VC03 - Mortal Grace (48 page)

“There are four photos, four ways to orient each photo inside an envelope. In addition, the photo can face the front or the flap of the envelope. I won’t bore you with how many thousand combinations that makes possible. Matter of fact, I didn’t bore myself—a computer searched. But one combination is very, very interesting.”

Click. The four faces, superimposed, rotated, tracked with green, looked like a nightmare deconstruction of a human face generated by a man-hating cyclotron. But in almost the exact center of the image, the green tracks closely paralleled one another.

A nervous hoping fluttered from Cardozo’s stomach up to his chest.

Lou reached a hand to the projector to sharpen the image.

A ghostly number 2 leapt into glowing focus, followed by a series of curves that was almost the handwritten word
High.

Cardozo sat back in the steel chair, feeling hot certainty in his gut.

“You like?” Lou said.

“I like.”

Lou clicked off the projector and stretched to flick the wall switch. Overhead fluorescent light blinked on in the narrow, windowless room.

“Did I mention? We finally got those results from Lifeways.” Lou stood and yawned. “The semen that we recovered from the reverend.”

“No. You didn’t mention.”

“They pulled a DNA match.”

“Who else has Huffington raped?”

“It may not have been rape, but it matches the semen we recovered from Pablo Cespedes’s anus.”

A hard stab of shock went through Cardozo. His ballpoint pen made a clinkety-clank sound as it fell to the uncarpeted linoleum floor.

“Vince. What’s the matter? What’s happening to you?”

“Nothing. Just lost my balance for a second.” Cardozo straightened up and inhaled slowly. “So Huffington and Cespedes were acquainted.”

“To say the least.” Lou took a long swallow from his coffee mug, wiped his lips with the edge of his hand. “Make sure the reverend has an antibody test.”

It was like turning a corner very quickly and coming upon a three-car collision. Cardozo stood there in Lou Stein’s office, blinking, trying to convince himself that this was real. “She’s had an antibody test.”

“If it comes back negative, make sure she has another in six weeks.”

The first thing Cardozo did when he got back to the precinct was to order more copies of the photos. The second was to reassign eight detectives, effective immediately. Their job was to hit every street and avenue and alley in the city whose name started with High—bang on every door in every building on those streets whose number ended in 2—and see if anyone recognized Pablo or any of the runaways.

It was a little after four when Tom O’Reilly called Cardozo into his office. “From what I can see, Vince, this Eff is small-fry.”

O’Reilly had loosened his tie and he had one foot up on his desk and Cardozo didn’t think that tumbler of Coca-Cola in his hand was just Coca-Cola.

“You’re using a lot of men.”

“I know that, sir.”

The dangerous moment dangled.

“I’ve gone out on a limb with you,” O’Reilly said. “You’d better know what you’re doing.”

“I know exactly what I’m doing, sir.”

“Have you ever seen any of these kids?” Detective Sam Richards asked.

The man who lived in the first floor rear was wired up to an IV tree with four plastic bags. It jerked forward as he reached for the snapshots. His eyes were enormous in his skeletal face, and they went from the photos to Sam Richards to Ellie Siegel. He was obviously curious about this Oreo cop team—the black man and the white woman—with their pictures of half-naked white kids, but he wasn’t about to involve himself.

He shook his head. “Can’t help you.” He handed the photos back.

Ellie and Sam thanked him. He closed the door, and they could hear the wheels of his IV tree squeaking.

Sam sighed. “Scratch another off the list.”

Three twenty-two Highland Road, the Bronx, had fallen to Ellie and Sam as part of the 2-High search. The residents were black, elderly, and scared. It was a terrifying building—and not just because a sixteen-year-old girl had been caught two nights ago making phony 911 calls and then throwing rocks off the roof at responding officers. There were bullet holes in every door. Garbage had been set afire in the hallways. Laths poked, pulped and broken, through cracked plaster. Water dribbled from busted pipes.

“Imagine being a senior citizen,” Ellie said, “and having to live here.”

Sam grimaced. “I’d feel safer in the bear cage in the Bronx Zoo.”

As they were leaving, a rat scuttled in the walls. Sam checked the mailboxes one last time. “We missed one. There’s a cellar apartment.”

Beneath the stairwell, a flight of wooden steps led to a door covered in steel plate. Eight bullets had left pock-marks in the steel. Sam knocked.

