The super entered the kitchen. Ben could hear the faucet open, as he looked over the desk shelves. They were empty. Most of the books had been thrown to the floor. He picked up several and looked them over. Nothing of interest. He examined the dust prints. The upper shelf had wide marks that surely had been caused by the books. But the lower one had thin lines that seemed to have been formed by narrow files or magazines. He looked at the floor once more. There was nothing in sight that might have fit.
He snapped his head around as the super called his name, then jumped over the toppled desk chair and raced into the kitchen.
The super was standing beside the refrigerator. The door was open, and inside was Detective Gatz, staring out at them, dead.
“Christ!” Ben cried.
“What do we do?” the super asked in an uncharacteristically mousy voice.
“Nothing. The police will be here in a couple of minutes.”
“Right in my building,” the super mumbled. “Right under my nose. Half an hour ago he was talking to my wife. I can’t believe it.” He shut the refrigerator door. He looked as if he were ready to throw up. “God.”
“God isn’t going to be of help. Why don’t you sit down? Or throw some water on your face?”
The super walked into the bathroom. Ben returned to the living room and looked through the debris once more. Finding nothing, he turned the desk chair upright and sat down. He had to get hold of himself. The police would be there within minutes. Then the questions would start all over again. Surely, they’d ask why Ben had come to meet the detective. And he’d have to say something to satisfy them. Of course, as soon as he mentioned the compactor murder, the police would start to draw parallels. But there was nothing he could do about it. There was no way he could disappear. The super knew he’d been there. And he’d given the super his name.
The super returned and sat down on the edge of the overturned sofa. He was pale. A hint of saliva lay on his chin. He’d thrown up.
“I guess Gatz’s pension won’t mean too much to him now,” the super said softly.
“No,” Ben said. “Not a thing.”
The super covered his face with his hands. Ben sat back and crossed his legs. Suddenly, the room was very silent.
And they waited.
As Ben had anticipated, the police grilled him for over an hour. He told them that Gatz had contacted him on the advice and with the approval of Inspector Burstein from Manhattan Homicide, specifically to discuss the compactor murder. He told them that Gatz had explained nothing at their first meeting, so they would have to call Burstein to find out the particulars.
That’s exactly what they tried to do, but were unable to locate him. They did tell Ben that a Detective Wausau had corroborated Ben’s story, at least in principle, since Wausau had no idea exactly what had occurred between his superior and Gatz either.
Shortly before four o’clock, the police released him. He left the tenement and took a taxi to Manhattan Homicide.
Throughout the trip downtown, he lay against the back seat, staring through the windshield, reexamining everything Gatz had told him and reliving the horrible events of the last few hours.
Gatz’s murder still seemed incredible.
Gatz was no weakling. It would have taken a very strong man to strangle him. But whatever had happened, Gatz was gone. That was the bottom line. If Ben was to pursue Gatz’s story further, he’d have to do it with Inspector Burstein, who Gatz had indicated had had contact with Allison Parker and had witnessed, in part, the strange sequence of events.
the cab dropped him off in front of division headquarters. He went inside and asked the duty clerk for Inspector Burstein. The duty clerk placed a call upstairs. Minutes later Detective Wausau came down, accompanied by a second detective.
“Mr. Burdett,” Wausau said, extending his hand.
Ben shook it and waited, while Wausau introduced the other detective, a man named Jacobelli. “Let’s go into that conference room,” Wausau said, pointing toward a doorway at the end of the main corridor.
“I’d like to see Burstein,” Ben said, as he started to walk.
“First I want to ask you some questions about Gatz.”
“Look, Detective Wausau, I’ve been under interrogation for the last two hours, and I told the Bronx Homicide people everything I know. You spoke to them. If you want to speak to them again, go ahead. But I want to talk with Burstein, and then I want to go home to my wife. Okay?”
“Tell me about Gatz!” Wausau insisted. “From the beginning.”
