun next door to you is Sister Therese, who is Allison Parker, the successor to Father Halliran. She’s to be replaced. And I’ll bet that your wife is going to be next. She’s going to become the next Sentinel.”
“Why? And for what?”
A sardonic grin crept over the detective’s lips. “To guard against the approach of Satan.”
“What?”
“You heard me. The Sentinel is God’s angel on earth, the successor to the Angel Gabriel, who was commanded by God to watch for and prevent the approach of the Fiend.”
Ben shot to his feet. “Gatz, you’re crazy. Do you think that anyone would believe a word of this?”
Gatz stood too. “Yes! I think you will! I located the source of the inscription. As well as additional information that I stole from the Archdiocese. Tomorrow, if you come to my apartment, I’ll show you proof.”
“And if I say no?”
“Then you’re a fool, but you won’t say no and you’ll be there.” He scratched his address on the back of a napkin.
Ben grabbed the napkin, scowled, and tucked it into his pocket. There was a long silence. Then Ben said, “Okay.”
Gatz nodded smugly.
In silence, Ben paid the bill.
“Ben…what a time we had in the park!” John Sorrenson announced. He was holding Joey in his hands, as Ben and Gatz approached. “I’m winded. Fortunately, I don’t have any rehearsals today.”
Ben grabbed the baby, who’d reached out to him. “That’s good, John, and I appreciate your helping.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Anytime. He makes me feel young again.”
Ben turned to Gatz. “This is my son, Joey. And my neighbor John Sorrenson.”
Gatz shook Sorrenson’s hand.
“Mr. Gatz is a private detective, who’s helping the police with the murder.”
Sorrenson seemed to pale. “I’d rather not talk about that right now. I haven’t slept the last two nights.”
Ben looked at the doorman.
“Biroc’s been sick,” Sorrenson said, noticing the questioning look on Ben’s face. “That’s Mr. Suarez, a temporary.”
“I hope it’s not serious,” Ben said.
“No. Mr. Biroc has the flu. He’ll be back Monday.”
Gatz stepped between them. “Mr. Burdett…if I could have another minute of your time…”
“Okay.” Ben turned to Sorrenson. “John, could you take Joey upstairs?”
“Sure,” said Sorrenson in his affable manner. “I want to look in on Faye anyhow.”
“The door’s open.”
Sorrenson took the baby and disappeared. Gatz led Ben to the curb. He reached inside his pocket, took out a picture, and handed it to Ben. “Allison Parker.”
Ben turned away from the sun to see the glossy clearly. Allison Parker was certainly attractive. Angular and tall. With skin like silk, long brown hair that fell over her shoulders halfway down her back, two enormous blue eyes, and a delicately sculptured nose.
“Keep the picture,” Gatz said.
“Why?” Ben asked.
“Just keep it. I have plenty of others.”
Ben leaned against the fender of a car. “Is that all, Gatz?”
Gatz nodded. “Just be at my apartment tomorrow at one. And do me a favor. What I told you? Not a word to anyone.”
“Okay.”
Gatz turned away unceremoniously and walked to the corner.
Ben watched him, as if he were looking through a fog. Suddenly, everything had become unreal. Then he looked at the picture of Allison Parker, and shaking his head, entered the building.
8
The next day Ben taxied to the Bronx, climbed out of the cab at the address Gatz had scrawled on the napkin, stood to the side as the cab spun away, then glanced up and down the tenement block. It didn’t look like the best of places to live. There was a grocery store on one corner and a shuttered luncheonette directly across. All the buildings were eroded, decorated with bro
ken doors, crooked fire escapes, and scribbled graffiti. The sidewalks were cracked and littered with garbage; the street was dotted with potholes filled with stagnant water and mud; the air smelled of poverty and decay. A peculiar place, he thought, for an ex-homicide detective to live, though Gatz’s meager pension would probably not have allowed him to move to a better location.
Gatz’s tenement building, a five-story, red-brick dinosaur fronted by a rusted fire escape, was located mid-block. Ben entered and climbed to the third floor. There were four apartments. Gatz’s was in the rear.
He knocked several times; there was no answer. He looked at his watch. It was five to one. God dammit. Gatz should be there. Especially after having made the one o’clock meeting sound so crucial. Could he have forgotten? Not likely. Perhaps Gatz had gone out for a few minutes and would soon be back.
Ben returned to the first floor and knocked on the superintendent’s door. A short, balding man answered. A double for Winston Churchill, the man was dressed in a pair of baggy pin-striped pants and an undershirt. He had a bottle of beer in his hand.
“There are no apartments available,” he said. He belched. “And there’s a wait list once one comes free.”
“I’m not looking for an apartment,” Ben advised.
“Oh, then you’re peddling?”
The super tried to close the door; Ben stopped it.
“Look. I’m not peddling. And I don’t want apartment.” He paused, thinking rapidly. “I’m from the police department. I’m an auditor.” He thought that that would have the most impact. “I had a one o’clock appointment with Mr. Gatz about his pension. But he doesn’t seem to be in.”
