The Missing Madonna (21 page)

“Oh, all right! If you insist!” Mary Helen grabbed the rickety banister. Good old Eileen! You could always count on her in a pinch.

*  *  *

The moment Sister Mary Helen stepped inside the door of Erma’s apartment, she shivered. The air was beginning to hold that nobody-home chill, and a film of dust had settled on the tops of all the furniture. Depressing!

Hands in pockets, Finn rocked on the soles of his feet, blinking nervously at one nun, then at the other. His whole demeanor said that the apartment depressed him too. “Where do you want to look?” he asked.

Mary Helen wasn’t at all sure, although she hesitated to admit that to Finn. Or to anyone else, for that matter.

“How about the bedroom closet?” It was the first thought that popped into her mind. On second thought, the closet might be a good place to start. A person packing in a hurry could easily drop something on the floor and never know it. She headed for the back room, Eileen close at her heels.

Finn hung behind. When Mary Helen turned to see if he was coming, he had crumpled onto the couch and was staring into space.

“You haven’t forgotten the laundry, have you, old dear?” Eileen suggested in a stage whisper.

“Of course I haven’t forgotten it,” she said, trying not to sound annoyed. In all fairness, it was Eileen’s clue. She was the one who had thought of it. “While I’m looking in the bedroom, why don’t you check to see what you can find?”

That was all the encouragement Eileen needed. Her
heels clicked on the hardwood as she bustled toward the service porch off the kitchen.

Although everything in Erma’s bedroom was the same—the mirror, the dresser top, the icon in the corner—an eerie, abandoned silence hung on the air. The binder that at first Mary Helen had not even noticed now loomed large and black against the nightstand. In fact, she could hardly take her eyes off the thing. Why in the world hadn’t Erma written more?

Down on her hands and knees in Erma’s closet, Mary Helen spread the clothes apart She crawled toward the back and began to examine the cedar floor. If Erma had dropped anything, however small, she had no intention of missing it.

She was running her hand around a dark corner when she heard Eileen’s voice.

“Come quickly, Mary Helen. I’ve found it.”

Still brushing the dust off the knees of her navy-blue skirt, Mary Helen peered into the old-fashioned Bendix washing machine. Sure enough, she had!

Men’s clothes floated in a tub of scummy water. The faint smell of Clorox lingered.

Holding the round machine lid in her hand like a shield, Eileen could only be called triumphant. “I’ll wager these are Buddy’s clothes.” She fished out a flannel shirt. “Didn’t he have another one on almost like this when we saw him today?

“And look”—she pointed to where the electric wringer had been pushed over the deep sink—“she must have been getting ready to rinse.”

Mary Helen was impressed. “It has been so long since we’ve seen one of these things, it’s a wonder you remember how it works.”

“Never underestimate an Irish washerwoman,” Eileen said. Looking smug, she replaced the metal lid. “I wonder just what made her stop midwash.”

“Maybe this is where we should be looking for clues.”
Mary Helen scanned the small service porch. Two deep concrete sinks, the old Bendix, a wooden door leading to a small railed landing, a bag of clothespins on the knob, a pulley clothesline strung kitty-corner high above the backyard—everything seemed to be in order.

“Maybe she blew the fuse.” She flicked the light switch, but the light went on.

“Perhaps the whole building had a power failure,” Eileen suggested.

Mary Helen was just about to ask Mr. Finn, when she heard the clinking of chains and the tramping of heavy boots coming up the stairs.

“There you are, asshole.” Junior’s thick voice thundered through the small apartment. “Where’d Ma go, huh?” he demanded. “Tell me!”

“Watch who you’re calling names, sonny boy.” Like a man nearly out of patience, Finn seemed to strain his words through clenched teeth.

When Sister Mary Helen arrived at the threshold of the front room, Junior, thumbs hooked in his belt, was weaving slightly. Obviously he had been drinking. The air in the room crackled. Mary Helen held her breath, hoping.

All at once Junior plunged at Finn, slamming the palms of his hands against the man’s shoulders. His face twisted insolently. He shoved once, twice.

