The Sentinel (24 page)

"Halliran?" the priest repeated. "No, the name isn't familiar."

"The address is Sixty-eight West Eighty-ninth Street, and he lives on the fifth floor.

"Let me look in the files."

Monsignor Franchino stood up, stretched his long athletic body and walked to the filing cabinets, from which he removed a master folder marked "G-J." He returned to the desk and riffled through the contents until he located the specific manila folder in question. He removed it.

"Matthew Halliran," he stated, reading the information on a long statistic sheet. "Yes, I recall the man now. It's been years since I've dealt with any matter connected with him. You see, most of the accounts are not handled from this office. They are kept up to date and are systematized so that the work may proceed automatically. Now let me see . . .

Matthew Halliran. Lives at Sixty-eight West Eighty-ninth Street in Apartment 5 A. As I remember, a kindly gentleman."

"I wouldn't know," said Michael. "I've never seen him. Nor has the renting agent or the present landlord."

"Mr. Farmer, your clients should try to maintain some type of contact with their tenants."

"Only if the tenant is willing. The priest seems to prefer a constant view from the window."

"I see." Franchino looked back at the file. "A view from the window would be difficult for Father Halliran. These records indicate he is blind."

"I meant that he sits in the window all day and night."

The priest nodded, satisfied with the correction. He continued to review the file. "No living relatives. Was pastor at the Church of the Heavenly Angel in Flushing, Queens, for many years; retired in 1952 after the congregation was disbanded and the church torn down. It seems that his decision to leave the church was prompted by a slowly deteriorating mobility caused by a chronic case of palsy. Father Halliran has, obviously, led a very difficult life. It is understandable that he would become sedentary."

Franchino dug into his desk and removed a long computer print-out. He searched the list carefully and circled something in red. "I think you can see from the listing that your client must have been mistaken." He handed the list to Michael. "There are no errors in the rental payments."

Michael glanced at the sheet. "Could there possibly be a mistake?"

Franchino shook his head. "I doubt it. In fact, I'm sure. As I said, we are very organized here."

"I don't see how the landlord could have made such a mistake." Michael handed the list back. "I'm terribly sorry."

Monsignor Franchino smiled with forced affability. "No, please. Landlords are often negligent in their recording practices. The good Lord sorts these things out eventually."

"No doubt," agreed Michael. "Could I look at the priest's file for a moment?"

Franchino hesitated, then handed the manila folder to him. Michael sat back, read the file and then handed it back to the monsignor.

"You don't have any other information on the man?"

"No, but even if I did, I don't see the relevance."

"Just curiosity. I've been closely associated with the landlord and the building for many years and I still know nothing about one of our prize tenants."

Michael studied the room. Could some additional information be locked in the files? Something that might strip the mystery away from Father Halliran? But even if there was something, Franchino certainly wouldn't volunteer the information.

"No, there's nothing," concluded the monsignor.

Michael stood up. "I'll see that the rent records are corrected," he said apologetically.

"We will appreciate that," responded Franchino.

"Thank you," said Michael uncomfortably.

"It was my pleasure. Let me show you out." The monsignor walked around the desk and across to the door.

"Oh, I almost forgot," said Michael. "Would you know a gentleman named Charles Chazen?"

The priest thought for a moment. "No, should I?"

"Perhaps."

"And who, may I ask, is he?"

"A neighbor of Father Halliran. He lives down the hall in apartment five A."

"As I said, it's been years since I've had any contact with the man, let alone his neighbors."

"You should advise the good father to contact Mr. Chazen, if he hasn't already. A perfectly charming old gentleman. Would make a wonderful companion."

"I appreciate your concern. I will note that for my staff. Good day now."

Michael hesitated. "There's one more thing, if I might ask your advice."

"Yes."

He searched his pocket. "There's this inscription I had translated from the Latin." He unfolded the paper. "I was wondering if it might be familiar to you, from some religious writing or something." He held it out.

Monsignor Franchino took the paper and held it in the light. He blanched, his lips tightening. Recognition! Without a doubt! The priest quickly assumed his earlier composure. But there was something. And perhaps the clues were in this room.

