“I promise this will be my last call,” I said. “But this is important. Just give me one minute.” I expected her to hang up, but she stayed on the line. “Tonight, I’m taking Carol’s children to St. Patrick’s Cathedral. I want to make sure Carol knows this. Maybe she would like to see the kids in church.” I didn’t give her the exact time for a reason.
Janice huffed into the phone. “Why don’t you call her yourself?”
“She’s unavailable.”
“Those kids have been in church all their lives. I’d be surprised if they hadn’t been to St. Pat’s.”
“That’s all I wanted to say. You got the message, right—the kids, tonight, at St. Patrick’s?”
“I’m not an idiot,” she said and hung up.
That was an understatement. I knew Janice Carpenter was no idiot, but I was also aware there was more to her story than I knew. Something bad had happened to set Bozelle off and claim “emotional distress” for a divorce proceeding. Probably only three people in the world knew what that was about: Janice, Bozelle, and the unidentified woman who attended Rodney’s funeral. The only other person who might have known about Bozelle’s claims about Janice was dead—Rodney Jessup.
I spent the rest of the day plotting my strategy. I had no intention of getting murdered in St. Patrick’s. I rooted around in my New York City travel books and found a couple of pictures of the cathedral. I, of course, had never set foot in the place. Its only interest for me would have been architectural. I had passed by it many times and had been impressed by its massive structure, but I had no desire to go inside. I studied the pictures, which showed the entrance, the nave, and the choir. I familiarized myself as best I could with the photos so I’d have some idea of what I’d be getting into.
I thought a lot about who I was dealing with. Bozelle was a loose cannon who wanted Rodney’s children more than anything else. He was dangerous and I had no doubt that he’d kill me, and Tony, if he got the chance. The kids were another story. Kidnapping for ransom, I was certain, was his objective. The more I pondered the situation, the more I believed Rodney had caused a dreadful occurrence in Bozelle’s life. That was only half the equation. The other half was the money. I was pretty sure Rodney had hired Bozelle to kill Stephen Cross. He was looking to recover half a million dollars that he never got—money he felt he was entitled to. That was about as much as I could surmise.
I clicked on the radio to get the weather report. The sun would be setting about four thirty p.m. If the overcast held, it would be darker earlier at St Patrick’s, which lay in the shadow of the tall Rockefeller Center buildings to the west.
My first inclination was to wear the sequined, red dress I loved so much; however, I didn’t want to look like a high-priced call girl. Not that there was anything wrong with turning tricks. I’d hustled enough in my younger days. But no self-respecting prostitute would wear red sequins on the street the day after Thanksgiving. Well, maybe Ophelia. And the dress was too flashy for a Mass, which I figured might be on tap for early evening in the cathedral. Bozelle had probably figured that out, too, and picked a time when the least amount of people would be in the church.
I decided on something much more subtle, a gray suit, more like Kim Novak’s classic attire in Vertigo. However, I wasn’t pulling my hair back in a bun like Hitchcock demanded of his star. My blonde wig was going to fall loose and free, like brunette Judy Barton before her makeover into Madeleine. The longer tresses would hide the side view of my face.
The suit needed a light pressing so I dragged out my ironing board. I picked out my wig, a pair of gray suede shoes with moderate heels that matched the suit, and a white scarf for my neck. Fortunately, I also had a long coat that was a perfect match, although the lapels were a little too wide to be in fashion. The coat would have to do. I thought about evening gloves and reconsidered because my fingertips might be too slick to hold onto my gun. Instead, I picked out a pair of functional black ones for the walk across town.
I shaved my chest and started my makeup regimen about two p.m., giving myself a good basecoat on my arms, upper chest, neck, and face. The lip and eye makeup were the most difficult. I wanted something compatible with the gray. I tried a light flesh color, but it was too washed out. A very light pink seemed to work on the lips. I didn’t go heavy on the mascara or eyeliner. By three thirty, Desdemona was in full bloom and ready for action. There was something satisfying about getting into character. I liked this other part of myself that didn’t have to wash dishes or put up with bullshit. Desdemona was free to wander about the city doing whatever she wanted to do.
