by David Mark
“Come on, Trish,” says McAvoy.
“Right, right. Molony started serving as an altar boy at Saint Colman’s Church when he was ten years old. Mum was a regular at Mass. The school he attended was a mix of Irish and Italian. I’ve looked it up on Google Maps and it was a bit of a jaunt from where he was living to get to Saint Colman’s, so I’m guessing he went there because it was popular with the Irish crowd. The priest at the time was a Father O’Flaherty, who, y’know, sounds a bit Irish.”
“Trish . . .”
“He showed interest in joining the priesthood. Went on residential courses upstate. Went on a Catholic retreat with Father O’Flaherty and a group of other boys. In nineteen seventy-two he entered a seminary.”
“That young . . . ?”
“On Father O’Flaherty’s recommendation.”
“And?”
“He left in nineteen seventy-three.”
“What does his report say about that?”
“Unsurprisingly, not a lot. They can be a bit of a closed book, these religious institutions. Anyway, the next thing we know, he was committed to the state hospital for evaluation, having performed a fairly severe act of self-harm.”
“The auto-castration,” says McAvoy with a shudder.
“That’s only the half of it. They found evidence of scarring all over his body. It seems Daddy was a bit free with his temper. Liked to lash his son with a homemade cat-o’-nine-tails. Stuck pins in his legs.”
“Pins?”
“He told this to his psychiatrist on admission and they didn’t believe him until they X-rayed him. Found twenty-seven pins in his thighs.”
McAvoy pushes his drink away, feeling tired and cold.
“Did he tell the psychiatrist why he did it? Cut himself?”
“Atonement. That was the word. According to the report, Molony was a relatively model patient at Saint Loretta’s. He was good at talking with the other inmates, and was especially close with a patient who had previously spent time at a different state facility and was completely mute.”
McAvoy nods, his pulse quickening. “Is he named?”
“No. It says he was a patient at a facility on Staten Island and had been for several years, prior to his being released to the care of his family. I’m thinking it wouldn’t be a terrible guess to assume this was Tony Blank.” She scans her notes and nods. “Aye, he was committed afresh after biting off a dental nurse’s fingers. Saint Loretta’s was good for him, as was his relationship with Molony. They spent a lot of time in the hospital chapel. Within a year, Molony was permitted to leave. There’s no mention of Blank. Like Alto told you, Jimmy Whelan was a regular visitor. Came in plain clothes, not his dog collar. Would pray with Molony and his mute friend. Helped him find himself again. Helped him become the person he became.”
“And then what? Molony becomes a regular model citizen?”
“Released to his mother’s address. Did his degree at night school. Passed the bar in nineteen eighty-one.”
“Quick study.”
“And got a job as a junior at Dash and Spadaro—a legal firm that got itself a dishonorable mention during the Mob trials of the nineteen eighties. They were hooked up to at least one of the crime families that the FBI tried to bring down at that time. The two senior partners retired and Molony set up a very specialist practice. He was barely in his thirties, but he got a reputation for specializing in wills, probate, and charitable donations. He was very good at setting up charitable funds that circumnavigated a lot of the death duties payable on estates. He also helped rich Catholics establish benevolent organizations for giving to good causes.”
“Sounds like a good man,” says McAvoy cautiously.
“Indeed. He’s been investigated only twice over allegations that he persuaded two very elderly Catholic ladies to give their estates to one of his charitable organizations instead of to their families, but both times the investigations petered out.”
“And now?”
“Wealthy man, very successful. Sacristan at Saint Colman’s Church and pillar of society.”
McAvoy chews on his lower lip. “Father Jimmy Whelan?”
Pharaoh smiles. “Same seminary, different years. That’s how they met. Been associates ever since.”
McAvoy strokes his jaw. As he inspects his hands he expects to see dust and bone upon his skin.
“His mother. His stepfather . . .”
