THE JUDAS HIT

by W. D. Gagliani

  

  Chapter 61

  West Village

  Manhattan, New York

  Simon was returning from upstate, after dropping off the Bullitt Mustang at Hughes’s place. He always covered the cost of the repair in cash, adding a hefty bonus for discretion. Hughes had then driven Simon to his hangar on the fringes of Albany International Airport, where Simon had selected one of his new additions, a black Alfa Romeo 4C Spider that looked more at home on a racetrack.

  Now feeling the road beneath him in the agile roadster, he turned on his phone to find several terse voicemails from Vandenberg, who tried not to sound furious. Simon chuckled. Vandenberg’s voice dripped rage.

  “I’m not sure what a priest is doing getting shot at and chased across Queens,” Vandenberg said in one voicemail, “but I’m pretty damn sure it’s not church bake sale business. Call me back pronto, Padre. Besides the shots fired, I’d also like to know why there was an apparent crash but nothing left—no damn debris.”

  Simon dialed.

  “What the hell’s going on, Padre?” Vandenberg was whispering furiously, obviously afraid of being overheard. “If you’re even a priest at all.”

  Deflecting the blunt question, Simon greeted him with an enthusiastic tone he was sure would rankle the grizzled homicide cop.

  “Hello, Detective. I was going to call you—”

  “I’ve been calling you for hours.”

  “Had my phone off. My apologies, but I had to step out of town for a bit today. I’m on my way back now. I was hoping to meet with you…”

  “That’s good,” said the cop, “because I wanted to meet with you. We need to talk about the bombings.”

  “Yes.”

  “They’re not about terrorism at all, are they?”

  “No. Not in the way most people mean it. But there’s definitely an element of terror involved.”

  Vandenberg grunted. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Perhaps I can enlighten you when we meet. Say an hour from now? How about that delightful diner again? The one with the good tuna salad?”

  “Yeah, fine. It’s lucky they didn’t use a bigger bomb, or that place would be ashes too.”

  “I’m sure the bomb’s targets were more specific. The next building wasn’t part of the plan.”

  “Don’t stand me up.”

  “We won’t,” Simon said, but he was cut off by the dial tone and disconnection beep.

  Humming, he dialed Cat’s phone.

  Chapter 62

  Miss Ella’s Diner

  Queens, New York

  “I’m not sure this is a good idea, Simon.”

  Cat had argued with him the whole way, but her opposition weakened after he described Vandenberg.

  “He’s the real thing, Caterina, a cop who can’t be bought and who wants to get to the bottom of things because it’s the right thing to do and because it’s his job. Not because there’s some political payoff. Or cash.”

  “You’ve met with him, what, two or three times? How can you be sure?”

  “He’s smart enough to connect the bombings, see it’s not terrorism. The whole city’s on alert for terrorists, but what’s going on under the surface is a lot worse. He seems to understand that, somehow. The fact that I can’t influence him much is also intriguing. It’s as if we were meant to connect.”

  “Destiny? The Great Plan?” Cat shrugged.

  “I’m aware of many Great Plans, and pardon me if I remind you that destiny might have had a small role in what happened to me. The Simon Pound origin story, if you will. You of all people should understand.”

  She nodded. “You’re right, of course. But you said he’s not accepting your priest cover, so that makes him potentially a problem.”

  “It was never that great a cover anyway, and my inability to influence him is the reason he’s not buying it. He doesn’t know what’s with me, but he knows there’s more than he knows, you see?”

  “You said he thinks you’re an exorcist!”

  “I led him to that conclusion, yeah, and it’s okay—in a way I am a sort of exorcist, aren’t I?” He grinned. “Cue ‘Tubular Bells!’ I know a thing or two about battling demons, real and imaginary. In the end, isn’t what we have here a huge fucking exorcism we have to arrange for just the right moment?”

  Cat wasn’t shocked by his language or attitude. Simon—Judas—had lived long enough to find himself in the middle of almost every conspiracy and coup and war anyone could name. His resumé was vast and it had hardened him. Working for the Church didn’t mean you were a religious role model—look at me! she thought—but it did mean you tried to be on the right side, the good side, even if it wasn’t always obvious.

