I parked in front of the church, climbed the stairs and went in through the front entrance on the chance that I’d find Crockett working in the chapel. I walked through the second set of doors and stood quietly in the back of the chapel. I dipped my fingers in the holy water to my right and blessed myself with the sign of the cross.
It seems my hypocrisy is boundless.
The chapel was dim, save for the rays of colored daylight filtering through the stain glass windows. The pews were empty, and the alter was serene, with the delicate glow of candle flames flickering in the soft shadows. I looked around but didn’t see anyone. I walked behind the last row of pews and started up the side of the chapel toward the alter. When I had passed a dozen or more pews, I heard a sound from beside the altar. Up ahead, I saw Crockett emerging from the shadows of an open archway. He was doing a balancing act with a wet mop, a broom, and a metal pail as he walked toward the altar. When he saw me, he dropped his tools like they were on fire, and ran back through the archway. “Crockett,” I shouted. I bolted up the aisle and hurried through the archway which opened to a dimly lit hallway that ran behind the alter. I could hear Crockett rushing down the stairs at the end of the hallway. I said, “Crockett don’t make things worse for yourself.” But my words only echoed back to me in the hollow space. I followed Crockett down the stairs, tripping over the first step, and almost killing myself. They descended into a large basement room with several ground-level windows on one side, offering the only light. Crockett was opening a door at the far end of the room when I reached the bottom. He hurried through the doorway and let the door slam behind him. When I reached the door, I opened it quickly but didn’t see Crockett, just a narrow hallway with another set of stairs leading back up to the other side of the alter. I could hear his running footfalls in the ceiling above me. I took the steps two at a time and made it up to the chapel in time to see a door leading to the outside closing gently. I pushed the brass bar and opened the door and stood in the doorway looking out over the side yard cemetery where we had buried Father Conlon a short time ago. My eyes scanned the trees and myriad headstones, but I didn’t see Crockett. I let the door close behind me and walked out onto the grassy landscape. I passed gravesite after gravesite in what I knew was a futile attempt at spotting Crockett. He was young and quick and could have escaped in any direction. Deciding not to waste any more time, I walked back to the rectory to find Monsignor Belducci.
“I don’t understand,” the Monsignor said. “Why would he run?”
“Establishes an admission of guilt,” I said.
“Guilty of what? How could he leave his job, his belongings?”
“I don’t think he’ll be back,” I said.
“Does this have to do with Father Conlon?”
“Probably,” I said.
“In what way?”
“I’m not sure,” I said.
The Monsignor walked back behind his desk and sat down in his chair with a heavy thud. He snatched a tissue from a box on his desk and dabbed it gently over his face and forehead.
“I’ll need to see his room,” I said.
The Monsignor hesitated and said, “Don’t we need a warrant. I don’t want the church complicit in breaking the law.”
“I’m trying to find Father Conlon’s killer,” I said.
The Monsignor opened his desk drawer and removed his key ring. “I don’t understand all this, detective,” he said as he slid the keys across the desk to me.
I stood and waited for Sister Mary Margaret to show up and escort me to Crockett’s room, until the Monsignor said, “It’s the only room on the third floor, the largest of the keys,” then he lowered his head into his hands and said no more. I thanked him and left.
Crockett’s room was a mess. Although there was a clothes hamper under a large window, most of his dirty laundry had been thrown into a pile beside it. The bed was unmade and the night table was littered with soda cans, a half-empty bag of chips, and an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. The onslaught of stale smoke and musty clothes was not easy to take. I walked to the window and opened it a few inches.
I started with the top drawer of the dresser. It held half dozen whitey-tighties, several pairs of balled up sport socks, and a pile of neatly folded white tee shirts. A bulge in the pile of shirts caught my eye. When I pulled back the top shirt, I discovered a Beretta 9mm handgun with a fully loaded clip lying next to it. I took out my cell phone and turned the gun over, using one of the tee shirts and took a photo of the serial number. Then I replaced the top tee shirt and closed the drawer. I moved on to the next drawer. It was empty. The bottom drawer revealed a single pair of faded jeans tossed in haphazardly. In the closet, there were more empty hangers than clothes. A red flannel shirt hung on a hook behind the door and a heavy down jacket hung from a wooden hanger. On the floor of the closet, there were two pairs of work boots, a pair of black leather dress shoes and a pair of worn high-top sneakers. The night table had two drawers. I pulled open the larger bottom , but it was empty. The top drawer was so cluttered I had to pull on it using considerable strength. Some of its contents spilled out onto the floor; empty cigarette packs, some loser lottery tickets and several books of matches. I rummaged around what was left in the drawer, pushing my way through a dozen or so pencils and several black felt markers. I slid out a rolled-up issue of a men’s health magazine and tossed it onto the bed. Beneath that, I saw what appeared to be a hard-covered journal or photo album. I lifted it out carefully and opened it. There were lined pages for writing, but no words had been written on them. The back pages felt bulkier; when I turned to them I found two photographs taped randomly to the pages. There was a photo of a young boy on a bicycle that could have been Crockett, and another showing a bungalow style home with family members enjoying a summer outing. I continued through the other photos until I came upon one of a sandy beach situated at the rear of the house. When I flipped over the last page, a small photo taped to the bottom caught my eye and sent my heart pounding. On that same beach, stretched out in a double hammock, was Davy Crockett, a broad grin on his face and a cool drink in his hand. Lying beside him in an eye-catching white string-bikini, smiling shamelessly into the camera…was Eileen Conlon.
