by Ann McMan
“Smith, Martin, Squires & Andersen, PA. That’s Andersen with two ‘e’s.’ The PAC was set up in Delaware by this legal firm. And before you ask, their offices are in Philadelphia—and, no, I don’t have the address. You can find it yourself.”
“Yeah. I can find it. Thanks for your help, Sandy.”
“Go to hell. You know I could lose my job for this—and possibly go to jail.”
“Relax. No one’s gonna find out.”
“Well, see that they don’t. And Evan?”
“Yeah?”
“I mean it.” Sandy’s voice was like ice. “We’re even now. I don’t owe you anything else, so don’t come asking.”
“No worries. I won’t. You give my regards to Nellie.”
Sandy hung up.
Evan sat holding her cell phone for a second before tossing it down on her desk.
Guess I can cross that resource off my list . . .
She shrugged and studied the sheet of paper where she’d scrawled the names. Well, Mr. Squires. I wonder what else you can teach me about the honorable Justice Cawley?
Only one way to find out.
She called Ben Rush to arrange a little after-hours visit to the attorney’s office.
◊ ◊ ◊
Tria Café West on Spruce Street was humming. Good thing they had a reservation.
Maya was halfway through a second glass of wine. And an indifferent wine it was, for the prices this place charged. This is definitely not a venue I’d have picked for this meeting.
But choice of location was not an available option. Mr. Zucchetto had been clear about that when he forwarded the arrangements. And that was probably because this place was in a location where he could be sure no one would recognize either of them.
Fat chance anyone I know would be stopping off here . . .
But Mr. Zucchetto was wise to embrace one certain axiom: your sins would always find you out—no matter how hard you tried to cover your tracks.
Was that outcome ever certain to bear out with the suspects in this little quagmire. Zucchetto and his “client” had one hell of a mess on their hands. And it was clear that he and his associates were willing to pay top dollar to have it cleaned up. That’s where Maya came in.
That’s where Maya always came in.
She tried another sip of the wine, a Tannat that was advertised as an “unsung treasure from Uruguay.”
If there actually is a god, this wine never will find its voice.
“Excuse me?” It was the host. “I believe your party has arrived.” He indicated a stout man, hovering near the South 12th Street entrance. He wore a chalk stripe suit and Borsalino hat. He looked like a caricature of a movie mobster. Fitting.
Maya nodded, and the host gestured for the man to approach her table.
“Miss Jindal?” the round man asked. When Maya nodded, he sat down on the vacant chair. “I appreciate your punctuality and apologize for my own tardiness.” He removed his hat and handed it to the host. “Will you kindly hang this up for me?”
The host nodded and walked back toward his station, carrying the hat somewhat awkwardly. Maya was amused by his predicament. It didn’t seem likely that many patrons of Tria Café shared the same penchant for exotic millinery.
“Have you ordered?” Zucchetto asked.
“Just the wine.”
She saw her companion’s nostrils flare a bit.
“I think I’ll pass,” he said.
“Wise decision.” Maya passed him one of the two menus. “The cheese board looks palatable.”
He scanned the menu. “Lighter fare is fine,” he said. “We won’t be tarrying over lunch.”
“I didn’t expect so.”
Their server arrived and they gave their orders. Mr. Zucchetto also ordered a Pellegrino with a twist. No ice.
When the server departed, Mr. Zucchetto reached inside his impressively tailored jacket and withdrew a fat envelope. He passed it across the table to her.
“This contains some additional information to get you started.”
Maya took the envelope and slipped it into the outside pocket of the messenger bag tucked beneath their table.
“Aren’t you going to look at it?” Zucchetto asked.
“No. I don’t expect to have any questions about the contents.”
“Suit yourself. I’d imagine you already have your own reliable sources.”
Maya was intrigued. “What makes you think that?”
Zucchetto raised a grizzled eyebrow full of wiry, white hair. “Your . . . CV made for a most elucidating read.”
“My CV?” Maya laughed. “I suppose that’s one way to describe it.”
“Do you dispute its contents?”
“Not having had the privilege to examine it, I hardly know how to answer.”
“It does you no disservice.”
“That’s an opinion sure to brook disagreement in certain sectors. Yours, for example.”
Zucchetto seemed unfazed by the remark. “My ‘sector,’ as you refer to it, is more concerned with privacy, propriety and the preservation of decorum.”
“As the impressive number of zeros tidily arrayed before the decimal point in your kind offer would suggest.”
“I have not previously been led to understand that the motivational particulars of an assignment hold much concern for you.” Zucchetto folded his arms. “Was I misinformed?”
“Oh, no.” Maya took another sip of the inferior wine. “I’m just making idle chatter until our meals arrive.”
“Am I boring you?” he asked.
“Not in the slightest. In fact, I find myself excessively diverted.”
The flippant remark appeared to annoy him. “I suppose I should be grateful you find this all so amusing.”
“That’s certainly one way you can interpret my indifference to your motive.”
“In this case, I don’t have a motive. I have a client with a cause.”
She smiled at him. “In this particular instance, I’d argue that’s a distinction without merit.”