  Simon drove the Alfa aggressively, punching in and out of lanes and shifting like a racecar driver. Cat settled back in the snug cockpit and watched him enjoy the feel of the tires on the road. When they caught traffic, he buried his annoyance by concentrating on his passenger, watching her from the corner of his eye. She liked it.

  The second leg was clogged and afforded little opportunity for thrills, rather requiring patience as the road approached gridlock status. By the time they reached the diner, they were late and Simon had to prowl for a parking space.

  “This is why many New Yorkers don’t bother with cars,” he growled. Finally he slipped into a tight spot two blocks away.

  There was still police tape and a guard at the hotel explosion site. A mobile command center pulled up onto the curb was blocking pedestrian traffic. A CSU van was also parked down the street as technicians continued to walk the grid inside the blasted building looking for trace. Simon hoped Vandenberg would share some details, but he wasn’t holding his breath. He’d sensed enough animosity in the cop’s voice to expect a tough road, which was why he had brought Cat—her mere presence was likely to smooth the way to civil information sharing.

  “Smile.” As they walked, she cast her eyes heavenward. “I’m sure we’re on camera.”

  “Martin’s drone program is off the ground, finally?”

  “They were already monitoring last night,” she said. “We had a Skype conference this morning while you were otherwise occupied.” He didn’t sense any sarcasm, so he supposed she meant the car switch, not Lissy. “They saw that SUV exploding.”

  “Too bad they didn’t hang around to see what happened to the damned thugs and their SUV. Might have learned something.”

  “They’re keyed to me, Simon.”

  “So am I.” He stuck out his tongue.

  They entered the half-full diner. In a corner booth was Vandenberg, in his Giants jacket.

  The cop’s right eyebrow rose when he spotted them. Clearly uncomfortable with the unexpected guest, he stood awkwardly.

  “Jerry, this is Miss Caterina Galassi,” Simon said. “She works with me occasionally.”

  “Please, call me Cat.” She put her slight accent on display.

  Vandenberg shook hands with her. “Nice to, uh, meet you, Cat. Padre, you constantly surprise.”

  Simon chuckled. “If I’m who I say at all, right, Jerry?”

  “You said so,” Vandenberg said defensively. “Father Simon.”

  Simon chuckled. “I am what I say I am, but I don’t work parishes.”

  “I don’t imagine you do. Not while driving vintage cars and hanging around with beautiful women.” He inclined his head at Cat.

  “Thank you,” she said gracefully.

  “Shall we sit?” Simon interjected. “I’m famished. The tuna salad here is amazing.”

  “Can I getcha?” A waitress stepped up as they sat, Cat and Vandenberg on the distressed vinyl bench and Simon on the Fifties chrome chair facing them, his back to the room.

  They ordered coffee, glanced at the old-school typed menus slipped into plastic sleeves, and then ordered lunch when the waitress returned with steaming mugs and a pot.

  Vandenberg impatiently jumped right in. “You’re not really an exorcist, are you?”
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  Simon made a fake cough. “Direct, just like I told you, Cat.”

  She nodded.

  “I’m what you might call a troubleshooter, and sometimes that role involves being something of an exorcist. There’s definitely some vanquishing of demons going on, Jerry. And I’m afraid in this case there’s more.”

  “Who do you work for, exactly? The archdiocese gave me the runaround, confirmed you exist and that was about all.”

  “I do work for the local diocese, but only in a sense. I get my orders from Rome. Literally. This is why Miss Galassi is here, as a sort of liaison.”

  “And to charm me, I suppose,” Vandenberg said. “Not that it isn’t working.”

  “And again I thank you.” Cat smiled. “Simon likes to joke, but there really is a serious situation here. We are from the Vatican on loan to the local church leadership, but really more as consultants.”

