“Thank you, Kevin,” he said as he handed the kid the bag. “Take these and give them to Carlos, please. Ask him to put them away.”
The kid flung the bag over his shoulder and started to walk toward the door.
“Thanks for the help, Kevin,” I said.
Kevin started for the door, then stopped and said, “Is my Dad in trouble?”
“No, he’s not,” I said.
With that, he turned and disappeared through the doorway without a word.
After Kevin had gone, Bloomhouse walked back behind his desk and sat again.
“What do you know about Kevin’s father?” I said.
“Only what I have on file,” he said. “He’s an itinerant carpenter. Works construction jobs wherever he can.”
“What’s his problem with Father Conlon?”
“He seems to resent Conlon spending so much time with his son. You think there’s anything to this, I mean the threat?”
“Maybe,” I said. “You said Kevin lives with his mother?”
“Not far from here.”
“Got an address?”
Bloomhouse started tapping the keys to a small laptop on the corner of his desk. He read from the screen as he wrote the info on a piece of paper, then slid it across the desk to me.
“Has this guy been around before?” I said.
“Kevin said he’s been around a couple of times, but the kid must have gotten scared this time, for him to come to me with it now.”
I slid the paper inside my wallet.
“Or scared for Father Conlon,” I said.
Chapter 7
“The blood on the overalls matches the blood on the screwdriver, and on the carpet,” Danny said, “It’s Father Conlon’s. Forensics found some body hair on the inside of the overalls. They’re checking DNA.”
“Let’s get DNA samples from Crockett, Faynor, Sidletski, and Romano…and Belducci,” I said.
“Jeeze Max, you wanna ask a Monsignor for his DNA?”
“Why not? Is his DNA different from anyone else’s?”
“Maybe more holy,” Danny said.
“Take Dawson from forensics,” I said, “he’ll help you get the samples. I’ll see Crockett myself.”
I took the paper from my wallet that Bloomhouse had given me and read it again. “Get a rundown on a guy named, Arnold Regan,” I said, “R-e-g-a-n, a construction worker. See if you can find out if he’s working now and where.”
Danny wrote the name down in his notepad and went back to his desk. I called the rectory and got Crockett on the phone. When I told him we needed a DNA sample from him, he wasn’t happy and graciously informed me he didn’t have to give me one. When I graciously informed him, I could charge him with obstruction of justice. He said, “fuck” softly into the phone and then hung up.
When I arrived at the rectory an hour later, I found Crockett mopping the front hallway. He was pushing around a metal bucket on wheels and moving a mop across the floor from wall to wall like a sailor swabbing a deck. I admired his technique. When he saw me, he stopped working and leaned his mop against a doorframe.
“I don’t like this,” he said. “Am I a suspect?”
“Maybe,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“DNA will tell.”
“I told you everything I know.”
I removed an evidence bag from my pocket and took out the swab stick from inside it. I held the swab stick up for him to see.
“Open wide,” I said.
“Are you kidding?”
“It’s S.O.P.”
“What the hell’s that mean?”
“Standard operating procedure.”
“I don’t have to do this, ya know.”
“Yes, you do.”
“What’s it gonna prove?”
“Maybe, that you didn’t kill Father Conlon.”
“This is a bunch o’ crap. I cooperated with you guys.”
“You think I like doing this?”
I held the swab up and waited for him to open. It reminded me of the hard times I had trying to feed my daughters when they were babies. When he reluctantly opened his mouth, I swiped inside his cheek quickly, then dropped the swab into the evidence bag and sealed the top. I put the bag into my pocket and said, “Nobody is accusing you of anything, but by the way you’re acting, you’re making yourself look guilty.”
He regarded that for a moment and then took a long deep breath. “I been a little uptight lately,” he said, “with all that’s been goin’ on.”
“How was Father Conlon’s relationship with the other priest in the rectory?” I said.
He removed a pack of cigarettes from the top pocket behind his overalls, lit one and took a long drag.
“The Father got along with everybody,” he said, through a cloud of exhaled smoke. “You know what kinda guy he was. He was pretty tight with Father Faynor, I think.”
“Why do you think?”
“They seemed to spend a lotta time together, ate lunch together most days. I saw them having a catch on the back lawn a couple of times. Things like that.”
“How do you get along with Father Faynor?”
He took another drag on his cigarette and said, “Me? I don’t think he likes me.”
“Because?”
“He’s not as friendly, as the others when we talk. Reported me to the Monsignor several times for something I’d done, which upset him. Almost got me fired. He’s an asshole.”
“The man’s a priest,” I said.
“Sorry,” Crockett said, but I don’t think he meant it.
“Does he have any reason to dislike you?”
“None that I know of. Maybe he’s got issues.”
“Why weren’t you at Father Conlon’s funeral?”
He wasn’t expecting that one and hesitated before he answered. “I wanted to attend but changed my mind. I just felt lousy about it.”
“But not lousy enough to watch from a distance,” I said.
He wasn’t expecting that one either. Tossing the remainder of his cigarette into the water bucket, he said, “Father Conlon was a friend of mine, I didn’t wanna see him that way.”