***
Danny Nolan was standing in front of my desk giving me the bad news I half expected. “No DNA matches from the overalls. Crockett’s clean and everyone else we tested.”
He dropped the report on my desk. I gave it a quick look, then slid it into my top drawer. “Why do you think Crockett’s running?” I said.
“Regan dropped a dime. Told him you knew what was up.”
“Why would Crockett hire Regan to rough me up?”
“Maybe he didn’t. Maybe Regan lied, made the whole thing up.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Take the heat off himself.”
“Regan had to know I’d eventually confront Crockett about it. It doesn’t make sense. Crockett’s hiding more than just his involvement with Regan. He ran because he was afraid I’d found out too much of something. He’s scared, but not because of a possible lie Regan told about him. What’s Crockett afraid I might have discovered?”
“Maybe he thinks his DNA matched, and you were at the church to arrest him.”
“Too many maybes,” I said.
I took out my cell phone and wrote down the serial number from the photo I had taken of the 9mm I had found in Crockett’s room. I handed it to Danny.
“I found this in Crockett’s drawer,” I said. “Check the serial number, it might lead to somewhere.”
“No stone unturned,” Danny said.
“You got it,” I said.
I took my wallet out of my pocket and removed the photographs I had taken from Crockett’s room. “Here’s another stone to turn over,” I said. I slid the photos across the desk to Danny. He picked them up and looked at them.
“That’s our boy,” I said. “And the squeeze next to him is—hold on to your hat—Eilee
n Conlon.”
Danny’s eyes widened. “The former nun?”
“In the flesh,” I said. “No pun intended.”
“How long ago was this picture taken?” Danny said, without taking his eyes off the photo.
“I’m guessing it’s fairly recent. Crockett doesn’t look any different.”
“No doubt, it was taken after she lost the calling.”
“I guess,” I said.
He slid the photos back to me. “Well, if it wasn’t…there’s more of Sister Hyde in her, than there is of Sister Jekyll,” he said.
Danny had a way with metaphor.
I locked the photos in the top drawer of my desk and said, “Let’s pay Miss. Conlon a visit.”
Traffic was light on the LIE. The Chevy had no problem cruising without stop and go traffic, and we made good time. I was hoping to catch Eileen Conlon at home, so I took a chance by not announcing our visit.
I parked the Chevy in the driveway of the Conlon house and we walked up the walkway. Danny pressed the doorbell. In less than a minute, Troy Conlon opened the door. Although it was close to noon, he looked like he’d just climbed out of bed. He was wearing black gym shorts and a wrinkled white tee shirt. His feet were bare. His hair was disheveled, and he looked like he hadn’t held a razor in a couple of days. A cigarette dangled from his lips. He spoke through a veil of recently exhaled smoke. “Whattaya want, Graham?”
“We’d like to speak with your sister,” I said.
“She’s not here.”
“Do you know when she’ll be back?”
“No. She was gone when I woke up. You can wait if ya want.”
He turned disinterestedly and walked back into the living room, without closing the door behind him. Danny turned to me with a scowl. I gave him a “why not” look and we went in.
We followed Troy Conlon through the living room and into the kitchen where a coffee maker had been dripping fresh coffee. It smelled good. He didn’t offer us any, but took three cups from the cupboard and put them on the table beside a pitcher of cream and a container of sugar.
“Have you found my brother’s murderer?” he said.
“Not yet,” I said bluntly.
“Maybe you’re not trying hard enough,” he said.
“Maybe if you lose the attitude, you might be of some help to us,” Danny said.
I could tell Danny was annoyed with this guy from the get-go.
When the coffee had finished brewing, Troy lifted the carafe from the coffee maker and brought it to the table. He filled the cups and then brought it back to the machine.
“What makes you think I can help?” he said. “I’ve been away for years.” He sat at the table, crushed his out his cigarette in an ashtray and began fixing his coffee. Danny and I sat opposite him. I poured cream into my coffee and took a sip. It was good. Danny ignored his.
“You could tell us something about your sister,” Danny said.
“Guess you didn’t hear me,” he said. “I’ve been away.”
“You’ve had contact with your sister from time to time,” I said. “She told us so.”
Troy Conlon took a slow drink from his cup, while he thought about how much he wanted to say to us.
“Why the special interest in Eileen,” he finally said. “Is she a suspect?” He’d asked seriously, expecting an answer.
“We’re trying to get a big picture,” I said, “standard procedure for a homicide case.”
He seemed to accept that, took another drink and said, “Whattaya wanna know?”
“Anything about your sister that might be relevant,” I said.
“Relevant to what?” he said. “She leads a dull life. She was a nun, for Chrissake, until she fell for that loser, Crockett. She thought she was in love with him until she couldn’t take his carousing and excessive drinking any longer, so she broke it off. He hurt her bad, screwed her mind up, turned her into a reclusive old maid type.”