Reluctantly, Ben repeated everything, avoiding the specifics of the conversation he’d had with Gatz in O’Reilly’s Pub. That he would reserve for Burstein, especially since Gatz had warned him, during the walk from O’Reilly’s to the apartment, to say nothing to the police.
Wausau pumped him for over an hour, drawing random conclusions about the relationship between Gatz’s death and the murder in the Eighty-ninth Street compactor.
When Wausau had finally finished, Ben turned on him angrily. “Now, God dammit,” he said, “I sat in this stinking interrogation room when I didn’t have to, and I gave you all the information you wanted. Now I just want to talk to Burstein. I don’t think that’s an unfair request, do you?”
“No,” Wausau said. “But that’s going to be difficult.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s dead.”
Ben felt a sharp jolt; he staggered.
“He and his wife died in their sleep last night. We found out an hour ago. His house burned. The preliminary report from the NYFD investigation squad states that the fire was set. Arson.”
Ben was numb. Wausau told him to go home; they’d contact him. Ben walked out of the building and stopped at the curb. There he turned and looked up at the sky.
“God!” he cried, not knowing why. But loud enough that if God were listening, he could hear.
9
The body in the compactor. Gatz. Inspector Burstein.
Were their deaths related? Maybe. Certainly any connection among the three could just as easily have been explained away by happenstance. The old nun probably had nothing to do with the corpse in the basement. Gatz had most likely been murdered by a burglar. Burstein had been the victim of a lunatic pyromaniac. But deep inside, Ben knew that all three murders were connected, that Burstein and Gatz had been eliminated, because they’d known too much. With Michael Framer dead, and the old priest, Father Halliran, dead, too, and now Burstein and Gatz, there was no one among the innocents who’d any insight, except Jennifer Learson, of course, who’d disappeared a long time ago. If someone was trying to cover all traces of the truth, it seemed likely that they’d disposed of Learson too, or if they hadn’t accomplished that as yet, could reasonably be expected to make her their next target. But whose target? If he believed Gatz, he couldn’t help, but conclude, that the plotters were connected to the nun, and following that trail would inevitably lead right to the Archdiocese of New York. It seemed beyond comprehension, the implausibility made all the more pressing by the austere surroundings of St. Luke’s Cathedral, where he’d been sitting for the last half hour, trying to make some order out of the chaos. If only there was someone he could ask, someplace he could go to search for the truth. But there wasn’t. He was helpless. And so was Faye who was still lying in bed, mesmerized by shock, and according to Gatz, even more subject to the sway of events than he or perhaps anyone else who’d ever lived, except for Allison Parker and her predecessors, of course. He opened his eyes; the afternoon light that poured through the stained-glass windows intensified the surreal world he’d been contemplating. Suddenly, the church seemed threatening. True, the place was a sanctuary, but in the contest of events, what kind? And for whom? And for what purpose?
The place was silent. There were only four people inside. It was warm, but certainly not warm enough to cause him to s
weat as profusely as he’d been sweating, nor to make the air as stale as it seemed. He felt as if he were going to suffocate. He opened his collar, stepped out of the pew, and turned toward the rear. A priest walked into view.
“Father!” Ben called. He approached the man. “I wonder if you could help me.”
The priest smiled. “Of course, my son.”
“I’ve been told a story, and I’d like to check it with you.”
The expression on the priest’s pleasant rosy face encouraged him.
“I’ve been told that every several years, the church selects a lay person, manufactures a secular identity, disguises and set up the person as a sentinel or guardian.” He paused, waiting for a reaction.
The priest looked puzzled. “For what purpose, my son?”
“I’m not sure.”
“My son, if you can’t be more specific, there’s no way I can help.”
“I can’t be specific, Father. But I know many people have died, because of this. There is even the possibility that the church has been behind several murders, committed to protect the identity of this person.”
