by Harker Moore
Her anxiety over the baby seemed less important now measured against that kiss. Especially since Dr. Blanchard had been so reassuring. Told her she was in excellent health. She would deliver a healthy baby. A baby who could see.
For most of her life, she had accepted her blindness. Color and texture, shape and dimension, became her own particular inventions. The vision behind her lids constituted a universe that was both wholly real and intensely satisfying. That she had missed something, that she had been cheated, she had never accepted. She found no tragedy in her sightless eyes.
She reached down to the side of her bed where Taiko rested. “Tonight,” she said, rubbing his muzzle. “Tonight I will tell Jimmy about the baby.”
Father Edward Walsh hailed from a large Catholic family with a tradition of giving sons to the Church. And though it had been fast becoming unfashionable at the time, he had entered the seminary with few misgivings. He was heart and soul an organization man, and no earthly institution seemed to him more consequential, or deserving of his commitment, then the Holy Roman Church. Educated to the law at Harvard and Rome, he was a willing instrument in the hand of that power, and as comfortable as it was possible to be as a human inside his skin.
He sat for a moment behind the wheel of his car in the long, circular driveway of the Brooklyn retreat house, a three-story residence of Georgian brick, solid and serene on its wooded acres. The air tonight was windless, yet with a piercing chill. He took a last breath in the warmth of the car and opening the door, dragged his coat from the passenger seat as he stepped onto the sidewalk. He shot his arm through a sleeve as he walked, swinging into the coat’s protectiveness.
He had called ahead and was let in by the custodian with a minimum of conversation, then directed down the hushed hallways to the door of the room where he was expected. He did not bother to knock. The door swung inward as he turned the knob and pushed. The man sitting on the bed turned toward the motion. His expression, complex and unreadable, passed in an instant to studied nonchalance.
“Want a drink?” Graff’s greeting.
“Yes.” Walsh took off his coat and sat down in the room’s one chair while the priest poured them each a scotch. It seemed typical of the man that even under these circumstances, he was still breaking the rules, the prohibition against liquor in this place. He accepted the glass as Graff settled with his own drink on the bed.
“I met with Lieutenant Sakura today.”
“And …?”
“He didn’t tell me anything. But I was mainly there to size him up. Our contacts in the Department feed me all the information that we need. The police don’t have anything but those pictures.”
“Dear Mrs. Tuminello”—Graff was smiling now—“the faithful housekeeper. Couldn’t wait to rat me out. I’m sure she told anyone who would listen about my less than cordial relations with Father Kellog.”
“Not important.” Walsh shrugged. “The police knew the girl was the primary victim. Kellog just turned up in the wrong place.”
“That’s what’s funny,” Graff said. “I was probably in my room sleeping while most of those gay men were murdered, but my alibi is among the dead.”
Walsh was silent, searching Graff’s face. The studied self-assurance made it hard to tell when the man wasn’t telling the truth. He imagined that he was as hard to read, hoped that he was, since he was so often lying. Like just now when he’d equivocated about the relevance of the enmity between Graff and his pastor. Certainly, the police must wonder if Graff had killed Kellog because of something the old man had suspected or learned about the first five murders. Such a scenario was not impossible, although it did not seem likely, since it still left the riddle of the girl. Why would Graff ever choose the Mancuso child as a decoy?
But that was a problem for others, as was the question of Graff’s guilt. His job was to protect the client. And his client was the Church.
“Have you thought anymore about who could have killed them?” he asked. “Father Kellog and the girl?” He took a sip of the scotch.
“No,” Graff said immediately. “I haven’t the slightest idea who murdered them.” He shot down the remainder of his own drink, got up to fix another. “So what happens next?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Walsh said. “I don’t see that the police have anything on which to order a warrant for your arrest.”
“So, I can get out of here.”
“No. It’s His Eminence’s wish that you stay put for a while.”
“How long?”
“That’s yet to be determined. The police need a scapegoat, Thomas. You’ve read the papers. It’s getting ugly out there. We can protect you better in here.”
Graff said nothing, but the expression on his face became intolerable, a contempt that went beyond mere cynicism. It called for a response. A little dose of reality.
“You could not expect that His Eminence would be pleased with the danger posed by those photographs,” he said. “You threaten scandal to the Church.”
Graff looked straight into his eyes. Amusement on the face now, an undertow of fear. “Do you care at all that I’m innocent?”
“Why did you become a priest, Thomas?”
The smile deepened but went out in Graff’s eyes. “To save my immortal soul.”
For most of the evening, Hanae had occupied herself making ornaments for the small tabletop tree, which Mr. Romero had helped her purchase. Her mind on nothing, her hands had seemed to move of their own accord, working in the long-memorized patterns. It had surprised her when the phone rang that her fingers had been folding swans.
“Hanae.” Jimmy’s voice had spoken to her from the receiver.
“You are not coming home.” She had guessed. She had heard his breath. Hard wind through grass.
“Not until late. I can catch some dinner at my desk.”
“I know you will not eat properly,” she said. “I will have something prepared.”
