by Harker Moore
The elevator went straight to the top, opening onto a small foyerlike hallway with a single impressive door. Michael reached above the frame for a key. He unlocked the apartment, switching on a light just inside.
“Make yourself comfortable.” He followed her in. “I need to grab a shower.” He walked past her with the duffel, disappearing through a doorway.
She stood for a moment, looking around the huge living room. The space was architecturally beautiful with alcoves and elaborate molding. The few furnishings were quality. An Oriental carpet formed an island, where a glass slab of coffee table fronted a long sectional sofa and love seat. Audio and video equipment sat in a recessed wall, along with an impressive collection of CDs. And near the windows, a gym occupied the place where a dining-room set should have been.
She walked to the coffee table, where a book lay open. She picked it up and sat down on the sofa.
“I never took the bar.” Michael stood backlit in the doorway, in jeans again, working a towel through his still damp hair. He moved into the room, took the law book out of her hand. She noticed he’d cut himself shaving.
“Would you like some wine?”
“Sounds good.”
He took out a bottle and some glasses, then pushed the button on the CD player. Something bluesy came out, the wail of an alto sax. She was acutely aware of him, of the pressure of his body, as he slumped into the sofa.
“Why?” she asked.
“Why what?” He poured out a glass of wine and handed it to her.
“Why didn’t you take the bar?”
“I decided being a cop was closer to the action.” His face had become fixed, and it was quiet again, except for the music.
“Well, here’s the action.” She pointed to the cassettes she’d set on the table.
His eyes avoided them.
“We’ve had some developments,” she pressed on. “The tapes are interviews with three men we’re calling potential witnesses.”
“Suspects,” he said. His tone feigned disinterest.
She put down her glass. She hadn’t been lying about being exhausted and was suddenly too tired to keep up her end of this.
He took a sip of his wine. “Who are these … potential witnesses?” He finally looked down at the tapes.
Now that it seemed her little mission might be successful, she felt strangely deflated, seized with a lethargy that had nothing to do with fatigue. Michael was waiting, the vacuum between them building again, along with her need to fill it.
“Are you cold?” He’d seen her shiver.
“No, I’m fine. But it is cold … outside, I mean.”
It was a stupid thing to have said. She had the sudden giddy thought that walls were falling. She felt him move, sensed him edging toward her around the raw curve of glass. She turned her face willingly enough to his, but there was still the thrill of fear when he kissed her.
He had surprised her by coming so late. But Zoe had known he would come … eventually. She was in the shower when she heard the banging at the door. She scrambled for her terry cloth robe and looked through the peephole.
He was standing there, his collar open, his tie loosened. He held his coat flung over his shoulder. It seemed he hadn’t slept in a week and needed a shave. For an instant she considered not answering the door. Then she flipped the dead bolt.
At first it appeared he was only interested in the drops of water sliding from her hair, down her neck into the gap of her robe. “Sorry about the dead bolt,” she said finally, determined to play it as nice as she could for as long as she could.
Johnny held out his hand. The key to her apartment was in it. She met his eyes, then reached out and took it.
“You’re a selfish cunt. You know that.”
She nodded. “But you knew that from the beginning.”
He looked like he wanted to hit her, but he wouldn’t.
“Are you going to stand out there to finish this?” She moved away from the door, leaving him in the hallway. She pulled up on the thick collar of her robe, patting water from her hair. She heard the door close.
“Want a drink?” She turned, feeling her robe slip off her shoulder. She didn’t bother to fix it.
“This isn’t a social call.” He threw his jacket across a chair.
“None of our meetings were social, Johnny. It was always business.” The words oozed out. Nice was just not in the program.
His eyes darkened. She could count his pulse in the flesh at his neck. Then he smiled. “Except the whore got overpaid. The info was better than the pussy.”
She laughed. “May I quote you?”
“Why not? You’ve quoted me on everything else.”
“Come on, Rozelli, you gave me piss. I had to go after the shit that really counted.”
He moved closer. She could smell his day-old cologne. “Now let me see,” he said. “How did you manage to do that?” His hands were waist level. “I figure after I get the phone call about what’s gone down at St. Sebastian, you get your tight little ass dressed and follow me.” His fingers made contact with the knot on her robe’s belt. “How am I doing so far?”
Her eyes tightened at the edges.
“Then you manage to sneak into the church, where you have a front-row seat. You keep your eyes and ears open. Hear about the wings. Make the connection between the kid and the fags. All the time watching us dumb fucks play detective. How’s that?”
“Right on the button.” She felt his hand yank the belt. The white robe hung open.
“You think this is just about getting a story, don’t you?” His fingers were at one of her nipples. “Well, you’re wrong, Zoe. This is about somebody’s eight-year-old not breathing anymore.” He twisted.
She grimaced.
“I admit I probably fed you. Enough for a couple of good bylines. Harmless enough. But you got way too hungry, baby, way too hungry.”
What am I going to see? he had asked her.
The television screen was now the solid blue of blank tape. But for hours Michael Darius had watched the interviews with Jimmy’s three suspects to no discernible result. A bottle of scotch on the coffee table in front of him was empty. The ashtray was full.