I holstered my gun under my shoulder, put on my coat, took a deep breath, and stepped out the door. The crisp air felt good in my lungs after spending the day in the heat of my apartment. Sometimes I could catch the watery smells of the East River over the steamy subway and sewer odors of Midtown. This afternoon was one of those days.
I wondered if Bozelle or Tony might be lurking outside my door, but nothing seemed to be stirring on the block except the usual cast of characters, including Mrs. Lonnigan tramping down the street with her bottle.
I headed east on Forty-Seventh. St. Patrick’s was a straight shot across town. I crossed Ninth, Eighth, Broadway, Seventh, Sixth, until I reached Fifth. Then I turned north toward the cathedral. The church, though not diminutive by any means, always seemed an iconoclastic throwback to an earlier time, as if an alien race had set down a mystical building in the middle of New York’s stone and glass towers. One couldn’t help but be awed by the site of the Gothic Revival architecture and its twin spires stabbing like knives into the evening sky. The lights were coming up around the city and the spotlights on St. Patrick’s bathed the structure in a cool gray. I was not a churchgoing man, but there was something magnificent about the cathedral. I could feel its presence, its spiritual fingers grasping for me, before I reached the massive bronze doors.
The huge sculpture of Atlas, bearing the weight of the world on his shoulders, was situated directly across the street. The irony was not lost on me. The only thing better would have been to put him in a dress.
I walked up the steps of the church, throwing an extra sway in my behind as I climbed. My skin itched with nerves, but I was used to keeping them under control. I liked being right on the edge, but not out of control. The importance of my task felt monumental; it didn’t hurt I was there to bring down a bad guy. A man and woman, tourists I presumed, pushed open the massive doors and I stepped inside the lofty expanse of the cathedral. The sight was overwhelming. The pictures in my travel books had not captured the in-person visual effect. The smell of burning candles wafted to my nose.
Huge fluted columns soared upward like palms, and ended in spidery buttresses spreading like cobwebs across the ceiling. The last vestiges of light seeped through the stained-glass windows, and, despite the failing rays, illuminated saints, rose windows, and glass panels colored in blue, red, and yellow shimmered on the supporting walls. The windows’ delicacy gave an airy effect to the immense space. The glass was predominately blue, which now was turning indigo in the sunset.
I looked at my Lady Timex. It was a few minutes before sunset. More tourists than I had anticipated were strolling through the cathedral’s aisles. Not good news. I decided to join them and scope out the territory. I took a few steps, turned, and looked back at the massive organ I had just walked under. I continued to the right, past altars and shrines glittering with novena candles. I stopped short of the sanctuary before turning around. An older woman and a younger man, separated by the center aisle, knelt in prayer near the front of the cathedral. My eyes caught sight of the massive marble Pieta folded gracefully into a curve of the ambulatory.
Following the flow of the walkway, I looked back toward the entrance. More people were filing out than in, but about fifteen remained inside—more than I was comfortable with. As I watched the doors, two nuns, dressed in full black habits, entered and then knelt at the first altar near the small gift shop.
That was my next stop. Bozelle could be hiding among the cards and crucifixes. I only had to walk past it to see that wasn’t the case. A stout lady with gray hair standing near the register gave me a smile.
My nerves continued their twitch and I decided to take a seat a few rows from the back in a scuffed brown pew that looked as if it had been there for a hundred years. It probably had. More behinds than I cared to think about had endured Mass on this bench. I slid in on the slick wood, adjusted my dress, and looked down to the High Altar. I kept my eyes open to any sudden movements or any strange figures lurking about, but the cathedral was quiet—one might say in a prayerful, meditative mood. Maybe everyone had eaten too much turkey on Thanksgiving. Nothing unusual was happening. I waited for ten minutes.
Anxiety finally overtook me. My skin crawled. It was easier sitting in the Déjà Vu porn theater in Boston waiting for Chris Spinetti, the crazy cop, to show up than to be in St. Patrick’s. At least in the theater, the lights were dim, I knew the place like the back of my hand, and I had a fighting chance against someone trying to jump me. In the cathedral, I felt exposed, vulnerable, and as naked as if I hadn’t been wearing my smart gray suit at all. The place gave me the creeps.