“Okay. But don’t wait up. I can warm it myself…. Aishiteru yo.” He had said the words I love you.
“Watashi mo,” she’d answered softly, today’s betrayal fresh within her heart.
She had not been sleeping when, at last, he had come home. The meal she had prepared for him had passed mostly in silence. She’d sipped at her tea, listening to the sound of his chopsticks. Now, while he prepared the bed, she stood inhaling the balsam scent of the small fir. She loved the smell, the sharp tiny prick of needles as the ornaments were hung. Christmas trees in Japan were largely artificial, public decorations placed in offices and department stores. The holiday itself was artificial in Japan, a grafted-on celebration, purely commercial, with gifts for children only. She loved Christmases in New York, had come to understand the spirit that lived inside the tradition. And yet the season remained a time best shared with children. Despite the distractions of his work, she must keep her resolve to tell him about the baby tonight. What better gift could she give her husband for Christmas?
She went to join him in the bed for what little remained of the night, kneeling beside him, her hands moving along the pathways of his back. Never had she felt the flow of ki within him more unbalanced.
“What is wrong?” she asked him.
His breath was a laugh that came in the form of a sigh. “I am tired,” he said.
“It is more than that.” She sank back upon her feet, her hands for the moment idle. “Is it the newspapers?”
He made a sound, a hard laugh now, but no immediate comment. Then, “We have three suspects.”
“Is that not good?”
“I don’t know. Two of them don’t seem likely for the murders.”
“And the third …?”
“Is a Catholic priest.”
She knew but little of the religion, but the power of the institution was clear. “Do you believe this priest committed the murders?”
“In some ways he fits Willie’s profile.”
“What does Chief McCauley say?”
Again tha
t laugh. The harshness of it cut her.
“McCauley wants the commissioner off his back. The commissioner wants the mayor off his back.”
Her fingers still rested along his spine. Something … involuntary, a phantom of apprehension, moved on the level of nerve and muscle.
“You are afraid,” she said, “that you will be forced to arrest the wrong man.”
He did not answer but rolled over beneath her hands. She felt his gaze, a tender pressure upon the curve of her face. It was now she must tell him.
“Jimmy,” she began, “I have been thinking again about a baby.” It was not the way to begin … with equivocation. A coward’s mistake. She felt him stiffen.
“Please, Hanae, not tonight.” His voice so infinitely weary. And had there not been, underneath, at least some edge of anger?
CHAPTER
16
The attorney and the comic were a mismatched pair as they filed into the interrogation room. Linda Kessler with her briefcase, severely chic. Shelton, loose and ostentatious. They sat across from Sakura and Johnson at the table.
Linda Kessler began with a rehash of the ground rules, which had already been settled on the phone. Her body language was hostile, and Sakura wondered why she had agreed to this second interview with her client. Neither the Church, in the case of Father Graff, nor Tony Paladino were being so cooperative.
“Thank you for agreeing to this interview, Mr. Shelton.” Sakura turned to him as the lawyer concluded with a reminder that recording devices of any type were not allowed.
“I thought it might be entertaining,” Shelton said. He half slouched in the uncomfortable chair, favoring Sakura with his persistent grin, pointedly ignoring Adelia.
“I understand,” Sakura said, “that you’re still working as a comic.”
“I’m not headlining in Vegas. But if you don’t mind the travel, there are plenty of small clubs.” The mouth quirked cynically. “You’d be surprised how much money there can be in notoriety.”
“I also understand you’re being sued by the parents of the girls you exposed yourself to in the park.”
“My client cannot comment on a pending case.” Kessler made the objection.
“I am being sued.” Shelton spoke as if he hadn’t heard her. His voice started tight, but he smiled broadly and launched into what was clearly shtick. “It was the nanny who freaked out,” he said. “The two little bitches actually laughed. I should be suing them for psychological damage.”
Sakura knew he was intended to smile. “You have an apartment in Chelsea?” he asked instead.
“Yes, I bought it a while back. Paid cash.”
“Own a car?”
“A Buick. My sweet old daddy would haunt me if I got a foreign job.”
“Color?”
“The car? Red … like the hair.”
“Do you do drugs, Mr. Shelton?”
“Don’t answer that,” Kessler said. She sounded like she meant it.
“Can it, Linda,” Shelton said genially enough. “The lieutenant’s not looking to bust me.” The eyebrows bowed upward, making it a question.
“No, he’s not,” Kessler answered again, “but he is attempting to compare you to his profile of the killer. Which is why I’ve advised you against this.”
Shelton’s eyes during this exchange had remained on him. “Is that what you’re doing, Lieutenant Sakura?”
“Yes.” He smiled now.
“Does your killer use drugs?” the comic asked.
“You may infer what you wish from my questions, Mr. Shelton.”
Shelton laughed, and for a moment the emotion seemed genuine. “I have in the past experimented in the usual controlled substances” was how he answered the question.
“Usual?”
He shrugged. “Pot. Designer shit … ecstasy.”
“Cocaine?”
“Didn’t like the stuff.”
“LSD?”