"No, it's not familiar."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"It does seem religious in its language."

"Yes and no. It probably isn't. In any case, I've never seen it before."

"Never mind," said Michael as he left. "Thank you for your trouble."

The priest shut the door and stood frozen. Nervously, he rubbed the little tufts of white hair on the back of his freckled hands. Then he began to tremble. He crossed himself and stepped back.

His expression constricted; it was one of terror.

Chapter XXII

Monsignor Franchino and Father Halliran were the sole focus of Michael's thoughts as he raced down the hall toward his apartment and opened the door. "I just-" He stopped, hatred mirrored in his eyes. "What are you doing here?" he asked angrily.

"Lovely apartment," said Gatz. He was standing in front of Michael's desk. He lifted Michael's gold pen, held it in the light, read the inscription, then replaced it in the holder.

"That doesn't answer my question."

"I like the coloring. The style of furniture. I was telling Miss Parker that after living in a boardinghouse for so many years, I-you know, a cop, especially one who's been busted by a departmental commission, doesn't make much money and can't afford more-I come into a place like this and I can't help but be impressed."

"What do you want?"

Gatz picked his teeth with a plastic toothpick. "I'm glad you've returned. I've been here waiting patiently for"-he looked at his watch-"a half an hour on the city's money. I couldn't have waited much longer. In fact I was about to leave." He placed the toothpick in his shirt pocket.

Allison writhed uncomfortably on the couch.

"Don't let me keep you," said Michael. He threw the door keys on the dining room table and walked into the living room.

"I wouldn't think of leaving now. That would show a lack of manners."

"Please. A show of manners would be unexpected. I'll even walk you to the elevator."

"You're so considerate you sometimes amaze me!" Gatz turned. "That's Detective Rizzo. I don't think you two have even met."

"Fortunately not!" said Michael, glaring at the impassive detective.

Rizzo shifted a packet of papers from his left hand to his right and extended them toward Gatz.

"Not yet," commanded Gatz.

"What do you want?" asked Michael impatiently.

"Want? Some friendship and conversation." He lifted a judge's gavel and rapped it against the desk. "Good wood," he remarked, then moved around, sat down in the chair, raised his legs and laid them on the finished walnut. "Me and Rizzo were down in the Tombs this morning, so I couldn't help but think of the courageous district attorney who once had so many friends down there behind the bars. Still smells pretty bad. Remember that stink? Sure you do."

Michael interrupted. "Take your feet off my desk."

Gatz waited, took out a cigar, then removed his feet. "Rizzo, I never told you about Mr. Farmer. A very famous D.A. but he didn't like the way the police handled the animals in the cages. In fact, I don't think he liked the police at all. He was very tough in court after someone else did the dirty work. Very thorough. And apparently honest, if you disregard the fact that he was accepting bribes from some nasty people in plea bargaining sessions." Gatz smiled thoughtfully. "Never could prove the bribe angle." He turned to Michael. "But that was a long time ago. Mr. Farmer's come a long way!" Gatz rose, walked around the desk and stood in the middle of the room. "The chair is uncomfortable. I hope you don't mind if I stand?"

"I don't mind if you die."

"You have a one-track mind. Death and more death. That's very unhealthy!" He waved his finger at Michael. "You've got to think about less violent subjects. Then you might stay out of trouble."

"Cut the humor! Say what you have to, then get out or don't say anything and get out now!"

Gatz backed off and lifted his hands, palms outward, as if to ward Michael off. "I just want some conversation, like I said." He turned to Rizzo. "Isn't that right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then talk!" demanded Michael.

"Perhaps some subjects of current interest. Like the new city taxes. A paycheck ain't worth nothing no more! Or the hospital strike. Interested?"

"No."

"Perhaps"-Gatz tapped his lower lip with his index finger -"a body that was found in a vacant lot on the upper West Side, though he wasn't killed there. Interested?"

"No."

"Come now. This is a very intriguing subject. What's more interesting than a stiff?"

Michael silently stared.