To my right, I saw a black habit flowing toward me. I realized too late that a second nun, shorter, was bearing down on me from my left. A pair of rough hands pushed me down the pew. The bigger nun plopped herself beside me and stretched out her long legs. In a flash, I was surrounded by two of the Lord’s good emissaries attired in their finest. I quickly got the idea they weren’t there to pray—particularly when I felt a pistol barrel, concealed underneath the habit, being pushed against my ribs.
I looked at the nun to my right. A silver crucifix hung glittering down to the waist; a rosary hung from a belted sash.
Bozelle stared back at me, rage gleaming in his eyes.
“Where are the kids, Harper?” he whispered through his teeth.
“A little late for Halloween, aren’t we?” I asked.
“I’d watch the smartass comments, Des, or your guts will be splattered all over St. Patrick’s.”
“You know me too well,” I said. “How come I don’t know much about you?”
He shoved the gun harder against my ribs and I winced. Another weapon poked through the habit on my left side. The woman wearing it had slits for eyes and arching brows. Her face had an outdoor tanned color, and I got the idea that she, regardless of her height, was well muscled. Whatever Bozelle was serving, she was willing to dish it out as well.
“You’re pretty easy to pick out in a cathedral,” he said. “Are Jessup’s brats coming or do I have to kill you now?”
“Did you think I was going to hand them over without reservations—a little something for me?” I thought I’d bluff my hand.
“What do you mean?”
The old lady who had been praying near the front of the church walked toward us. As she approached, Bozelle lowered his head. The woman took a dollar bill out of her purse and dropped it in his lap. “Thank you, Sister, for all you do.” She sauntered off behind us.
“See what happens when you serve your maker,” I said to him. “Fortune falls into your lap.”
“Shut the fuck up,” he said.
“I could have taken advantage of that distraction, but I didn’t. I want to work with you. You’re right. I hated Jessup as much as you did. I want the whole family wiped out.”
He turned slowly toward me, his glassy eyes narrowing as they focused on my face. “I don’t believe you.”
“I can turn over Ruthie, John, and Carol, too. I’m sure she had something to do with all that you’ve gone through.”
“How would you know that?”
“All I have to do is read between the lines of the newspaper clippings. Your divorce from Janice must have been messy. Mental cruelty is never fun—unless it’s part of the game. Who doesn’t like a little S&M now and then?”
“Pervert.” Bozelle spit the word out. “You’re nothing but a disgusting pervert. That you would even be sitting in this church dressed like a woman fries my ass.”
“You’re one to talk. I guess God has taken the holiday weekend off. Otherwise, He might have dropped the ceiling on us.”
“What do you want?”
“Half the money you were supposed to get.” I caught him off guard.
He couldn’t believe I knew. I let my gut do the talking.
“Rodney offered you a tidy sum to kill Stephen Cross, the one man who could destroy him. But a small-time neo-Nazi beat you to it. Half a million dollars down the drain. You must have been pissed. Rodney paid me half that to protect him. I did a piss-poor job.”
Bozelle laughed, then caught himself, and covered up his glee with a cough. “I almost put a bullet in your head the day I killed Rodney, but I thought you were already dead. I heard a car in the distance. Maybe I had the wrong idea about you . . . go on.”
“Not much else to say. You let me go and I deliver Carol and the kids to you tomorrow wherever you want. You get the goods you’re after and I get to keep my half of the money. Simple as that.”
“I like that idea,” he said, “but I need some insurance.” He smiled and his teeth glistened. “You’re coming with us. Tomorrow you make the call and make good on your promise. We have nice overnight accommodations for a special guest.”
I shrugged. “Whatever you say. I’m ready when you are.”
Bozelle looked around. The crowd had dwindled to maybe ten or so. I hadn’t had a chance to look back to see if anyone else had come in.
“The two sisters will escort you out,” he said.
“Aren’t you going to introduce me to Sister Silent on my left.”
“Later,” he said. “When we get outside, we’re going to turn right and go to the side of the church. We want to make sure you’re not carrying. You’re not supposed to pack heat in church anyway.” He laughed at his joke.
