Red on Red

by Edward Conlon

  “I dunno, Sister.”

  “No, you do not. And since you do not, and cannot, please do not wear this jewelry. A crucifix, the Miraculous Medal, Our Lady, many things mean something. Saint Barbara does not.”

  “Yes, Sister. But my moms gave it to me.”

  “Tell her, then, to look up Saint Barbara, and your mother will find she does not exist. Saints are to help us find God. God does not find us—even—especially, when we try to look pretty, in a foolish, unladylike way. Such as with makeup, as you wear. Go to the bathroom and wash your face, please. Right now, so I will not ask you to stay after school tomorrow, to write an essay about modesty.”

  When the girl had been dismissed, Sister Agnes explained that the legend of Barbara was from the time of the early Christians, during the persecution of the Romans. Her cruel pagan father had her killed for her faith, after which he was struck down by lightning. Sister Agnes continued the lesson as she led Nick to her office. “The Orthodox Church still allows her cult, but we do not. So you see, if a Greek girl wore the necklace, or a Russian, it would be merely silly. But for many Spanish people, from the islands, Barbara is a disguised saint. They use her as the Christian face of one of the pagan gods, from slavery. The war god, of all things—because of the lightning! Can you think of a deception that is quite so repellent? Can you, Detective?”

  “Not offhand, Sister.”

  “If I wanted a thousand gods, I could have stayed in India.”

  They sat there in silence for a moment, each distracted by private reverie. Sister Agnes seemed mournful. Did she miss her childhood, its crowded heavens? Nick looked away, in furtive deference, unwilling to intrude, reluctant to be caught staring. He felt terrible for poor Barbara, cast out from the communion of saints. What a harsh accusation, the worst possible insult: not unimportance but nonexistence. Nick sympathized. Then, he remembered.

  “Actually, there is something worse, Sister. That’s what I came to see you about.”

  “Yes, forgive me. Please.”

  And Nick told her what had happened, what he wanted to do. He did not tell her that Grace had been raped, only that she had been followed by a man Nick believed to be the rapist. He assured her that he did not mean to interrupt the routine of the school; in fact, he needed it to continue without interruption. Sister Agnes considered what was said, flexing her fingers.

  “I might suggest the tower, on the southwest, as convenient. Quite a bit of the surroundings are visible, and it is rarely used.”

  “Convenient for what, Sister?”

  “If you need to shoot him, of course. From a distance. With a rifle.”

  “Thank you for offering. I think other plans … are, um, being planned.”

  “Very well. We are at your disposal.”

  Sister Agnes rose from her seat, indicating Nick should do the same, and led him down the hall. She stopped for a second, then continued walking, as if something had occurred to her, but she did not want to reveal her sudden thought. “We have a very fine lady here, a counselor. Do you think that Grace would benefit from speaking to her, in the event that she has experienced any … difficulty or confusion?”

  “It’s always good to have someone to talk to…. I don’t know if Grace is more confused than anyone else her age. Less, in lots of ways.”

  “I see…. Ladies!”

  Sister Agnes had spotted the basketball team again, as they clustered in a hallway corner. One of them had seen her, and she had spurred the girls into jogging again with a desperate elbow, amid fits of giggles. Sister knew there was some clandestine activity afoot, likely innocent, but nonetheless worthy of her notice. “They must be watched, always. Otherwise, it would be bedlam.”

  “Bethlehem.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The word comes from ‘Bethlehem,’ Sister. From a mental hospital in England, called Bethlehem. It was the way the local people said it.”

  Sister Agnes stopped abruptly. “That may be true, Detective, but it is nonetheless impertinent. I shall see you tomorrow, of course, if necessary. But I hope it is not.”

  Back at the squad, the plans were laid early in the evening, for the next day. Grace would be watched as she walked from her apartment to the bus stop; one of the detectives would be on the bus when she boarded. The rest of the roles required costumes, or at least props, and Nick was impressed by how they were fought over. They could use a groundskeeper, a phone company man on the pole, maybe a derelict. Could there be a hot dog vendor? No, not in this cold. And snow, heavy snow, was forecast for tomorrow. Esposito had hung back from the meeting, and Nick thought he seemed sullen. He usually wanted the lead, and usually he got it; now he said nothing. Garelick wanted to be a priest, but Lieutenant Ortiz had vetoed the request.