Zucchetto’s nostrils flared again. Maya surmised it wasn’t related to the wine this time. That was fine. Pious hypocrites like Zucchetto were beneath contempt. They were like maggots—fattened from feasting on the decay of their self-proclaimed scruples. And time? Time was a great ally.
“The arc of the moral universe is long,” she quoted, “but it bends toward justice.”
Zucchetto seemed confused. “I don’t take your meaning.”
“I’m not surprised,” she agreed. “But in this case, it isn’t my meaning. It’s Martin Luther King’s.”
Zucchetto didn’t reply.
Maya was amused by their exchange. She was no expert on the moral universe. That much was well established. But there was little doubt that people like Mr. Zucchetto would one day reap their just rewards.
They all would.
◊ ◊ ◊
Evan was just about to wrap up for the day when she got a text message from Ping.
Got some information for you. Ben said I should contact you directly.
Evan texted back. Got time to talk right now?
Sure.
Ping picked up on the first ring. “Hey, Evan. So, I got some details on Miller.”
“Great.” Evan pulled her notepad over. “Shoot.”
“For starters, he’s outta prison.”
“Good for him.”
“Well,” Ping continued. “Maybe not.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning he’s serving out the rest of his most recent stretch as an inpatient at the Warren State Hospital. He’s been in there for nearly two years.”
Evan was confused. “State Hospital?”
“Yeah. It’s an asylum.”
“Asylum?” Evan was surprised. “Was he committed?”
“Uh huh. By the prison.”
“What the hell for?”
Ping chuckled. “You don’t think being a serial child molester is enough of a reason?”<
br />
“For prison, sure. But an asylum? There must’ve been some mitigating circumstances.”
“Oh, there were. Let’s see . . .” Evan could hear Ping flipping pages. “According to the clerk I talked to in the warden’s office at Cambria County, he was beat up several times. One time, he had his head bashed in with a plumber’s wrench. He nearly died from that one, and he came out of it with a traumatic brain injury. She said that caused some kind of permanent psychosis.”
“Jesus Christ. That can actually happen?”
“I guess so. The clerk said he’s not violent, just crazy. And,” Ping added, “don’t you blaspheme when you’re talkin’ to me. I ain’t Ben Rush.”
“Sorry. Is he ever gonna get out?”
“I got nothin’. The family could decide to move him to another place when his prison sentence is finished.”
“How long will that be?”
“Another three years. He was serving a five-year stretch for a third offense.”
Good god, Evan thought. “What a prince.”
“Yeah. No kidding. I went ahead and tried to find out where his wife is. Ex-wife, I should say. She divorced his sorry ass and moved to upstate New York during his first stretch in Cincinnati. There hasn’t been any contact there—with her or with their kids.”
“Hard to blame her for that. Do you know if this hospital keeps him locked up?”
“I don’t think so.” Evan could hear Ping firing up a smoke. The click of her Zippo lighter was unmistakable. Evan always found this habit to be a contradiction for someone who led such a Christ-centered life. “He’s in a secure unit,” Ping continued. “But like they said—he’s crazy, not dangerous.”
Evan gave a bitter laugh. “Unless you’re a fourteen-year-old boy.”
“Well. Maybe those beatings knocked some sense into him? Could be coming to terms with what he did explains why he went off his rocker. The Lord has His ways of correcting deviant behavior.”
“I doubt it.”
It was Ping’s turn to laugh. “Evangeline? You doubt everything.”
“You spend too much time listening to Ben.”
“No. I just don’t twist myself up in knots trying to understand everything. Sometimes, things don’t have any greater meaning. They just mean what they mean.”
“You learn that in Sunday School, Ping?”
“Maybe. A little bit of God’s Word wouldn’t hurt you, Evan Reed.”
“Sadly, I think that bus has left the station.”
“News flash. No bus can outrun the Word of God.”
Evan chuckled. “So where is this hospital and how do I get there?”
“It’s in North Warren, about seventy miles east of Erie.”
Shit. Too far to drive in one day. “Okay. I can probably get a puddle-jumper from Philadelphia. Thanks, Ping. I owe you.”
“That’s what Ben said. You call if you need anything else.”
“You know I will.”
“You be careful at that place.” Ping took a long drag off her cigarette. “It has bad juju.”
“It’s an asylum. I don’t think any of them have great Zagat ratings.”
“No.” Ping added. “That’s not what I mean. This place has ghosts.”
“Ping . . .”
“Hey. Don’t take my word for it. I did research. You know . . . what you pay me for? All kinds of paranormal stuff goes on there. That whole place is creepy. Take a gander at some of the photos people have posted online. And there’ve been lots of mysterious deaths, too. Tales of all kinds of torture and secret medical experiments on patients. Most of ’em are long dead and buried in the cemetery there—never claimed by their families. They say there’s a whole spider’s web of abandoned, underground tunnels that connect all the buildings, too. Ghost hunters love that place. I watched some of the YouTube videos. It’s bad news.”
“I won’t argue that it is for Miller.”
“Not just Miller. It was bad news for a whole lot of poor souls before him. They went in and never came out.”