Finn stumbled backward. His head cracked the wall. He grunted with surprise and the color drained from his face.

“Huh, asshole? Answer me!” Junior jeered.

Eyes blazing, Finn bounced off the wall, his muscles taut.

“Huh?” Junior raised his hands to push the man again. Mary Helen’s stomach pitched. She saw it coming.

Dipping, Finn’s arm snapped back in a blur. He lunged. She heard the slap of flesh against flesh. Junior
gasped as Finn drove first one fist, then the other into Junior’s naked belly.

Doubling over, Junior staggered forward, gulping in air.

With a lightning-quick rabbit punch, Finn chopped the back of his neck. Junior’s body sagged. Finn’s knee shot up, hitting him full in the face. Across the room Mary Helen caught the soft, crunching sound of bone breaking.

“Enough!” she shouted, watching the fresh blood from Junior’s nose splash on the carpet.

Finn turned, fists clenched, his face ashen. For a moment, he stared blindly as if he didn’t recognize her. A shock ran up Mary Helen’s spine. It had been a long time since she had seen a look of such cold rage in anyone’s eyes.

His body still rigid, Finn backed away from where Junior knelt on the floor.

Eileen hurried in from the bathroom. “You had better go over to Davies’ Emergency,” she said, pressing a wet washcloth to Junior’s nose. Clutching onto the edge of the coffee table, he managed to pull himself up.

Glaring, the men circled like two mongrels, snarling, daring each other.

“Really!” Mary Helen snapped. “This is getting us nowhere in trying to find Erma.”

“Ask him where she is.” The blood was beginning to seep from under the washcloth. “I bet he knows where she is in St. Louis.”

His eyes hard, Finn dug into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. Removing three bills, he threw them at Junior. “Here, smartass, you go to St. Louis. You know so much, you find her.”

“Take your goddamn money and shove . . .” Junior, his eyes tearing, stepped menacingly toward Finn.

“That is quite enough!” Eileen appeared with a second cold cloth and exchanged it for the saturated one.
“I would suggest, Junior, that you get over to the hospital quickly. In fact, perhaps Mr. Finn should drive you.”

As though she were speaking a foreign language, both men turned and stared at her. So did Mary Helen.

Junior was the first to recover. “I can take care of myself. I don’t need no help from this—”

“Then you had better,” Eileen said crisply, cutting off any further name-calling.

As soon as he heard Junior’s motorcycle roar into action, Finn seemed to calm down. Gradually the color returned to his face. Without any reference to the scene, he bent down and picked up his three hundred-dollar bills from Erma’s rug.

“You sisters take all the time you need.” He rubbed his knuckles. “If you want me, I’m downstairs. It’s lunchtime. Don’t worry about anything; I’ll lock up later.”

Mary Helen went back to Erma’s bedroom. If she didn’t hear Eileen bustling about, cleaning the blood off the carpet, rinsing out the soiled washcloth, she would have thought she was having a bad dream. Woodenly, she’moved a few clothes in the drawers and looked under the bed, but her heart was no longer in the search.

From the corner shelf, the brown eyes of Our Lady of Perpetual Help stared at her. They followed her, full of sadness and sympathy. The Byzantine Madonna clasped the hand of the tiny Christ Child as the Child winced in terror.

“What is it?” Eileen stood in the doorway.

“That picture. Those woeful eyes looking at me as if I should know something, figure out something.”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself, old dear. I’m sure you will. You always do.”

The pair moved toward the living room. “I hope there won’t be a stain.” Eileen pointed to two wet spots where she had tried to wash out Junior’s blood. “They
should be dry by the time Mr. Finn finishes with the noon meal and comes to lock up.”

“There is really nothing more we can do here,” Mary Helen said, leading the way down the stairs.

Yet the two damp spots and the woeful smile of the icon haunted her all the way through their North African lunch.