“Who is it?” a woman’s voice called.

“Police, ma’am.” Sam held his ID up to the peephole.

Bolts slid. The door groaned inward. A fresh smell of lemon-scented furniture polish floated out.

A small, gray-haired, neatly dressed woman stood looking up at them. Light sparked off her glasses.

“Sorry to trouble you, ma’am,” Sam said.

A friendly little smile lit the old woman’s eyes. She projected patience as if she had invented it. “You’re not troubling me.”

Sam showed her the photos. “We’d just like to ask if you recognize any of these kids?”

She took a long time studying each photo in turn. Finally she handed them back. “No, I’m sorry, I’ve never seen any of them.”

“Thank you for your time, ma’am.”

“You’re very welcome.”

The old lady watched the policeman and the policewoman climb the flight of stairs. Their shadows followed them along the sweating cellar wall.

In the little apartment behind her, a phone rang. She closed the door and bolted it and hurried to answer. “Hello?”

“Hi, Grammaw.”

She smiled as she always did when she heard his voice.

“Why, Eff, honey, you got some mail. It just came.”

“Thanks, Grammaw. You gonna be home this afternoon?”

Grammaw opened the door at the very first knock.

Eff stood there smiling a smile that was part mystery, part prank. “Hi, Grammaw. Looking beautiful.”

He kissed her and a light came into her eyes.

He meandered into the apartment. He was wearing a clean blue denim work shirt rolled up at the cuffs and blue jeans and brand-new-looking brown calfskin Wellington boots. Out of respect, he was holding his New York Mets cap in his hand.

“I got some cakes and cookies,” Grammaw said. “I can make some coffee.”

Visiting Grammaw was like walking into a party where he was guest of honor. “Haven’t got time today, Grammaw. Maybe next time.”

“You got holes in your jeans.”

“That’s the style.”

“Just because it’s style doesn’t mean it’s good or you gotta do it.” Her eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong? You walk like you got something tucked in the back of your belt.”

“I got something tucked in the back of my belt.”

A worried knuckle flew to Grammaw’s mouth. “Eff—you’re not carrying a gun!”

Life had kicked some bad shit to Grammaw very hard and Eff made it a point to kick some good shit to her nice and easy. Today it was roses, a dozen red ones that he’d ripped off from a Korean deli.

“Happy birthday to my favorite girl.” He held the bouquet out to her.

Grammaw stared at him, not speaking, not moving. A tear rolled down one of her cheeks. It was as though she was asking God,
Where did I get this angel?

He pushed the flowers into her hands. “Where’s my mail, Grammaw?”

She was shaking her head, blinking away tears. The unhurried, unhurrying notes of a siren passed in the street, weaving into the stillness. “On the table.”

He went to the table and picked up the envelope and looked at the handwriting. “Okay if I use the bathroom?”

“Course it’s okay.”

Eff went into the bathroom and turned the lock so carefully that there was no click at all. He opened the envelope.

It contained a piece of lined paper and a photo. A time, a date, and an address had been written on the paper. Nothing else. The photo showed a young man standing on a dock in Jockey shorts, flexing his muscles. The name
Sandy
had been block-lettered on the bottom border, followed by a number sign and the number 6.

Eff slipped the photo and the piece of paper into his pocket.

He lowered the toilet seat cover and quietly stepped up onto it. He reached his finger into the opening where the window chain ran into the sash. He found the loop of the wire he had hidden there. It took a moment to work his fingertip into it.

He pulled up the zippable plastic sandwich bag. From the stash of grass, coke, and pills he took a pink pill and enough grass to roll four joints.

When he came back into the other room, Grammaw had set out a plate of Pepperidge Farm oatmeal cookies.

“Coffee’s almost ready.”

“Sorry, Grammaw—gotta hurry.”

Eff went to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of wine cooler.

“There’s alcohol in that,” she warned him.

“I’m a big boy, Grammaw.” He kissed her good-bye. “Take care of yourself now and stay pretty. I’ll be phoning.”

SIXTY-ONE

A
SSISTANT DISTRICT ATTORNEY HARVEY
Thoms lowered his head, swung right along the pale green corridor, and strode through a gaggle of nurses guiding a patient tethered to an IV tree.