“Mum passed away in nineteen eighty-eight. Cancer. Stepfather the following year. Seems a decent enough sort. Left his money to the Open Hands Missionary Association, which provides help for victims of abuse in the Philippines and Cebu. I’m sure it was a cause close to his heart.”
McAvoy scratches at his head and looks over the top of the computer. The other drinkers have drifted away from him. Through the mass of bodies he can make out the scaffolding that wraps the tall apartment building on the opposite side of Ludlow Street. The fat flakes of snow that billow across the darkened glass look like shredded white feathers.
“The names,” says McAvoy. “On the tree.”
“You’ll never make a photographer,” says Pharaoh. “They’re blurry as hell. But Ben worked his mojo and we’ve got a few names. Alejandra Mota Valverda. You know about her.”
“Only the basics.”
“That’s all there is. Disappeared walking back from Saint Colman’s. Never seen again.”
“Was Molony ever questioned?”
“Only as a witness, not as a suspect. He was working for the legal firm at that time, becoming the respectable lawyer, devoting his free time to Saint Colman’s.”
“Shay’s name was on the wall. I saw it.”
“Yes, you did. What that means, we can’t say. His body’s being flown home, so there’s no ashes. Perhaps it’s a wall of connections—people he’s encountered whose lives have been lost, but then there’s no obvious connection to the majority of the names. Of course, there are others we can say with some certainty he had a link to.”
“Such as?”
“Salvatore Pugliesca,” says Pharaoh, twitching her face into a smile. “I thought I’d tell you that one first.”
“And Tony Blank?”
Pharaoh shakes her head. “If his name’s up there, it’s not clear on the photographs.”
“What about strangers? People with no obvious link?”
Pharaoh consults her notes. “Laura Prime,” she says. “Reported missing in nineteen seventy-eight. Last seen leaving a party in Philipstown, New York. She was nineteen years old. Red hair, fair-skinned, gap in her front teeth. She was a trainee beautician and lived with her large family. Prior to her disappearance, she had reported that she felt as if she were being followed, but made no complaint to the police.”
“Irish family?”
“Yes. Roman Catholic and good churchgoing types, before you ask.”
McAvoy pinches the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb. “There’s more?”
“Paulette Obasi. Twenty-four. Student at Columbia University. Nigerian origins, but she was studying there on one of those adorable Christian benevolent grants. Shy, churchgoing girl, according to the reports. Last seen leaving the library to head for the evening Mass at the university chapel. April nineteen seventy-nine. She didn’t arrive. No sign since.”
McAvoy stirs the dregs of liquid at the base of his ridiculous drink. “What have we found?” he asks, shaking his head.
“Maybe nothing,” says Pharaoh. “This guy may be a good Catholic chap who has made his own memorial to the lost. These cases made a few headlines but they weren’t front-page news. Maybe they mattered to him and he’s chiseled their names into his own private church because he feels a connection to them. He wants to atone and it’s clear he takes that stuff seriously.”
The door of the bar bangs open and a swirl of snow follows two girls in
their early twenties into the welcoming warmth. They giggle and high-five, pulling themselves out of thick, padded coats, scarves, and hats. There is something somehow delightful about them, with their wide eyes and white teeth, their zeal and their sparkle. McAvoy wonders what their lives consist of. Wonders what they will become. Finds himself growing smaller in his chair as he thinks about the way strangers ricochet off one another, colliding and intersecting, missing one another or slamming together based on the tiniest coincidences of moments and chance.
“The tooth,” says McAvoy quietly.
“Oh, there’s no doubt that’s fucking odd,” says Pharaoh brightly. “He needs to be questioned on that, though how your friend Alto will explain his presence in that apartment is for him to decide. It seems pretty damn clear that Valentine was there at some point—unless there was a bare-knuckle bout that Molony attended and he took himself a souvenir. My advice to Redding was to come up with a good cover story, but Molony needs to be questioned. Don’t forget, Valentine is what you’re there for.”