The priest was horrified. “My son. This story seems highly unlikely. But to suggest that the holy church would be involved in a gross violation of God’s Commandments, let alone murder, is offensive and out of the question. Who told you this story?”
“A policeman.”
“Where is he?”
“Right now? Probably in the Bronx County Morgue. He was murdered this morning.”
The priest shook his head. “In my opinion, the entire story is a fabrication. Why it was fabricated, I do not know. But I can assure you the church would have no part of it.”
“Perhaps you’re right,” Ben said after a long, strained pause. “Perhaps this is all a dream. Perhaps I’m going out of my mind.” Why was he talking to this man? If by some incredible quirk of fate this priest was familiar with the matter, he certainly wouldn’t admit to it. And, of course, it was more logical to assume that a low-level cleric would have no idea as to intrigues undertaken by the hierarchy. No, he was wasting his time, even possibly placing himself in danger. He had to get out of there. “You’re probably right, Father!” He started to inch toward the exit. “The policeman must have been wrong. He was probably a little paranoid. And who knows why he was murdered? Someone might have had a grudge against him. That’s it. A grudge.” He stepped onto the concrete steps that led down to the street. He could still see the priest watching his curiously; he was sure that the priest was convinced that he was a little mad. “Thank you, Father. I appreciate the attention and concern. Thank you.”
He reached the sidewalk and started to walk, picking up speed. He had to get home, see Faye, try to relax, escape from it all. But deep inside, he knew it was only beginning, if only because he couldn’t just wait and let fate dictate their future. He had to find out more.
He’d start in the morning!
“What are we doing? Having a party?” There was a smile on Ben’s face, as he stood in the doorway.
“I feel so much better, honey,” Faye said. She jumped off the couch and embraced him.
“You see,” cried Sorrenson from across the room. “I told you she just needed a couple of days. And some tender, loving care.”
Grace Woodbridge emerged from the kitchen with a tray filled with cups and saucers. “Coffee and tea.”
“Put it on the table,” Faye suggested. She led Ben into the room and pushed him down on the couch next to Ralph Jenkins.
“You sure you’re all right, honey?” Ben asked.
“I woke up about an hour ago feeling like a million dollars.” She took the baby from Jenkins and rocked him in her arms. “And seeing John and Ralph and then Grace made me even better. You know?”
“Yes, I know.”
“Where were you?”
“Just out. Were there any calls?”
“Not while I was here,” Sorrenson said. “And I’ve been here since you left.”
“Then you missed your rehearsal,” Ben assumed.
“What’s a rehearsal when you’re needed by friends? And I’m not the only one who made a sacrifice, if you want to call it that. Ralph passed up a meeting of the Antique Guild.”
“A nothing meeting,” Jenkins said. “Did you meet with the policeman?”
“Yes,” Ben replied. He’d not told Jenkins the purpose of the meeting, only that such a meeting was taking place. He hoped the sound of his voice didn’t betray the seriousness of it all. “Everything’s fine,” he added.
“Well, that’s good,” said Grace Woodbridge, while setting up the servings. “It’s about time someone said something is fine around here. Max left the apartment this morning, moaning and groaning. When I got here, Faye was still asleep and John and Ralph were talking as if the ultimate cataclysm was about to happen. Everyone has started to imagine things. And I’m sick of it. I won’t let Faye become a party to it. It’s all over.”
“You bet your life,” Faye said.
She stood and spun around with the baby in her arms. He giggled at the sensation. The others laughed, as they hadn’t laughed in days.
Grace Woodbridge passed around the dishes. Ben pulled Faye down to the couch and kissed her. “You don’t know how happy I am to see you like this. John. Ralph. Grace. I appreciate your staying with Faye today. Maybe it is over.” Did he really believe it? What do you think, Joey? Is Mama going to be all right?”
The baby waved his hands and stretched a toothless smile. Everyone laughed again.
Ben stood and walked to the window. Next to it was a typewriter set on a table. In a manila envelope were several hundred pages of neglected text and notes.