I don’t want to prejudice your judgment. Willie had denied him an answer. And I’ve really got to go and get some sleep.
She had looked tired when she’d left, with violet shadows haunting her eyes. But there was more than a lack of sleep, he suspected, behind her obvious need to escape. She’d been uncomfortable with that kiss, with what now seemed inevitable between them.
He had not spoken to Jimmy since the murder scene in the church, but the image of the winged child above the crèche had never left his mind and had now materialized on the cover of the Post, which Willie had left for him.
He rubbed his eyes and tapped a cigarette from the pack. He had not slept much since Saturday.
Despite all his objections, it seemed he could not escape this case. But if he had once had some special talent for investigation, he did not know how it worked. The process was a mystery that did, or didn’t, occur. He could not turn it on like a faucet. A million years ago he had enjoyed that indefinableness. Now since Hudson, he felt naked and out of control, with instinct alone, a wild animal’s instinct.
This was the real reason he’d left the force. The reason he’d tried to beg out of even an informal involvement in these murders. He felt suffocated by this case, unable to get a perspective. Although he knew he was less shocked than the others by the fact of Lucia’s death. He had never been convinced that the homosexuality of the victims was the defining quality that marked them.
He had no idea what did.
CHAPTER
15
Did my invitation get lost in the mail?”
“You’re up early, Counselor.” Sakura secretly congratulated himself on his prediction. He figured Faith would corner him before he’d had time to brew his first cup of tea. “Tea?” he asked as he stood.
“
Why wasn’t I called in for those interviews?”
He smiled. “They’re not suspects.”
“Don’t get technical with me, Sakura. The Mancuso girl was murdered in the priest’s church. Paladino was her favorite uncle, and Shelton is a probable pedophile.”
“And what about their connection to the other victims?” he asked.
“Lucia Mancuso is a good enough starting point for me.”
“We’re checking alibis.”
This time Faith smiled, something cold and unfriendly. “Good.” She extended her arm. “I want the tapes.”
He looked down at her open palm. “I was planning to send them over this morning.”
“I just bet you were.”
He turned to his desk, reaching in a drawer for a copy of the videotaped interviews. He placed the cassette in her hand, closing her fingers around it.
“Thank you, Detective Sakura. The D.A.’s office always appreciates the NYPD’s cooperation.”
Rozelli’s badge glinted in the fluorescent lighting falling on Sakura’s desk. “It’s yours. Take it,” he said. Then he unholstered his weapon, laying the.45 next to the shield. “This too.”
Sakura looked up.
“I’m your leak, Lieutenant.”
Sakura shifted in his seat, leaning forward so that the lower half of his face was cast in a cold blue glare, his dark eyes in shadow. He touched the badge, then stood, walking to the single window in his office. The morning had risen in a thick milky-white haze, the air pregnant with the promise of snow. He turned. “Ms. Kahn?”
Rozelli’s laugh was humorless. “Yeah.”
Sakura moved back to his desk and sat. “Sit down, Detective Rozelli.”
The detective took one of the chairs in front of the desk. “My dick got in the way,” he said flatly.
Sakura reached out and picked up the jade piece. “It seems your penis has compromised this investigation.”
Rozelli looked down at his feet. “For what it’s worth, it wasn’t intentional.”
“How was it, then, Detective Rozelli?”
“Just small talk between the sheets. Nothing significant.”
He kept silent, the jade moving smoothly between his fingers.
“I have no excuses. I knew what Zoe was.”
“You underestimated Ms. Kahn.”
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” he said quietly. “There’s nothing else I can say.”
“St. Sebastian?”
Rozelli ran a hand through his hair. “She was at my place when the call came in. She followed me. Got in the church somehow…. I swear, Lieutenant, I didn’t know.”
He nodded, letting the jade slip from his hand.
“I expect IA will have to know,” Rozelli said.
“Do you think anything productive can be accomplished by informing Internal Affairs?”
“Sir?”
“Keep your mouth shut, Detective Rozelli.”
Rozelli stared. “Yes, sir.”
“And, Detective, your weapon needs cleaning.”
Snow hung, blue-gray, high in the sky, a mountain yet to fall—a frightening imminence that was also exhilarating. Hanae was glad to be in the park today, the redness of her wool coat vibrating in the white air, like an extra layer of warmth. It felt good to be outdoors and moving. The headache that had plagued her seemed at last to be in retreat.
“This has been fun,” she said to Adrian. “I am glad you called and got me out.”
“I was worried when you and Taiko missed class yesterday. I thought you might have caught a cold last week.”
She shook her head. “I am used to cold weather. I grew up with it.”
The wind, which had been silent, began to stir. Leaves skittered like bones on the pathway.
“I saw your husband’s name in the paper again,” he said.
“Oh … yes.” She frowned. “Jimmy was unhappy the press revealed so much about his case. And, of course, it is so terrible about the little girl.”
“I suppose they can’t call him the gay serial murderer anymore.”