My sentiments exactly.
I was eating lunch with Sandy at Branigan’s on West 54th Street. She was working her fork into a Caesar salad, trying unsuccessfully to spear a crouton. After several minutes of watching such a display of inept coordination, I reached into her plate, picked up the crouton and held it in front of her lips. She accepted it delicately and chewed it like the lady she was.
“I would have gotten it,” she said, “if you’d mind your own business.”
“The clock was running out,” I said. “I couldn’t sit here and watch it defeat you.”
She washed it down with a drink of Diet Coke and started in on the salad again. I took a bite of my tuna on rye.
Branigan’s had been my favorite place to eat and drink for a lot of years. It was the place I took Sandy on our first date. Pete Branigan inherited the place from his father, who had opened it as a local tavern back in the forties. After his father passed, Pete turned it into a legitimate eating establishment. He served breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and, and the bar was always open. The interior carried an Americana motif. The walls were decorated with old photographs and newspapers with famous headlines from a time past: The Hindenburg disaster. The 1929 stock market crash and the 1939 New York World’s fair. A banner hung over the front door announcing: 1921, the year the New York Yankees won their first pennant. Customers loved the nostalgia with a yearning, ostensibly for a more civil time.
Patrons could enjoy their dinner at one of the round tables near the center of the room or choose a private booth along the perimeter walls. The mahogany bar, which ran the length of one wall, was always crowded.
“Any headway on the Andy Conlon case?” Sandy said.
She had caught me with a mouthful of sandwich. I shook my head, “no”.
“Suspects?”
&nbs
p; I put the rest of my sandwich down on my plate and took a swallow of my beer. It was obvious Sandy wasn’t going to let me enjoy my lunch until she got the answers she wanted. Resignedly, I wiped my mouth with my napkin, and said, “Not only do I not have a suspect, but I don’t have a motive.”
“Priests don’t get murdered every day,” she said. “A case like this bogs down one’s sense of logic.”
“Especially when it’s close to home,” I said.
She reached out and squeezed my hand.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“They found a pair of overalls and a screwdriver with blood on them in a trash bin behind the rectory. Lab says the blood is Andy’s. Forensics found body hairs inside the overalls. I talked Crockett into giving me his DNA. Maybe I’ll catch a break there.”
“Preliminaries point to Crockett?” Sandy said.
“It’s a start,” I said. “He found the body, and he has access to every room in the church and rectory, including Father Conlon’s. He claims he was friends with Andy, but I couldn’t detect any genuine sympathy over the loss.”
“Establishes very little,” she said.
“I know,” I said. “And here’s one for Sherlock Holmes. The autopsy report says Father Conlon was strangled, then stabbed. Asphyxiation was the official cause of death.”
“That’s a strange way to kill someone,” Sandy said. “Why would anyone do that?”
I shrugged as I picked up my sandwich and took a bite.
“Well, one thing’s for sure,” she said. “The perp had to be someone who holds a deep hatred for Father Conlon. This was no mob hit, or spontaneous murder. The killer felt they had to use their hands to get satisfaction in taking his life, and then took greater satisfaction with every repeated thrust of the murder weapon. That, at least, narrows it down.”
“To a priest hater?” I said, with a mouthful.
“Or a personal enemy of Andy Conlon’s.”
“How does a priest engender a personal enemy?” I said.
She began searching through the leaves of her salad for another crouton.
“Why not look for motive and then work from there?” she said.
“Elementary police detection,” I said. “Are you offering me advice, counselor?”
“Just trying to be helpful,” she said.
I finished my sandwich and drained my beer.
“I have my way,” I said.
“You have your way with everything,” she said.
“Does that include you?” I said.
She didn’t answer, but jammed her fork into the salad quickly and successfully speared a crouton.
“Bravo!” I said and clapped my hands.
She held it up for me to see while she poked her tongue out at me.
I loved it when she was silly.
After lunch, I walked Sandy back to the courthouse steps, kissed her on her cheek and told her I’d see her that night. Then I drove back to the bureau. As a rule, I use my Chevy Nova for work. Old habits die hard, but today I was driving a maroon Chevy Impala, one of many the division used for routine undercover work. I had somehow conveniently accepted it during shift transfers and decided to use it to take Sandy to lunch. It had a lot more room than my Nova and eight cylinders of power, but it was basic and nondescript and a bore to drive. I’d get back into my Chevy the first chance I got.
I pulled away from the curb and started down 54th Street. I hadn’t driven two blocks when I noticed a dark green Ford pickup following closer to my rear than it should be. It let me get ahead of it a few times, then came up close again, the easiest way to get noticed when you’re trying to tail someone, and trying not to get noticed. I put more distance between the truck and me so I could read the front license plate through my rear-view mirror. You learn to read a license tag backward easy enough once you’ve done it enough times. I made a mental note and made a right onto 8th Avenue. The pickup made the right with me. Although the windshield was obliterated by dust and reflections from the sun, I could tell there was a male driver behind the wheel, but I couldn’t make out his features.
When I made a right onto West 53rd the truck followed, I was sure this guy was an amateur; but that didn’t make him any less threatening. Why was I being followed?