  “That’s just prejudice, plain and simple,” Garelick muttered, his affront unfeigned.

  The lieutenant was unmoved. “I’m the priest, and what I say goes. Whoever doesn’t have a bit now, they’re in cars, two in a car, on side streets, ready to move in. Nobody gets to be the milkman, nobody gets to be the chimney sweep, whatever. This is not a goddamn high school musical!”

  In the end, the assignments were made, and Esposito and Napolitano took one of the catch cars, staying off to the side. The lieutenant was wrong. This was a play, and it was high school. Grace alone had undertaken her role without fear or fuss. The men had argued in the office about what her signal should be if she saw him, whether it should be to blow her nose or take off her glasses, and Nick tried to remember if she was in the habit of doing either. It had to be subtle enough for the detectives to recognize, at a distance, without the rapist noticing, up close. Less than doing jumping jacks, more than yawning or blinking, touching her nose. Nick told the lieutenant he’d work it out, and tell them later.

  “And you told the father, Nick? What did he say?”

  “A lotta cursing in Spanish, a lotta crying. He’s the father. You know how it is, Lou. But he knows this is the best chance to get the guy, so he’s on board.”

  Nick thought he had lied beautifully, but he caught a flicker of wariness in the lieutenant’s eyes, so he went on. “The one thing he says? He says, ‘Make sure there’s not a trial. The animal, he doesn’t deserve it.’ I told him we’d do what we had to do.”

  The lieutenant was satisfied with the answer, and went home soon after. When Nick called Grace again, it was from the lieutenant’s office, with the door closed. He hoped her father wouldn’t pick up the phone.

  “What kind of shoes do you wear, Grace?”

  “Regular shoes. Ugly. Uniform shoes. But tomorrow it’s supposed to snow, so I’ll wear my new boots. They’re really nice, and—”

  “You’ll have boots on, in the morning?”

  “Yeah. It’s supposed to snow. My father got ’em. I can’t believe it, but they’re really nice.”

  “Okay. Wear them tomorrow, even if it’s sunny. And if you see the guy, I want you to drop down, pretend to tie your shoe.”

  “But there’s no laces.”

  “I know. It’s so if you drop down to check, it’s not for that. It’s so we’ll know he’s there.”

  “Won’t he know, too?”

  “No. I don’t think so. Most guys don’t pay much attention to shoes. He’s smart, but I don’t think he’s that smart. Were, um, you wearing shoes when he was there before? Was he really interested in them? Did he touch them, or did he say anything about them?”

  “Nah.”

  “Okay. Just check something in your shoe. Pretend something’s stuck, there’s a rock in it, whatever.”

  “Okay.”

  “All right. Good. Also, since they’re new shoes, would you walk around in them tonight for a little bit? I don’t want you to stub your toe, and everybody jumps in, scaring him away. Tell you what—Never mind, let’s think of something else, another signal—”

  “No, Nick. It’s okay. I get it. They fit fine. My father has a shoe store. He doesn’t know much, but my shoes fit
. Anyway, I’m gonna march around my room, just to be safe, so it feels right, for tomorrow. It’s gonna be hard to go to sleep tonight…. And I can’t tell my father, right?”

  “Right.”

  All of these melodramatic secrecies were awful, maybe illegal, but the alternatives were worse. Lopez could only get in the way. Grace called one last time, later that night, just before Nick was going home.

  “Detective Nick?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you promise to get him?”

  The temptation tore at Nick, but he could not say the one word she wanted. He grasped for an answer that would give neither of them frostbite.

  “I can’t make guarantees like that, Grace. But I promise you, if he shows up, I’ll do what needs to be done.”

  “Okay. Mostly, I just wanted to say thanks. Also, that I feel sorry for him. That guy. He must be so … I don’t know. But can you imagine what it’s like to be him? I feel bad…. Is that weird?”