“He doesn’t?” The super scratched his right underarm. He was one of the grossest human beings Ben had ever seen. “Then he isn’t!”
“Do you know when he left?”
“No. I don’t ask for a report from the tenants. If they want to leave, they leave. If they want to shit, they do it. I don’t care if they throw themselves off a cliff, as long as the rent is paid on time. Okay?”
The super tried to close the door again; once more, Ben stopped it.
“Do you mind if I make a call?”
“Nope, but you can’t. The phone is out of order. And do me a favor. Don’t hang around in the hall while you wait. The tenants don’t like it. It gives them the jitters.”
“I’ll wait on the stoop,” Ben said, not too pleased with the prospect of waiting in the street. “Can I ask you some questions?”
“Look, mister…”
“Just a few? Police business?”
The super paused, then nodded reluctantly. The name on the door was Hardman. It seemed appropriate.
“What do you know about Mr. Gatz?”
“Not much.”
“Has he lived here long?”
The super rubbed his bald head and sucked in the excess stomach that extended over his belt. “Ten, twelve years,” he said. “But he keeps to himself. Doesn’t go out much and doesn’t say much. No. Gatz don’t like to talk. He was a cop. He’s retired. He don’t bother nobody. And he pays his rent on time. Okay? That’s all I know.”
“Did he ever mention a girl named Allison Parker?”
“Who?”
“Just a girl.” Obviously, Gatz had never mentioned her.
“I ain’t interested in Gatz’s sex life either. He gets his nooky, he gets his nooky. Who from? That’s his business. As long as he don’t corrupt the morals around here, he can get fucked all day long. Though I tell you, I don’t go for no slobs. He better not bring any slob hookers in here. Or any kind of dirty broads!”
Ben focused on the urine stain on the man’s pants. Slob hookers? Dirty broads? The man should look in the mirror. “Would it be possible for you to let me into Gatz’s apartment? I could wait for him there.”
“Are you crazy, mister? Let you into a tenant’s apartment?”
“Gatz mentioned that you would, if he was late.”
“Bullshit. He knows better than that. Look, if you’re from the police department, I’d like to see your badge.”
“Badge?” Ben stammered. “I’m not a cop. Just an auditor. Wage earner. Just like you.”
“Then if you’re not a cop, take your gaddamn questions elsewhere or come back with someone who has a nice shiny badge. I don’t like snoops. And I don’t like wasting my time.”
Once again, he started to close the door, but stopped. Someone called him from behind. He turned. A petite woman, dressed in a yellow housedress, hair pulled back, a dish in her hand, walked out of the kitchen.
“I overheard you talking, honey,” she said.
The woman was attractive, almost appealing, poles apart from the man, who seemed to be her husband.
“Gatz is in his apartment,” she said. “I took out the garbage a half hour ago and saw him coming into the building. He said it was a very important day for him. Someone was coming at one o’clock and he felt his entire life was about to change. He asked if I could pick up some groceries for him, because he had to stay and wait. He was very adamant about waiting. He’s up there.”
“That’s impossible,” Ben said suddenly. “Unless he’s in the shower.”
“There are no showers,” the super explained.
“Then he must have heard me. I pounded on the door for two or three minutes.” Ben was puzzled. “I’m going to try again.”
The super turned to his wife and stared.
“He’s up there,” she said once more.
The super turned back to Ben. “I’ll go with you.”
The woman quickly receded into the background.
The super closed the apartment door and led the way.
“My name’s Hardman,” the super said, as he started to climb the staircase.
“Ben Burdett,” Ben replied.
They reached Gatz’s door and knocked. There was no response. The super shrugged, Ben faced him squarely. The super looked down the hall, then grudgingly opened the door with his master key.
They entered.
The apartment had been ransacked. The dresser drawers had been pulled out and overturned. Clothes from the closets lay all over the floor. The draperies on the windows were ripped. The mattress in the bedroom had been slit and torn apart.
What the hell had gone on here? And where was Gatz? Since Mrs. Hardman had seen him a half hour ago, whoever had attacked the place must have done so within the last few minutes. Certainly, Gatz hadn’t stood around enjoying the sight. He would have tried to stop it, called for help. But obviously he hadn’t. Maybe it had happened during the night? No. that made no sense. Gatz would have said something to Mrs. Hardman in the street.
Ben looked around. “I think you’d better call the police, Mr. Hardman.”
“Yes,” the super said unsurely. He reached for the phone that lay on the floor, off its cradle, and dialed. “Police, please,” he said, once the connection to the operator had been made.
Ben started to sift through the debris. What could burglars have been searching for in a tenement apartment? Could it have had anything to do with Allison Parker?
He searched the bedroom and bathroom, finding nothing. Then he examined Gatz’s desk.
“What are you looking for?” the super asked.
“I don’t know,” Ben replied.
“You’d better wait until the police get here.”
Ben turned and smiled; the super had lost a great deal of his bravado. “Once they get here, I won’t be able to look.”
The Guardian Page 9