He came up close to me and nearly bumped my rear end, then eased back again. He was starting to piss me off.
I continued down 53rd Street until I pulled to the curb and watched through my side-view mirror as he continued moving with traffic in my direction. He had no choice but to stay in his lane, which meant he would eventually pass directly to my left. As he approached, traffic came to a temporary standstill, which put him directly beside me. His passenger window was in the up position, so I was unable to identify him, even at close range. I could tell by the way he fidgeted in his seat, that he was eager to get on his way. He knew I was on to him and realized he’d become the victim of his own ineptitude. This guy was more of a clown than a threat, so I added insult to injury by simulating a handgun with my index finger and thumb and pointing it out my window at him. When he turned and looked at me, I dropped the hammer just as traffic began to move again. He got the message, hit the accelerator, and with a squeal of his tires, was gone.
I pulled out into traffic again and started back to headquarters. I had this fool’s tag number, which meant I could easily identify the truck owner, and maybe who was driving it.
I parked the Impala in a space in front of headquarters and climbed the stairs to the homicide bureau. Danny Nolan was at his desk, talking on his phone. He ended his call just as I passed him and followed me to my desk without a word. He waited for me to sit, then took his notebook from his pocket. When he flipped it open, I knew I was in for a flood of info.
Danny was very efficient.
“Arnold Regan,” he said. “Forty-six years of age married to Gwen Radcliff for twelve years. They have one son, Kevin Regan. Divorced a year ago. She got custody. Mental cruelty, according to the divorce decree.”
I waited. I knew there’d be more.
“Arrested twice. Once for petty theft and once for Assault and Battery, both charges dropped. Rents an apartment on Rivington Street, not far from where his ex-wife lives. Drives a green Ford 150 pickup, New York registration. He’s a carpenter by trade, works whenever he can. He’s always broke. Pays out a lot of child support and he likes to drink.”
“He working now?”
Danny continued reading without looking up. “A construction site near the Meadowlands in New Jersey. Oslo Construction, here’s the address.”
He tore off the info from his notepad and handed it to me. I read the plate number Danny had written. It matched the tag on the truck that had been following me.
“I wasn’t sure how far back you wanted me to go,” Danny said. “That’s all I got.”
Like I said, Danny was very efficient.
I knew then, it was Regan who was following me or someone in Regan’s truck. I wanted to know why.
Chapter 8
I retrieved my Chevy Nova from the police lot and left the Impala in its designated spot. Then I drove to the construction site in New Jersey where Regan was currently employed. The Chevy bounced over dusty terrain as I pulled next to a low-level building stacked with dimensional lumber and bundles of rebar. The skeleton of a two-story structure had been completed and a few roofers were laying shingles on the nearly completed roof. Several pieces of heavy equipment were in motion and a few cement trucks were dispensing concrete into a section of foundation. Not far from the work, a piece of land had been set-aside for employee parking. I saw several SUV’s and a half dozen pickup trucks. Parked at the end of the front row, I spotted the green Ford 150 with Regan’s license plate on it. I drove to the parking area, parked a few spaces away from Regan’s pickup and waited. No one showed any interest in me or was curious as to who I was or why I was there. My dash clock told me it was three-thirty. I wasn’t sure when quitting time was, but I was prepared to wait. Whi
le I waited, I worked on a “quarter pounder” with cheese, and a vanilla shake that I had purchased on the way. At a quarter to four, the noise and activity settled down along with the dust. Hardhats came off, and by four o’clock men dispersed from their respective job sites and walked hurriedly to their vehicles, eager to get their hands on a cold beer or a hot wife or girlfriends. Arnie Regan came out the side door of the building carrying a toolbox and headed for his truck. He was tall and slender with shoulder-length hair and a scruff of dark beard, peppered with gray. He wore work boots, jeans and a gray sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off. I wiped my hands on a handful of napkins as I watched him unlock his driver side door, place his toolbox into the truck bed, and climb in behind the wheel. I got out and walked up to the pickup as he was cranking down the driver’s window. He looked up at me, surprised. I held my ID up for him to see.
“Why were you following me?” I said.
“I don’t have to talk to you,” he said.
“Talk to me or a judge,” I said.
“You can’t arrest me. I ain’t done nothin’.”
“I got a witness says you threatened to kill a priest.”
“Bullshit.”
“Why were you following me?”
“Why don’t you mind your own business?” he said.
“Murder is my business,” I said.
“I ain’t done nothin’,” he repeated.
I removed my handcuffs from my back pocket and held them up for him to see.
“Tell it to a jury,” I said.
The sight of steel bracelets impressed upon him the importance of cooperating.
“This sucks,” he said. “All I’m tryin’ to do is get my kid back.”
“By threatening to kill people. That doesn’t work.”
“That priest…he treated my son like he was his own, made it tougher for me to get closer to him again. I’m sure you know all about it by now.”
“I know enough,” I said, “except why you were following me.”
“When I got the word you went to see Bloomhouse and spoke to my son. I wanted to know why.”
“When you got the word?”
“I have friends,” he said.
Other Men's Sins Page 5