  Nick was speechless again, as he had been when she had first called that day. Then, he had feared she had seen through him; now he was afraid he would never see her, never begin to comprehend her wild gift. She hadn’t forgiven the rapist, but she felt for him, tried to understand. There was something devastating in how she did that, even now—especially now, on the eve of another ordeal—that there was a place in her mind for compassion, a thought for someone else. It was almost offensive in its generosity. She was the true mystery, not the degenerate who pursued her. Brutality and need were natural, not this. Nick was humbled, grateful that he had the chance to work for her.

  “Do you think it’s weird?”

  “A little, Grace, but we’re all a little weird. You’re all right, though. Get some rest.”

  “Okay. See you tomorrow.”

  “We’ll be there, even when you don’t see us.”

  Nick looked at her picture on his desk one last time before he went home, in the silly pose, the ghastly, trashy getup. He wished he had another, like Napolitano’s communion pictures of his kids, the sweet piety not at all false despite the canned emotion and hokey costumes. Then he thought this photograph was a better icon, just as it was, a reminder that things were not as they seemed.

  A cold night, a cold dawn. It was barely sunrise when Garelick and Nick set up on a rooftop with binoculars, and they remained for two hours before Grace left her apartment, across the street. No one expected anything to happen during the morning, but rehearsal would limit the risk. An older undercover had been borrowed from Narcotics to keep watch in the lobby, singing sentimental songs, sipping brandy. Perez was the passenger on the bus, but he was forbidden the use of hidden microphones, which might have tempted him to have sustained conversations with his sleeve. He had been instructed to remain aboard for several more stops past the school—two, no five—just to be safe. Garelick and Nick would have the sleeve-mikes, earpieces concealed below wool caps. It was late morning when the two of them walked onto the school grounds, in green coveralls. Sister Agnes was waiting at the gate. She did not acknowledge Nick as he passed. The air was fierce and frigid, with sudden gusts that approached gale speed, and the snow had begun to fall. That would have explained why Sister Agnes’s eyes were so red.

  The sister couldn’t stay there; she was too visible, too effective in her pose of warning. Nick didn’t want to approach her, equally wary of countersurveillance and of her fiery eyes. He had to tell someone, and he found the priest, pacing on the edge of the pallid lawn. Lieutenant Ortiz wore a cassock of the old style, the black robe with the long row of buttons down the middle, thirty-three of them. When he saw Nick, the lieutenant tapped him on the shoulder, beckoning him with a nod to follow around to the side of the school. He shivered, the white skullcap on his head offering little warmth. Nick was appreciative of the efforts he had taken, until it occurred to him that only the pope wore the white cap. Nick stared at it until the lieutenant noticed the scrutiny and responded with a hint of petulance.

  “Garelick gave it to me. It’s a yarmulke from his family. He wanted me to have it today. For luck. I felt bad that he didn’t get to do the priest bit. God damn, I want a cigarette.”

  They withdrew farther into the grounds until they found an alcove in the walls, a hidden garden in the gap. There were four bare rosebushes, a plaster saint, three girls huddled around a single unlit cigarette. Lieutenant Ortiz strode in among them and snatched it out of their hands.

  “Gimme that.”

  He slapped his chest, his hips, where he might have expected to find his lighter in ordinary clothes. The cassock had no pockets. He took the matches from one girl’s hands and lit the cigarette, ducking down and blocking the wind with his shoulders. He could have done it at sea, during a typhoon. He drew deeply on the cigarette, twice, then passed it back to the girl.

  “Thanks.”

  The girl blinked, then nervously returned it. Lieutenant Ortiz took the cigarette and winked at her before turning to lead Nick away. Nick could hear them as he left: “What’s up with Father? He’s so ghetto….”

  The snow fell more heavily, started to stick to the ground. Though Lieutenant Ortiz was calm again, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, Nick fumed at the needless risk of the encounter, the attention it could attract. Yes, just another day in the convent, nothing to see here, nothing at all, just the pope bumming smokes from schoolgirls in a storm. They walked to an outbuilding, a shed that held some landscaping equipment, some tools. Nick stepped inside to assess the possibilities—a bit of a workshop, a bit of a clubhouse. It would do. The shed was almost warm, and Nick calmed down. The lieutenant waited at the door, looking outside.

  “You have to tell Sister Agnes to go back inside,” Nick said.