“I want you to get back to your book, honey,” Faye said. She sipped form a cup of tea.
“Yeah,” Ben said halfheartedly, thumbing the pages.
Jenkins walked to his side. “I expect a masterpiece from you, Ben.”
“You do? That’s good, Ralph. But the way things have been going around here, I’ll settle just to finish it.”
“I know you better than that. You’ll get back to it, lick it, get it published, and have a hit on your hands.”
“From your lips to God’s ears.”
Jenkins nodded; Sorrenson approached; behind them, Faye and Grace Woodbridg had started to examine the latest issue of Vogue.
“You might be interested to know that I checked into the identity of the nun,” Sorrenson said softly.
Ben looked him straight in the eye. “You did?”
“Of course. I told you I would. Now, don’t ask me how I did it, but I found out that the nun’s rent checks are paid by an M. Leffler.”
“Who’s he?” Jenkins asked.
“Ah…I found that out, too. I have a friend who works at the Archdiocese. I asked him if he’d ever heard of such a person. He said that M. Leffler is the Archdiocese’s comptroller.”
“So what does that tell us?” Ben asked.
“Simply that in addition to owning the building, the Archdiocese also pays the nun’s rent. We suspected it, but now we know!”
Faye’s voice interrupted them. “Hey, what are you whispering about?”
Ben turned. “Nothing, honey.”
“You’re talking about the nun, aren’t you?”
Ben cleared his throat. “Well, kind of.”
“Really. I told you we should forget her. If Sister Therese wants to sit there, let her.”
“What did you say?” Ben asked, startled.
“Sister Therese. That’s the nun’s name.”
“How do you know that?”
She shrugged.
“Did someone tell you?”
“No. I just know.”
Ben looked at Jenkins and Sorrenson, who shook their heads. Then, he sat down next to Faye and took her han
d.
“What was her name before she became Sister Therese?” He was almost screaming.
Sorrenson, Jenkins, and Grace Woodbridge were astonished.
“What was her name?”
Faye shuddered. “Allison…Allison Parker.”
Ben sat back. Everyone in the room looked on tensely. No one dared say a word.
“Allison Parker,” Ben repeated, nearly in tears. “Yes. That’s her name. Allison Parker.”
Sorrenson, Jenkins, and Grace Woodbridge had been long gone when Ben walked out of the bedroom in response to the bell, answered the door, and ushered Biroc into the foyer.
“I hope I didn’t wake you, Mr. Burdett,” Biroc said apologetically.
Ben looked at his watch. “No, Joe. We were just going to sleep. I didn’t see you on duty yesterday or today.”
“I wasn’t in yesterday, and today I started late and only worked half a shift. The building management suggested that I take it easy. You know after what happened.”
“Sure,” said Ben. “How can I help you?”
“Oh, no, Mr. Burdett. I didn’t come for a favor. I came to see if Mrs. Burdett was all right. I didn’t want to come up so late, but it was eating at me.”
“You’re welcome here any time. And Mrs. Burdett is much better. She’ll be very happy you called.”
Biroc smiled. “That’s good to hear. I was very concerned.” He opened the door and stepped into the hall. “Mr. Burdett, if there’s anything you need tomorrow while I’m on, please call down. No matter what. I’ll see to it.”
“You’re a good friend, Joe.”
Biroc nodded. “Good night.”
“Good night, Joe.”
Ben closed the door.
Lying in bed, he felt as if someone had poured ice water over his body. He was cold, not superficially, as one would be in the dead of winter, but deep inside, almost as deep, he thought, as the substance of his soul.
Next to him, Faye was reading a book. He stared at her and listened to the baby move restlessly about his crib, which was secreted across the room in the darkness. Ben had been silent for the last ten minutes, ever since he’d said good-bye to Biroc, tiptoed into the bedroom, and climbed into bed. He was ready.
The Guardian Page 10