“No,” she agreed. “It is very puzzling.”
“What does your husband say?”
“Jimmy does not talk very much about the case. But I know they are trying to understand how the killer chooses his victims.”
A couple passed them on the path, young voices laughing.
“I really miss my wife this time of year,” Adrian said. “She has her faults, but she really loves Christmas.”
“Perhaps you will get back together.”
“I know that’s what Christopher wants, but it’s never going to happen.”
A complex of feelings colored his words. Longing, certainly … and bitterness.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She felt suddenly trapped, her headache again threatening. He had sensed his emotion embarrassed her. He reached out and briefly touched her shoulder. Taikoi’s harness jingled as he lifted and shook his head.
What happened next was unexpected, and yet forever a part of what the two of them had begun. Adrian reached out again and held her arm, stopping her on the walkway. His face bent over hers, the warmth of him beating at her skin as he moved to kiss her. Not a chaste kiss. Not a friend’s kiss. But a lover’s.
Without comment or apology, he was gone. She stood, trying out excuses, while she listened for his retreat along the path. But there was nothing. And no stirring in the leaves on winter grass.
Sakura watched Willie walk out of his office, working on her third cup of coffee this afternoon. Caffeine was high on the list of his former professor’s dietary vices. He leaned forward over his desk and refocused. He could feel tension building in fine layers along his shoulders, but he wasn’t ready to pull himself away from his notes on the three interrogations.
“Lieutenant Sakura?”
He glanced up.
“May I come in?” The face looked fortyish, except for the eyes, which could have been a thousand years old.
“Yes.” He rose from his desk.
“Thank you.” The man reached behind and shut the door. “I’m Edward Walsh,” he announced. “Father Thomas Graff’s attorney.” He extended his hand.
Sakura reached out and shook hands, offering a chair.
“Thanks.” Walsh began to remove a topcoat and a woolen scarf, which circled around his neck. If his visitor was going for effect, he couldn’t have succeeded better. The stiff white Roman collar against the black clerical suit was a stark reminder of the immense power of Holy Mother Church.
Walsh caught his stare. “Not many of us wear clericals. I find they serve a purpose.”
Sakura nodded.
“I presume you already know the question I’m going to ask.” His smile appeared like one he’d practiced.
“I’ve had my share of visits from defense attorneys.”
A laugh, only slightly more genuine than the smile. “So why is my client being considered a material witness in the serial-murder investigation?”
Sakura enjoyed how Walsh had correctly avoided the more incriminating term suspect. “His obvious connection to St. Sebastian”—he began the litany—“his relationship to Kellog, his friendship with the Mancuso family, Lucia specifically.”
“I hope there’s more for your sake.” Walsh kept his tone congenial.
Sakura knew the rules. Knew he didn’t have to say anything to this man. But there was no reason to make an enemy of Walsh. “As you know, we executed a search warrant for Graff’s rooms at the rectory.”
Walsh waited for him to go on.
“We discovered material that could be incriminating.”
“Care to be more specific?” Walsh knew exactly what was in that secret room of Thomas Graff’s, but he was yielding no ground.
“Photographs.”
Walsh reared his eyebrows, waiting.
“Of nude men,” he said. Then, because it wouldn’t make any difference one way or another, “Our killer may be a latent homosexual.”
>
“And when do I get copies of those photographs?”
“Give me a day.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant Sakura.” Walsh was standing now, beginning to put the scarf back in place, shrouding once more the stiff Roman collar.
“A question for you, Father Walsh.”
“Yes?” He turned, an arm sliding into one of the sleeves of his coat.
“What’s the Church’s position on angels?”
“Angels?” Walsh was only momentarily puzzled. Then, “The wings …”
“Serial killers have fantasies. This one has angels in his.”
Walsh nodded. “The Church on angels? I guess Catholics are supposed to believe in them.”
“What about fallen angels?”
“Those too.”
“And you, Father Walsh, what do you believe?”
This time the priest smiled for real.
“Angels … fallen and otherwise. A metaphor for good and evil?” He seemed to be testing the theory. “I recall reading somewhere that there is a great secret about angels. That the real action is not going on among us puny humans but between the good and bad angels. The real war, it seems, is theirs.”
Hanae sat in bed, massaging the base of her neck where the pain now seemed to have settled. Her fingers moved across her face, measuring her features against her fixed internal image. Her hands, as always, were her mirror. The tips of her fingers moved to the hollows of her eyes. Around the lids there was a subtle tautness that rose to her brows, giving her, she imagined, a slightly startled appearance.
She allowed her hands to fall to her lap. Her face bore the effect of the war she’d been waging. Her happiness over her pregnancy fought with a sense of foreboding. The inner illumination had altered. The headaches intensifying from dull to stabbing. What was most frightening was that she had become a woman of secrets.
And now Adrian’s kiss today embroidered upon the growing layers of her deceit.
The kiss? What did it mean? She was lost in this fresh betrayal of her flesh. There was no understanding beyond the deep pressure of his lips. Beyond his taste inside her mouth. Beyond the horror that she half enjoyed it.