When Kate Murphy arrived at the Hall of Justice on Wednesday morning, Inspector Dennis Gallagher was already there. A large paper napkin covered the center of his desk. Several bumps underneath made her suspect that her partner hadn’t bothered to move his reports or even his ashtray before spreading it. Two giant-sized Danish pastries oozed raspberry jam onto the white surface. A third one, half eaten, was in his hand.

“Hi, Katie-girl,” he mumbled, his mouth nearly full.

The breakfast of champions, I see.” Kate took off her raincoat and hung it on the wooden coat tree. The Avenues had been socked in when she left for work, but south of Market the fog had already started to burn off. She looked out the window. Slits of blue cut through the gray. It was going to be a beautiful day. Eventually.

“Want a piece?” Gallagher pointed to the gooey rolls.

Kate tried not to make a face. “No, thanks,” she said. “And for God’s sake, Denny, why don’t you try eating something nutritious? I can almost hear that stuff clogging up your arteries.”

“Don’t talk nutritious to me!” He bit into the second Danish. A seedy blob of jam landed dangerously close to the edge of the napkin. “Ever since I gave Mrs. G. that damn Cuisinart for Mother’s Day, we’ve been eating like goddamn rabbits. You never saw anything like it
She’s cutting up everything, and none of it any good. Carrots, celery, apples, radishes, cucumbers. I’m afraid of what shell do if she accidentally gets her hands on one of the kids.

“Last night, she even cut up my potatoes. I like my spuds mashed, so as you can put a hole in the middle and fill it with gravy. Right?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Wrong! Last night she cuts them in that goddamn machine. We have potatoes au gratin—whatever the hell that is.

“This morning was the living limit Instead of frying bacon and eggs, she’s cutting up a fruit salad.” He stuffed the sugary end of the Danish into his mouth. “ ‘Better for you,’ she says. By the time I got downtown, I was starved.”

“If you’re going to insist on eating that crap, why don’t you at least get a variety?” Kate picked up her own coffee mug.

“I like raspberry.” He looked a little hurt.

Kate was coming back from the coffee urn, when Inspector Ron Honore walked into the detail.

“Hey! It’s B. B. Kojak!” O’Connor rose from his desk just inside the door. “This missing-person stuff is really getting to you, huh? You can’t even find your own station?”

Honore stopped to shake hands with O’Connor. “Remember who loves you, baby,” he said, playing along with the joke.

The two had been at the academy together. B. B. Kojak was O’Connor’s own nickname for Honore. For whatever reason—probably pure obstinacy, Kate guessed—he had never switched to calling the fellow Don Ron. The B. B., he had told her, stood for “Big Black.” Much as Kate hated to admit O’Connor was right about anything, the nickname fit.

“I’ve come to see Murphy.” Honore made his way across the room.

“We’ve got to stop meeting like this.” Kate offered Honore her cup of coffee. But the man was in no mood to joke.

“This missing OWL business is really getting to me.” He pulled up a chair. Leaning forward, he rested his forearm on the two desks. His jacket sleeves stretched as though they might burst.

“Any ideas?” Kate moved her ceramic dish-garden out of his way.

“None, although I spent half of Monday and all day yesterday on it.”

“Who’d you talk to?”

“First of all, the Duran woman’s two sons, Thomas and Richard, commonly called Junior and Buddy. Junior has a couple of juveniles and a couple of adult arrests for assault and battery, but no convictions. He admits he was there the day his mother was last seen, but the guy claims he has no idea why she left.”

Gallagher licked the last of the raspberry jam off his fingers. “What are you telling us for, fella? This isn’t our business till you find the body.” Crumpling up the napkin, he took a half-smoked cigar from the ashtray Kate had suspected was under it.

“Disgusting habit,” Honore said, watching him light it. “Buddy has no record, but when I dropped by his studio—the guy claims he’s an artist—it smelled of more than turpentine.

“Also, I stopped by to see the daughter, Marie. I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with her. Gave me a long song and dance about Finn—that’s the mother’s employer and landlord. She claims that if anything happened to the mother, we should look to Finn. If you ask me, this Marie lady seems to be dealing without a full deck.”