He made a face. “A few times. But I gave it up.”
“Why?”
“Bad trip … saw snakes everywhere. What do you think that means?”
He stared at the man. “I think, Mr. Shelton, that it means you’re bullshitting me. Why are you doing this interview?”
The comic turned to Kessler. “Give them to him.” His tone had turned bored.
The attorney opened her briefcase and took out several documents, which she passed across the desk. Now Sakura understood that Kessler’s sour attitude was in part disgust with her client. She was a small-to-medium cog in a very large law firm.
“Those are affidavits,” Kessler spoke, “from club owners in Dallas and Phoenix. They verify that Mr. Shelton was in their establishments performing when two of the murders took place.”
“Thank you,” he said to the lawyer.
“What I’m still unclear about”—he had turned back to Shelton—“is the progression in your activities. First, with the Davis girl, you look. Then in the park, you expose yourself. It’s been some time since you were arrested for that. What’s been happening since, Mr. Shelton? You say you never touch …?”
It was purely a parting shot, but for the first time the comic’s mobile features closed down, the spattering of freckles frozen in the Silly Putty face. For what seemed like a long time, he stared at him, apparently weighing the cost of what he wanted to say, the satisfaction relative to the risk.
“These clubs I work,” Shelton said finally, the grin turned nasty, “a lot of them are on the Coast. Mexico is just a few hours away. There they don’t care if you handle the merchandise. And whatever you want, whoever you want, you can buy.”
“What are these?” Willie glanced up from the papers Sakura had placed on her desk.
“Shelton’s alibi,” he said, pulling over a chair. “According to these, he was out of town when Carrera and Westlake were killed. If these are genuine—and Ms. Kessler’s law firm has a reputation to protect— then that leaves Shelton out.”
“The man is a total waste of human protoplasm,” she said. “I wish it was him.”
“It’s not Paladino either,” he said. “He did have a flat in the rain. But part of the reason he was so late getting to the dealership was that he had a passenger in the car at the time. He had to run her home first before he went to work.”
“And this lady was …?”
“His sales manager’s wife. But we’re keeping that confidential.”
“My God, the man does seem to get around.”
Sakura nodded. “His story about the neighborhood bar is also solid. He was there for the critical hours.”
“What about Graff?” she asked him.
“Still holed up with his lawyer. They’ve sent over a list of parishioners that Graff visited on a couple of the dates in question, but the murders happened late. He’d have had plenty of time.”
“And Saturday?”
“Claims he was in his darkroom when Lucia would have been abducted. But he has no witnesses. Nor for later that night when he claims he went for a jog and took in a movie.”
“Mrs. Tuminello …?”
“Can’t confirm whether Father Graff was in the rectory while she was there. She claims she never saw him before she left that afternoon.”
“So the bottom line is,” she said, “that Graff has no viable alibis.”
“Right.”
“Have we gotten any explanation for those photographs?”
“No. The lawyer won’t comment on that.”
“Can we get Graff in for further questioning?”
He shrugged. “The Church isn’t refusing outright, but they’re saying that Walsh needs more time with him.”
“Stalling,” she said. Then, “What’s McCauley think of all this?”
“Glad to have a suspect. Unhappy with the politics.”
“And it’s all bound to leak.”
His face hardened. “We’ve been lucky so far with Shelton,” he said, “but somebody’s probably picked up on his being questioned today. Now
at least we can have a prepared statement that he’s been excluded as a suspect. It won’t be so simple if the net gets tighter around Graff.”
She nodded.
Since the discovery of the bodies in St. Sebastian, the story had gone national, with coverage on all the cable news channels. He’d seen the Kahn woman on a FOX News show last night, and he could only imagine the impact when they finally had to confirm that the prime suspect was a priest.
“What’s your feeling about Graff now?” he asked.
“I still have doubts about those photographs,” she began, “and Lucia makes his guilt even more problematic. If Graff needed to eliminate Kellog because the pastor knew something damaging, then why select a little girl as the supposed victim? Why not another gay man? It doesn’t make sense, Jimmy, because you know, as well as I do, that serials don’t behave like that. Oh, they might change something in their MO to throw us off the track, but never something vital to the fantasy.”
“The homosexuality of the victims seems critical,” he said.
“I certainly thought it was. I don’t know what to think now. Lucia had to be the primary victim that night. I mean, look at the trouble he went to, hanging her up there. That whole angel tableau, that’s his fantasy coming out. I just can’t imagine how Lucia could fit with the first five victims.”
He’d picked up on her equivocation. “All right,” he said, “if we can’t say why Graff might have killed Lucia, maybe we better stick to something more practical.”
“Like where he killed her?”
He nodded. “Dr. Linsky says she was dead before the killer strung her up, and St. Sebastian was open for most of Saturday. So did he keep her in the rectory? Kill her there? It’s a huge old building, and outside of the church itself, we haven’t searched much more than his rooms.”
“So the next step …?”
“Take apart that rectory, top to bottom.”
“Can you get a judge to extend the warrant on what you have now?” she asked him.
For the first time he smiled. “Let’s find out.”