“She told you all that?”
“She poured her heart out to me, once in a letter. Ya think that’s the kinda stuff she would have told Andy. Isn’t that what priests do, listen to other people’s problems.”
“More or less,” I said.
“Why didn’t she tell this to your brother?” Danny said.
“Andy knew what was happening in Eileen’s life. She couldn’t keep it from him or my father or anyone else, for that matter. But he couldn’t understand her feelings for Crockett. He never approved of her seeing him, and he told Crockett as such. Crockett blamed my brother for their breakup.”
“Not very perceptive for a priest,” Danny said.
“She said she could never open up to him, couldn’t confess her feelings or sins to her brother.”
“Did she ever mention seeing anyone else after Crockett, another boyfriend?”
“Boyfriend? She lives like an old maid. Never does anything or goes anywhere that might be considered a good time. Believe me, she has since, had no interest in boyfriends. Her only friend now is God,”
I fought off the urge to show him the recent photo of his sister and Davy Crockett frolicking at the beach in their blissful reunion. It was obvious Eileen Conlon had been selective in telling her brother about her life. I was sure he was telling us the truth, and he believed whatever stories his sister had been telling him. I was satisfied he had no info that would help me find Andy’s killer. I left my card on the table and asked him to have his sister call me when she could. Then I thanked him for the coffee and we left.
“That guy’s an asshole,” Danny said on our ride back to Manhattan. “I’ll bet he knows more than he’s telling us.”
“He doesn’t know a thing,” I said.
“Why would you think that?”
“Because he’s an asshole,” I said.
Danny looked at me and let it go.
Chapter 17
The Marlboro Street fair, in Manhattan, began at 10:00 a.m. Sandy slept over on Saturday night and we had gotten up early to have breakfast and drive into the city to enjoy the fair. It was a beautiful Sunday morning. The day was bright, and the weather was warmer than usual for September. I stood by the front window and looked out while Sandy started breakfast behind me.
“Pancakes or eggs?” she said.
“Oatmeal,” I said, without turning.
“Plain or flavored?”
“Maple and brown sugar,” I said.
“Instant or regular?”
“Instant,” I said.
“Hot or cold?”
Sandy was playing me. When I turned, she was leaning against my kitchen counter with a big smile, waving a metal spatula in the air in front of her. “Well, I need to be sure of what you want to eat,” she said.
I rushed to her and lifted her onto the counter. “The only thing I want to eat is you,” I said. I pushed my face against her neck and pretended to chomp on her milky white skin.
“Stop it,” she said. “You know I’m ticklish.” She saved herself from being completely devoured by clobbering me on my head with the spatula. When I lifted her back to the floor, she put her arms around me and gave me a long wet kiss. I returned the pleasure. When our lips parted, we were both breathing heavily. I scooped her into my arms and carried her into the bedroom.
“I want to make breakfast,” she said, giggling and kicking her legs in a faux protest. “I’m hungry.”
“So am I,” I said.
We made love for more than an hour. When we were through, we had both worked up an appetite for a large breakfast. We showered together, dressed and decided there wasn’t enough time for a home breakfast so we drove three blocks to a nearby MacDonald’s. Sandy had pancakes and bacon and I ordered two sausage croissants, potatoes, and a large juice. We both had coffee. A half-hour later we were on the highway heading toward the city—satisfied in more ways than one.
The city had closed off four cross streets that intersected with Marlboro Street. Both sides of Marlboro Street were lined with a choice of food and
dessert vendors from every ethnicity as well as tented cabanas, offering sales of jewelry, books, posters, children’s toys and anything and everything one might want to spend their money on to ensure a fun day. Sounds blasted from speakers mounted on buildings at various locations playing Rock and country music. There were games and children’s rides, and three ponies within a small corral where one could ride twice around for only “two tickets”. Young couples strolled hand-in-hand, while seasoned parents grabbed for their children, in a futile attempt at curbing their exuberances as they ran excitedly in circles.
Despite the tumult of noise and confusion, I was having a good time, knowing Sandy was enjoying herself. She was wearing her fashion jeans with her white sketcher sneakers. A white satin shirt was covered by her honey tan corduroy jacket. The morning sun highlighted her auburn hair, making it appear almost red; a white satin ribbon secured it into a ponytail.
We walked, hand-in-hand down one side of Marlboro Street and up the other, stopping occasionally at places that either interested Sandy or me. We bought snow cones, fennel bread, cotton candy, and chocolate-dipped ice cream. Sandy stopped at a vendor and purchased a photo of Albert Einstein in an armchair; smoking a pipe. A bit further down the street, she saw a ring toss game and wanted to try her skill. If one could keep three rings out of six tries on the wooden pegs, one would get the pick of the booth for a prize. I bought two tickets for her to play twice. On her second try, she placed three rings on three pegs—a winner!
She chose, for her prize, a silver chain with an attached medallion, engraved with a red heart. She reached up and hung it around my neck. “Now I can lead you everywhere,” she said.
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