Gatz continued. "A detective. William Brenner. Mutilated. Seventeen stab wounds. Quite dead!"

"So?"

"That's what I said," added Allison. "I don't see what that has to do with us."

Gatz smiled. He walked to the bar and poured himself a drink. Scotch. With a little soda. Two ice cubes. He raised the glass, toasted, "To your health," then sipped the whiskey and watched them. He laughed to himself. He knew what Farmer was thinking. The nerve of that cop bastard. To walk to my bar and grab a drink without an invitation. The thought of an angered Michael Farmer was pleasing. He would remember to refill the glass.

"It seems," said Gatz, "this Mr. Brenner specialized in some strange activities. Drug smuggling. Arson. Murder. Rather unique vocations, don't you think?" He snapped his fingers. Rizzo sifted through a packet of photos, pulled an eight-by-ten and handed it to Gatz, who walked to Michael and shoved it in his face. "Notice the wounds. Single-edged knife. The killer was right-handed. Look at his face. He didn't die of pleasure. You wouldn't have known him, would you?"

"No," said Michael.

"Of course not. What would an ex-assistant district attorney be doing with a guy that the police have been trying to bust for the last five years?"

"Frustrating, isn't it?" said Michael.

"Yes, it is." Gatz scowled. "Sooner or later he would have been caught. Too bad someone killed him first." He turned to Allison. "Did you ever hear Brenner's name before?"

"No."

"You're sure now?" 1 m sure.

Gatz stepped to the couch and handed her the picture. She studied it briefly and looked away in disgust.

"Rizzo," Gatz said, as he handed the picture back, "take good care of this."

"Yes, sir."

Gatz took a deep swig of whiskey and began to pace again.

"Mr. Brenner's blood type was AB, Rh negative. Interesting, isn't it?"

"You missed your profession. You should have been a vampire."

Ignoring Michael, Gatz added, "And it should prove even more interesting after they break down the other components and match them against the blood that was found on Miss Parker."

"I can't wait," observed Michael.

Gatz readied himself for a few conclusions. "Let us look over a few of the facts." He drew a mousetrap from his jacket and cocked the spring. "Miss Parker has her story, which we're all familiar with, and she still clings to it right?"

"Yes," said Allison.

"Now we mix it together with the background of some of the individuals involved and add the major ingredient which up to now has been missing-a body-and what do you think we might have?"

"I couldn't guess in a thousand years."

"Murder."

"Nonsense."

"Murder. Or something like it."

"Something like it? Like what? Passing a red light or parking in a school zone?" Michael was livid.

Gatz looked at his empty glass, walked to the bar once again and refilled it, this time adding a little more Scotch, a little less soda and a ready-sliced thin lime rind. "I approve your choice of liquor," he said as he continued. "Now let us take the case of a renting agent named Joan Logan. Nice looking. Even sexy in a funny way, or so I've been told."

"A very funny way," added Allison.

"She was the renting agent for Miss Parker's building."

"Was?" asked Allison.

"Was," replied Gatz.

"Say what you mean!" demanded Michael.

Massaging his chin, Gatz announced, "It seems Miss Logan has disappeared off the face of the earth. There are no records of her existence, other than her agency registration and the ownership papers to the building where she had her business. Apparently she lived in a vacuum and one day decided to disappear-or perhaps was removed forcibly."

"What day?" Allison asked, knowing the answer.

"As near as we can tell, the same day that our friend Brenner was ventilated," answered Gatz.

Michael sat down on the couch next to Allison, put his arm around her shoulder and tried to steady her trembling body. She looked straight at Gatz, shocked and confused.

Gatz released the spring on the mousetrap and placed it back in his pocket. He grabbed a match from the bar, struck it against the heel of his shoe and relit the cigar stub, which had long since burned out. He puffed hard; billows of strong-smelling smoke curled into the air and settled along the ceiling. "Coincidence?" he asked.

"Coincidence!" Michael replied. "People disappear all the time. As for the detective, people also frequently pop up in this city full of holes."

"The facts say no coincidence' and facts are never wrong. They're like brilliant suns in the night."