“One question before we go,” I said. “Why did you hate Rodney so much?”
“Too long a story—the bastard killed someone dear to me.” Bozelle looked down as if he was trying to hide the pain in his eyes. “Rodney Jessup was an adulterer and he paid the price. I hope he’s rotting in hell. Let’s go.” He grabbed me by the arm and told his female companion to keep her gun aimed at my back. “When we get out of the pew, stand next to him,” Bozelle instructed her. “Don’t let him make any sudden moves.”
I was covered, with no way to get to my gun. I couldn’t reach for Bozelle without getting shot in the back. I couldn’t push backward into Sister Silent without taking it from Bozelle. He was too fast and I didn’t want to mess with a sharpshooter marine. And there was no telling what kind of a crack shot his companion was.
We turned toward the cathedral entrance and my mouth dropped open.
Tony was standing in front of the bronze doors with his gun drawn.
Bozelle saw him too and in a split second he dropped to the floor and fired at my friend. Three quick blasts to the chest from a semiautomatic pistol knocked Tony against the door. He crumpled and fell. Screams erupted in the sanctuary.
Instinctively, I pushed the woman to my right to the floor. She hit the marble with a thud and her gun spurted out from under her habit and circled underneath a pew.
Bozelle was still prone, but his gun had shifted toward me. He must have thought he’d been set up. He was ready to shoot me when a well-placed bullet knocked the gun from his hand. He screamed and withdrew his bleeding hand into the habit. I looked left toward the gift shop from where the shot had been fired. Abby stepped out from behind one of the Gothic pillars. I took out my gun and covered Bozelle. Abby was on top of the woman, cuffing her, before I could get any words out.
My heart boomed in my chest as I looked at Tony. I shouted his name but there was no response. Abby looked concerned as well, but she kept her gun drawn on the woman. A crowd began to gather. A few of the sightseers raised their heads slowly from the pews where they had taken cove
r. A man and woman opened the doors to the cathedral. She screamed when she nearly tripped over Tony’s body. In what seemed like the longest minute I’d ever experienced, I kept my gun aimed at Bozelle. Blood soaked the habit and flowed across the floor. Two NYPD cops, guns drawn, rushed in the door and called for backup. Abby showed her PI ID and shouted instructions. The whole scene played out before me like a bizarre dream.
Nothing mattered to me but Tony. One of the cops took my place and I sprinted toward the door. It was hard to kneel in my dress, but I finally got down and leaned over his face. A small pool of blood had formed behind his head. I yelled his name and his eyes fluttered open.
“Thank god,” I said, hardly aware of what I was proclaiming. “Are you all right?”
“My head hurts,” he said. “I must have hit it against the doors.” He lifted his sweater and showed me the body armor he was wearing.
“Jesus,” I said. “You gave me a scare. I thought you were dead.”
Tony leaned up on his elbows and I looked at the back of his head. A two-inch cut near the crown was bleeding profusely.
“Here,” I said.
I removed the white scarf from my neck and wrapped it around his head. He looked like Carmen Miranda on a very bad day. “Let’s get out of here. Cops give me the creeps.”
He managed a smile. “I think we’ll have some explaining to do before they let us go. The archdiocese probably doesn’t think much of shoot-outs in St. Patrick’s.”
Tony was right.
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
DAMAGE AT ST. PATRICK’S WAS MINIMAL. NO bullets had lodged in the bronze doors because they had been stopped by Tony’s vest. The bullet that passed through Bozelle’s hand splintered the back of one of the pews, but the repair job would be cosmetic. Not so, his hand. In my humble opinion, Bozelle wouldn’t be firing a gun soon.
We were all hustled down to the local precinct office for another round of cop torture. Despite it being smack in the middle of Manhattan, the office seemed much more relaxed than the station in Buena Vista. All a matter of perception, I thought. I felt more at home here than I did in Rodney Jessup’s hometown. The cops had a no-bullshit attitude, but also a sense of humor. Maybe they were loaded with turkey and pumpkin pie, too. Anyway, it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.
An Absent God Page 17