McAvoy considers this. His head drops to his hand. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“You never do.” Pharaoh smiles. “Anyway, this might cheer you up. Ben’s blown up your terrible photos and managed to make out a name on the lip of one of the urns in Molony’s creepy loft. It’s for a funeral home in Baltimore.”
McAvoy looks at his boss and enjoys the little frisson of devilment that crosses her face. “You called them?” he asks.
“Not me. Ben. Played the deferential English detective part perfectly. Spoke to the funeral director himself. Described it in all of its glory, including the silver flower that’s etched into the side of the urn. He said it was from their Sacred Chalice range, and that it had been discontinued in the early eighties. Only sold a handful of them because the price was prohibitive.”
McAvoy waits for more. “And?”
“Went through his records and called us back with a list. We didn’t recognize any of the names but we’ve passed them on to your friend Redding.”
McAvoy frowns at the screen. “I know there’s more . . .”
Pharaoh grins. “Of course there’s more. The funeral director warmed to Ben. Explained that two years ago, he published an article in the Baltimore Sun warning that the funeral parlor had reached critical mass in terms of unclaimed remains and they were going to be disposed of. Turns out it’s a real problem. Funeral parlors the world over end up with a mountain of unclaimed ashes. They’ve recently agreed on a feasible amount of time that they should keep them for before they are respectfully disposed of.”
“And this urn was among those unclaimed?”
“Shush,” says Pharaoh testily. “The funeral director remembers receiving a telephone call from a Christian organization that said it would be happy to take the ashes so that they could be scattered on holy ground. The Christian organization said they would make a sizable donation to the funeral parlor’s outreach programs—and I’d say that’s code for a bribe—if they would send the remains to a postal box.”
“Where was the postal box?”
“Cairo,” says Pharaoh, looking at him intently. “The one upstate, not the one with the sphinx.”
“Where Brishen, Shay, and Savoca were found?”
“I do wonder whether our American cousins have ever considered joined-up thinking,” muses Pharaoh. “They might actually be good at it, if they gave it a shot.”
McAvoy’s head is reeling. He wants to run outside into the snow and let the cold caress of each snowflake lift the ash and dirt from his skin. He did not ask to be involved in any of this. He closes his eyes as he talks, rubbing his hands together softly and wishing the skin that stroked his belonged to somebody who loved him.
“Trish, I’m so lost. I don’t even know what to do next.”
“You tell all this to Alto,” she says firmly. “You let him bring in Molony. If you’re lucky, he’ll spill his guts and tell you he knows where Valentine is. If you’re very lucky, he’ll also cough to being a serial killer and money launderer and you and me will be invited stateside to receive medals from George Clooney. Until then, you need to get some rest, change your clothes, and tell Roisin she’s fabulous. Don’t let all of this stuff climb inside your head. You know how you get.”
The door bangs open and McAvoy stops listening. Ronnie Alto pushes his way through the crowd, brushing snow from his hair and rubbing moisture from his amber spectacles. He looks tired and old.
“I have to go,” says McAvoy. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“Hector, hang on, I’ve got to—”
McAvoy closes the lid on the laptop and looks up at the detective. “I’ve so much to tell you,” he says.
“Likewise,” says Alto, removing his still-foggy glasses.
McAvoy looks into his eyes, as if searching for answers. “Valentine,” he says, and his voice cracks as his lips form his name. “You’re going to tell me he’s dead.”
Ronnie shakes his head, taking a breath, as if preparing to run.
“He’s not dead,” he says at last. “But he wishes he were. And in a moment, you’ll wish that for him, too.”
SPRING 1980: THE FIFTH ABSOLUTION
They’re waiting for Father Whelan as he steps out of the vestry. He didn’t hear them come in. They have that way about them, men like this. Their personalities are huge but they can move with absolute silence when they need to.