“Well, don’t worry about me,” Evan reassured her. “I plan to be home in time for dinner.”
“Just see to it that you are.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Evan heard a faint ding on the line.
“That’s my oven,” Ping said. “I’m baking pies.”
Evan had a real sweet tooth, and Ping’s desserts were legendary. “Save me a slice?”
“You don’t know what kind they are.”
“Who cares?”
“Okay. I’ll wrap some up for you and Ben so you’ll have something to eat while you’re waiting on bail money.”
Bail money? Evan took the bait. “Which translated means?”
“When you get busted for porch climbing.”
“Oh?” Evan teased. “Ben told you about our little moonlight outing?”
“Yes, he did. And I think you’re both idiots.”
“How come?”
“Because neither of you two geniuses could find your own behinds with flashlights and GPS.”
Evan laughed. “Come on, Ping. Have a little faith.”
“Honey, I’ve got nothing but faith—and common sense.”
“Well, in that case, better box up some leftovers, too.”
Ping clucked her tongue. “I gave up on Ben Rush a long time ago. That man is like a fifteen-car pileup on the Schuylkill—and every bit as oily. But I’d think you’d have better sense. Especially with your little girl to think of.” Evan could make out some clattering sounds—probably Ping removing her pies from the oven. “Which reminds me. Desiree wants to know if you three will come by to eat with us before Watch Night service. I think it’s the only way she’ll agree to go to church.”
Ping’s youngest granddaughter, Desiree, and Stevie were the same age. They’d become fast friends after meeting two summers ago at a graduation party for Ben’s oldest daughter. Since then, the girls were in constant communication with each other. She strongly suspected the pair would end up applying to the same colleges.
Evan understood that Ping’s invitation was a big deal. Watch Night service on December 31 was one of the holiest nights of the year at Ping’s AME church. It commemorated the night a hundred and fifty-seven years ago, when both freed and enslaved African Americans huddled together in prayer, waiting for President Lincoln to sign the Emancipation Proclamation.
Evan recalled that Ping always put on quite a spread. “Are you cooking?” she asked.
“Yes I am.”
“Then we’ll be there. And, Ping? Stevie will want to be sure that Desiree is showing up, too.”
“She will be if her mother has any of the sense God gave her.”
That seemed like a loaded comment. “What’s up with Phyllis?” Phyllis was Ping’s daughter.
“Well,” Ping began, “that girl just lets those children run wild.”
“Ping. Desiree is nearly seventeen.”
“Seventeen going on thirty. You mark my words: that girl is gonna end up in trouble.”
“I don’t think so. Desiree is a good girl.”
“Good girl or bad girl is irrelevant. It’s boys that cause all the heartache. All of ’em are out there wavin’ their junk around.”
“Their what?”
“You know what I’m talking about. You have a baby boy—you only have to worry about one penis. You have a baby girl—you have to worry about all of them.”
Evan found it hard to disagree. “Check,” she said. “I’ll tell Stevie to expect her. And I promise to be careful, too.”
“See to it that you are. And that means watching your back at that crazy house—and staying away from any second-story work with that fool, Ben Rush.” Ping hung up.
Evan actually thought about Ping’s warnings for a couple of seconds. But it was too late.
Besides . . . what could go wrong?
Ghost hunters. What a bunch of bullshit.
Chapter Three
Confession at St. Ma
rgherita was held every Saturday, and on fluctuating weekdays according to the liturgical calendar. Today was the celebration of the Immaculate Conception of the Blessed Virgin Mary, and Tim drew the short straw. That meant he was sitting for the sacrament of confession from 3:30 to 4:45 p.m. He didn’t expect much of a turnout. Weekday confessions were mostly attended by octogenarians who habitually received the sacrament three or four times a month. They were what the priests called “tea baggers”—they dipped in and out with dispatch, usually so they could be first in line for blue plate specials at the Melrose Diner.
By 4:30, he’d only had four penitents, confessing to a litany of mostly rank and file “I had impure thoughts about the bag boy at Kowalski’s Market” type of venial sins. That was okay. He wasn’t in the best frame of mind to grapple with any grander demons.
All of that changed in a hurry when the paneled door on the other side of the confessional opened and closed.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
The voice belonged to a young man—probably a teenager. He didn’t say anything else after his declaration, so Tim proceeded with the standard prompt. “How long has it been since your last confession?”
“Um. Well . . .”
“Yes?” Tim asked.
“A while. Maybe a couple of years.”
“That’s a long time,” Tim commented. “Did something prevent you from making this confession sooner?”
“No. Yes. Sort of . . .”
“Would you like to explain what you mean?”
“I would. But it’s hard.”
Tim sat back against the narrow, padded bench. “That’s okay. You can take your time. Consider me your captive audience.”
The young man gave what sounded to Tim like a nervous laugh. “They told me you were cool.”
“They?” Tim asked.
“People,” he said. “Friends. In another parish.”
“Are you from another parish, too?”
“Is that okay?”
“Of course, it is. God doesn’t care about your zip code.”
“No. But they say he cares about other stuff.”
Tim was impressed. “‘They’ were right about that part. Do you want to start by talking about what you think God does care about?”