  “I’ll tell her. We might as well hole up here for a few hours, till the afternoon. I’ll call the other guys, tell them to set up again at two. Have them pass by, every half hour or so, see if somebody’s lurking around. The weather’s on our side. It doesn’t feel like it, but it is. Here comes Garelick—looks like he’s got some supplies. Good. Don’t complain about the hat, Nick. You’ll hurt his feelings.”

  Garelick came inside and closed the door after him, stamping his feet like a Yukon trapper back at his cabin. Nick had doubts about whether he was up for it, if he had the heart or the strength for the labors ahead. Garelick cared about Nick, not the girl or the perp. When Nick had shown him Grace’s picture, on the rooftop earlier, he’d barely glanced at it. Garelick carried a brown grocery bag in his arms, and cleared a table of oil cans and paintbrushes to lay out sandwiches and coffee. After the meal was arranged, he shook out the bag, and two packs of cigarettes and a lighter fell out. Lieutenant Ortiz smiled. If he’d had doubts about Garelick, they had been laid to rest.

  “Hang tight,” said the lieutenant. “I’m gonna have a talk with the sister. Back in five. Don’t eat without me.”

  With that announcement, he strode back into the storm.

  “What’s up with him? It is cold out, dammit…. Nick, are those shoes waterproof? You really should—Anyway, I brought coffee. I’m having mine. I’m not waiting. They’re all black. I got cream and sugar on the side. Real cream, Nick. I know you like that.”

  Garelick stamped his feet again, and unzipped his green coveralls. He was wearing a suit underneath, dark blue, with a white shirt and a yellow checked tie. He might have bought it on sale twenty years before, he might have worn it once a week since, but the effect was elegant, as if he had crawled up through the surf at a moonlit tropical beach, shedding his wet suit for a tuxedo, monocle, and martini. He fixed Nick a coffee and made another cup for himself, lifting it in casual salute. How old was he? Was he sixty? He couldn’t be much more, but he wasn’t less; today he had come here, slipping through a blizzard, in disguise, trying to help snatch a serial rapist. He had semi-contemporaries who were Sunbelt evacuees, arguing over shuffleboard scores, nudging someone else’s widow in the diner nearest to the golf-condo townhouse community. I don’t
care about my pressure. Would you give me the dessert menu?

  Even as Nick had begun to recast him, sloughing off old assumptions, Garelick raised a hand with unexpected authority; he put his coffee down, and Nick felt obliged to do the same.

  “Nick, let me tell you this as advice, as a friend. Before the lieutenant comes back. No one has more than one stomach. You can’t eat twice. Do you follow what I’m saying?”

  “No.”

  “This fight with Esposito. I don’t know why you and him hate each other now, but I don’t know why you connected in the first place, let alone got so close. You were the only one who ever really got along with him. Not for nothing? Nobody really got along with you, either, Nick. You were a putz; he was a prick. But it worked! Now, both of you, you’re driving everyone crazy. Everybody can feel it. Nobody has fun anymore. And there’s more than hard feelings at stake. On days like today, you don’t need the distraction. Somebody could get hurt.

  “Don’t say anything. I wasn’t looking for an answer. I didn’t ask a question.”

  Nick understood and agreed, though the desert wisdom of the two-stomach bit was still obscure to him. Lieutenant Ortiz came back inside. He found a seat on a stool and hiked up his cassock, taking a cigarette and coffee. He had jeans on beneath his robes, which somehow seemed indecent. As they ate, they worked through the possibilities. When the rapist had first attacked Grace, conning his way inside her house, was the gun real? Was he from this neighborhood, or had the next meeting been by chance? At this stage, the perp appeared to be a planner, a strategist. He knew where she went to school, how and when, that she walked alone. Nick remembered what he could about the pattern. Most of the victims were young, suggesting that there was a preferred target, which meant selection and study. The rapist didn’t just knock on random doors. But a third of the victims were middle-aged and beyond. What did that mean? That he made mistakes, but he didn’t mind when he made them. Everything was good for him, each one a win. When Nick asked the lieutenant if he knew anything else, he replied that his counterpart at Special Victims had brusquely informed him that the details were confidential. It would be sweet for Lieutenant Ortiz if his squad carried the day.