“You gave me a start,” says Father Whelan. He’s taken off his robes. His dog collar is barely visible under his black sweater. It is less conspicuous than the blizzard of dandruff that coats his shoulders. He has aged a lot these last few years. His hair is thinning and he has red spots on his nose and chin. The doctor recently gave him a cream for it and asked if there was anything troubling him. He’d found it as easy to lie to the physician as he does to himself. He has found himself unable to pray privately in recent months. He can say Mass and deliver a sermon, but when he kneels at his bedside and talks to God, the words die upon his tongue. He thought for a time about asking his bishop for guidance. Instead, he has chosen to simply stop praying.
“Don’t like frightening you, Father,” says Salvatore Pugliesca. “Hot and sweaty as a stripper’s ass crack out there. And look at you, dressed for winter. You should poke your head out the door sometime. Girls walking by in not much more than a stitch. Boys, too. Sinful times, Father. Good times, if you know how to live the right way.”
Sal is leaning against one of the great marble columns that stretch up to the ornate roof. He looks like he should be lounging against the wall in a nightclub. He’s a handsome man with the same dark hair and dark eyes and slim fingers as his father. He has recently shaved off his mustache, having been told by his father that it made him look like “some sort of fucking spic trumpet player.” His recently denuded top lip is now less tanned than the rest of his face, and in the low light of the empty church, the strip of pale skin blends with the hollows of his cheeks to make his handsome countenance seem oddly cartoonish.
“I was about to lock up,” says Whelan. He makes no attempt to smile. He doesn’t fear Salvatore. But seeing him here, in the majesty of St. Colman’s, always turns his stomach. His very presence in a house of God is thanks to a deal Father Whelan made with the devil. The knowledge has already given him a stomach ulcer. He rarely sleeps, and when he manages to wrestle himself into unconsciousness, his dreams are peopled with innocents in pain, their bones being shattered by the clubs and bullets, blades and boots of the men to whom he gives absolution.
“I need to confess,” says Salvatore with a shrug. “Dad says.”
Whelan glances around him. It is a little after nine p.m. The church is supposed to be closed. Peter said his good nights half an hour ago. He has seen less of him in recent weeks. His legal practice is going well and he has proven invaluable to his new employers. He has established sever
al worthwhile charities for the Church and has a keen eye for new opportunities. His zeal and efficiency have repaid his benefactors several times over. He is ambitious, too. He is constantly approaching Whelan with new ideas, new stratagems—new revenue streams that will ensure the diocese accounts have never looked healthier. He approaches his profession with the same obsessive love with which he serves his God. Whelan has never seen a man take so much pride in holding a chalice containing the blood of the Lord. Whelan does not even think of the liquid as the blood of Christ any longer. He simply sees wine, as cheap and tasteless as the Communion wafer that sticks to the roof of his mouth and clogs his throat.
“It has to be now?” asks Whelan. Salvatore is accompanied by two of his crew. They have both styled themselves after their young captain—in flared jeans and patterned shirts, their hair pushed back from slim, handsome faces.
“I got places to be,” sniffs Salvatore. He reaches into his jacket for a smoke and then remembers himself. “You gonna listen?” he asks, jerking his head at the confessional.
“Is Tony with you?” asks Father Whelan, looking past the three men. “I’d hoped we could talk.”
“Tony don’t talk,” says Sal with a laugh.
“But he listens,” snaps Father Whelan. “I heard he was living quite comfortably, quite independently. I had hoped to see him to tell him how proud I am of his journey.”
“Pride’s a sin, Father,” says Salvatore. “And if you want to see him so bad, we can arrange it. He don’t like surprises. Neither does Dad. But I’ll give him your best wishes. He’ll be pleased.”
Whelan pauses for a moment, wondering if he can delay the moment. Resignation settles upon him like snow. He nods his head and follows Salvatore to the confessional. He opens the ornate wooden door and steps inside. The old wood of the ancient booth seems to be suffused with the sins of countless decades. He feels as though he can taste the accumulated misdeeds; the pitiful pleas; the cold, dispassionate words of so many priests . . . he feels them climb inside his mouth and into his throat.