  “Let’s say I buy that. What about this demon vanquishing? How am I supposed to take that? We’ve had a couple weird murders here, not to mention two bombings that wiped out witnesses and cops. Simon’s been implying these are all connected.”

  “Tell us about the second murder first,” Simon said.

  Their food came, tuna salad for Cat and Vandenberg, and a huge Western omelet for Simon. After the dishes were arranged, the cop gave them a few details about the second murder. “It wasn’t as, uh, grotesque as the one before that,” he concluded. “Just another mob-style execution, a bullet to the back of the head and a kick out a car door.”

  “Same place, though?”

  “Yeah, within a half block. Direct line of sight, too.”

  Simon turned to Cat. “See, I think it was a case of fueling up for the attempt on you, then disposing of the fuel can. So to speak.”

  She nodded around a bite of sandwich.

  Vandenberg looked quizzically at one, then the other. “This is plainly not fair. You get information from me, but you’re sharing nothing but looks and nudges.”

  “Don’t worry, Jerry, we’ll get to some details soon. Let’s enjoy this great repast, first.” He dug into his omelet with gusto. Vandenberg was clearly angry, but he shrugged and followed suit with his lunch.

  Simon knew there was no way to convince this pragmatic policeman that a magick ritual and five vile statues would give someone the actual power to release the most dangerous demon to come forth from hell. No, that wouldn’t fly. But convincing him that someone with an ego problem and the means to indulge it believed such a ritual would free a bound demon and grant him immeasurable power…that might work.

  “We’re hunting for a psychopathic mass murderer, Jerry.” Simon had finally finished the omelet, which had been better than it had a right to be.

  Then he related the story, going farther than before, with logical alterations that made sense given their intention to skirt the truth but keeping enough facts to make it plausible. Cat ate silently, apparently enjoying the tuna salad.

  When he finished, Simon picked up his mug for punctuation and sipped coffee. Which was actually worse than it should have been.

  Vandenberg was silent a full minute, seemingly digesting what he’d just heard.

  “Are you fuckin’ crazy?” he said, much louder than he probably intended. He lowered his voice to a hissed whisper. “Pardon the French, Padre, but this is all bullshit.”

  “It’s what ties all your cases together. The bombings, the murders.”

  “No, it’s what you say ties them together. First of all. Second, if even slightly true, why aren’t you liaisoning with the NYPD? It sounds crazy, all right, but if you have information that connects these crimes you have a duty to make it known.”

  “That’s what we’re doing, Jerry, by talking to you,” Simon said softly, a harder edge in his tone. He tried a push again, but the cop wasn’t having it.

  “You were involved in some kind of high-speed chase last night,” Vandenberg said, barely containing his anger, “which apparently led to some kind of wreck, but no one can find any evidence of it despite numerous witnesses. What do you have to say about that?”

  Simon backtracked. “I’m not sure what to say, Jerry. If there’s no evidence of a chase or crash, then perhaps there was no chase or crash? Ever think of that?”

  “And yet you’re telling me a second murder at the scene of the first is connected, and you two know quite a bit about it…give me a reason why I shouldn’t arrest both of you now for obstruction?”

  “Because we’re on the same side, Jerry,” Simon confided, still trying to work a solid push into his voice. “But the diocese—and the Church, Jerry, the big Church…the Vatican, Jerry—doesn’t want to be connected to mass murders and bizarre plots carried out by crazy people. You understand that, don’t you?”

  “Even if I did, you’re still bound by law to give up what you know. Unless it’s loony.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Right after the second bombing right next door, you chased a possible perp and didn’t catch him, you said.”

  “I remember.”

  “You had blood on you and suggested it was mine, but it wasn’t. I didn’t bleed at all. So uniforms who were canvassing the neighborhood didn’t find any bodies, but CSU techs did find traces of blood in the back end of a building just down the street. I think maybe you caught somebody after all, Father Simon.”

  Simon looked at Cat and she stared back.

  This isn’t going well.

  “So, I’m waiting. And I’ve called the archdiocese about you and filed a complaint.”