He had reached the even-numbered rooms now, the semiprivates with river views, and his steps took on a more rapid rhythm as he came to 1612.

The door was half ajar and he pushed it all the way. He could see the hospital bed cranked up to sitting and he could see there was no one in it. His gaze swung to the chair where a loose-limbed orderly sat thumbing through a movie magazine.

“Where’s Montgomery?”

The orderly looked up. Spots on his once-white hospital smock said he’d had creamed spinach for lunch.

“Montgomery. The man who’s supposed to be in that bed. What have you done with him?”

The blank Third World face had no answer.

Thoms knocked on the bathroom door and shoved. He flicked on the light. Montgomery’s toiletries were still there, jumbled on the glass shelf. The bath towel was damp to Thoms’s touch.

He turned. “Who the hell speaks English around here?”

There was no knock. Just a sound of feet banging into a chair, and when Cardozo glanced up, there was Harvey Thoms, faintly purple in the face and breathing hard.

“Where’s Father Montgomery?”

Cardozo slowly brought his chair upright, slowly rested an elbow on the desk top. “Last time I saw him, he was in Doctors Hospital.”

“Not now he isn’t.”

“So?”

“We need him for questioning.”

Cardozo’s eye went to the burly, bored cop in shirtsleeves standing by the cubicle door. He wondered if that was the other half of this
we.
“In connection with?”

“The deaths of Pablo Cespedes and Tod Lomax.”

Cardozo turned it over in his mind and didn’t like it. “Why today? Why all of a sudden?”

“New evidence has come to light.”

“I sure as hell haven’t seen any. And I’m in charge, remember?”

Thoms didn’t answer. He gave off an air of hyperactive energy beginning to slip off the leash.

“What have you got—your own forensics team going over the crime scenes? Or maybe a private task force? I’d consider it a professional courtesy if you’d share.”

“The D.A. has reconsidered the available evidence.” Thoms handed him a two-sheet boilerplate authorization.

Cardozo’s eyes scanned. Someone with a bad ballpoint and a worse tremor had misspelled Montgomery’s name four times. “This is a warrant for arrest.”

Thoms nodded. “Technically, there’s enough to hold Montgomery on suspicion.”

“Come on, Harvey. This isn’t new evidence, this is a change in policy. What’s the reason?”

“Latino pressure groups are making noise. They want to see some progress on the Cespedes killing.”

“So it’s a public relations move. You think the city is going to burn down if Father Joe is allowed the free exercise of a few of his rights.”

“Whose side are you on, Cardozo?”

“Same side as you and the D.A. Just trying to clear up a few questions and see that the bad guys get caught.”

“Any information you turn up regarding Father Montgomery’s whereabouts, you be sure to let us know.”

“Immediately.” Sarcasm sounded in Cardozo’s voice before he could hold it back. “Count on it.”

Something flickered in Thoms’s eyes. “Don’t play games, Vince.”

“Never on office time.”

Thoms walked to the window and stood staring out. “You didn’t warn him, did you?”

Cardozo had to laugh. “How the hell could I warn him? How do I know what you guys are going to be cooking up?”

“That’s a
no
?”

“You bet that’s a
no
.”

After Thoms had gone, Cardozo phoned Bonnie at the rectory. “The D.A.’s men went up to the hospital to arrest Father Joe. They couldn’t find him. Seems he’s vanished.”

“That’s not possible.” The surprise sounded genuine.

“You haven’t heard from him?”

“He can’t
see
.”

“Will you let me know if you do?”

The door of the Sea Shell bar swung open. Eff looked up from his drink. A figure stood silhouetted against the spill of late-afternoon sunlight. Eff waved.

Sandy McCoy saw the wave. He approached the table, not exactly weaving but not exactly walking a straight line either. “Nell says you wanted to see me.”

“Got a job for you, bro.” Eff extended a welcoming hand and pulled Sandy into a chair.

Sandy was wearing a tank top and he had a bandanna tied around his forehead. It was very street, very don’t-fuck-with-me, a look that black boys and Hispanics could pull off and white boys like Sandy McCoy couldn’t.

“Thirsty?” Eff offered.

Sandy’s startlingly pale eyes were all iris, barely a pinpoint of pupil in them. They probed the dimness and found the bar with its mirrored shelves of liquor.