  Ah, shit, Simon thought. Jerry was going to be hard-nosed after all. He’d sensed the cop was different from the usual run-of-the-mill, get it done and go home early kind. Not only mostly immune to Simon’s pushing, but also willing to see through different eyes.

  But his complaint would be filed in the trash. Despite how local Church authorities viewed the VSS, they were bound to cooperate, and their instructions would include providing the operative all requested support—including confirming his cover…and handling complaints. Only if Vandenberg brought up his concerns to upper-echelon police administrators, might there be some leaning on the archdiocese. At that level, it could get complicated. And ugly.

  Simon was willing to bet Jerry wouldn’t do that. The detective was ensnared by his own curiosity regarding what his instincts told him must be something out of the norm.

  “All right,” Simon said, pulling out his phone. “This is what caused all these deaths.” And he showed Vandenberg the vile statue from the construction site.

  The cop stared at him a moment, then looked down. He flinched.

  “Jesus, I’m not religious at all and this thing gives me the creeps.”

  Cat leaned forward. “Yes? Why?”

  “Well, yeah. It’s, like, disgusting. Offensive. But it’s worse than that, isn’t it? I can feel something...Evil.” He shook his head. “I don’t usually say stuff like this. I mean, evil is assholes pushing drugs on kids. Gangbangers shooting up neighborhoods and killing innocent children over a few words or a wrong color hat. Evil is beating the shit out of your wife until she doesn’t make it home from the ER one day. But this…somehow I think this thing is worse.” He looked at them. “And how could it be, really? It’s just a freakin’ statue, right? Sorry, ma’am.”

  Cat inclined her head, shrugging off the apology.

  “Look, Jerry,” Simon pushed his dish away and straightened the paper place mat. “I’m going to level with you. Those bombings are definitely connected to this statue. They were carried out to assassinate all witnesses, anyone who saw it.”

  “So how do you have photographs of it?”

  An astute question…

  “My employers have representatives everywhere. I believe someone was alerted to the possibility it would surface. That person sent out photos, but is now on your list of victims.” Simon suspected Cat would know whether an adept—not necessarily her—had sensed the imminent find. “Since then, we’
ve learned there are other such statues, and as I said earlier, someone believes they will form the basis of a ritual—”

  “Damn it, Padre…”

  “You’re not listening, Jerry. If one believes something, it doesn’t matter if it’s true. Only the belief matters. Hitler believed Germans were the master race and it led to genocide. He didn’t have to be right.”

  Simon passed trembling fingers through his hair.

  He’d had a lot of work in Nazi Germany, though he’d never been dispatched to do the obvious deed, even if he’d been marginally involved in the von Stauffenberg 20 July plot. Still, he’d been leashed and muzzled, much to his dismay. Adolf Hitler himself had been charming to him, when he was known as Thaler. Once. The first time. The second time…well, it was better to forget. Plus he’d hated the stupid black uniforms with all the death fetishism. He quickly suppressed some of the grim memories.

  “We are dealing with an insane individual,” Cat added. “A psychopath with sociopathic tendencies…”

  “Or vice versa,” Simon said, smiling now. Cat glared at him. “Sorry.”

  “Seriously, Detective,” she said, “you must deal with deluded crazy people all day long.”

  “Sure. Most are my coworkers.”

  “See, he can joke,” Simon said. “There’s a humorous angle to everything.”

  “I’d disagree,” said Vandenberg with a grimace.

  “I would, too.” Cat paused as the waitress returned to ask if they needed anything else.

  A bourbon and rocks would be nice, Simon thought.

  They shook their heads and she departed, pointing at the cash register. “Whenever you’re ready.”

  Vandenberg pulled an envelope out of his jacket and tossed it on the table. “There you go. That’s a security camera image of a guy who talked to the first bomber just before he walked into the construction site trailer he blew to hell and back. Camera’s hidden across the street and they probably didn’t know it was there. We found it doing a standard pull of footage—or whatever you call it, it’s all digital crap now—from every damn possible camera nearby. They were careful, but they missed this one.”