Dead Cold Mystery Box Set 1

by Blake Banner

  “You want to disturb Father O’Neil’s lunch…”

  “Mh-hm!”

  I fished my cell out of my pocket and made the call.

  “Father O’Neil, it’s Detective Stone here again.”

  He didn’t sound elated. “Detective Stone, yes, how may I help you?”

  “A couple of unexpected things have come up, Father, and I need to ask you a few more questions.”

  “Of course.”

  “Shall I send a car for you, or can you get to the precinct yourself?”

  There was a stunned silence. Then, “You want me to…”

  “That’s the idea.”

  “I see, well, yes, of course. I have a lot to do here…”

  I gave him my best dead, toneless voice and said, “I can send a car for you.”

  “No, that won’t be necessary.”

  “Shall we say half an hour?”

  He said he thought he could manage that and we headed back to the 43rd.

  I took the long way home, via Eastchester and Silver Street. I had never liked the original theory on Sean’s murder. It was too easy and left too many unanswered questions. But the photographs had confused the picture even more, and I was having trouble putting the puzzle together in my head. As we turned onto East Tremont Avenue, Dehan said, “You were pretty tough on Father O’Neil back there.”

  “You think I was wrong?”

  “No, I’m just curious.”

  I nodded. After a moment, I said, “You weren’t real warm toward him yourself when we went to see him.”

  “You answering my question with a question of your own?”

  I smiled. “He’s hiding something. He’s scared of Hagan. I want him to be more scared of me than he is of Hagan. So what’s your beef with him?”

  She didn’t answer straight away. She stared out the side window at the red brick and concrete desolation, the steel, roll-down shutters sprayed with unoriginal graffiti, and the broad, open spaces of blacktop and sidewalk that nature had intended for meadows and woodlands, but Man had decreed should be artificial desert. She spoke suddenly, without looking at me.

  “My Mom went to him for help and guidance, a long time ago. Everything he said this morning was an echo of what he said to her back then. Don’t fight, don’t defend yourself or your family, accept your fate and surrender to those who abuse you. Pray for forgiveness.”

  I turned into Castle Hill. A few small leaves tinged the dead branches with green in the fragile sunlight of the early afternoon.

  “What happened?”

  She shook her head.

  I glanced at her. That was the only answer I was going to get. I said, “That about sums it up. With a man like Father O’Neil, you can be pretty sure he’s in Hagan’s pocket. He is influential enough in the community to be of use, and scared enough not to face up to him. The million dollar question is, what is the point beyond which Father O’Neil will not go?”

  “You think there is one?”

  “Sure. I don’t read him as a bad guy, do you? I think he’s weak, but I think he’d rather do good than not.”

  She shrugged.

  I followed Castle Hill down to Bruckner Boulevard and turned right over the bridge. Five minutes later, I was pulling up outside the station. As Dehan was opening the door, I said, “You going to be okay in this interview?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “We both know there’s stuff you are not telling me, Dehan. You have an issue with Father O’Neil. I’m not pushing you to tell me what it is, but I need to know you’re going to be objective.”

  “I’ll be objective.”

  Father O’Neil was already there. He’d been shown into an interview room and was sitting there fiddling with a paper cup of coffee. He looked up as we came in and smiled nervously.

  “Detectives, I must confess I am a little surprised…”

  He probably expected me to apologize and explain. Instead, I sat, dropped a file in front of me and waited for him to finish his sentence. He didn’t. He trailed off and glanced at Dehan, then back at me. When he didn’t say anything, I asked him, “Father, what is the nature of your relationship with Conor Hagan?”

  He frowned. “My…” He turned to look at Dehan again, as though he suspected the question had been her idea. Then he looked back at me. “My relationship…?”

  “Is there something about the question you don’t understand, Father?”

  “Well, I have no relationship with Conor Hagan.”

  I shook my head. “No, you have some kind of relationship, Father. I am asking you about the nature of that relationship. How long have you been the parish priest here?”

  He felt he was on safer ground here and smiled.

  “More than thirty years, Detective. And if you want to talk about relationships, the relationship I have built up with the parish over those years is one of mutual love and respect. We have run many, many programs, with the help and support of the parishioners, to assist the needy and the homeless, to…”

  “I am aware of that, Father. Is Conor Hagan one of your parishioners?”

  He nodded. “Yes, indeed he is.”

  “He must have been a young child when you took over as parish priest. You may even have christened him.”

  He was silent for a moment, studying his coffee. “Not quite,” he said at last, “but he was a very small boy. His parents were, and still are, devout Catholics and I have watched him grow into a man.”

  “Not quite accurate to say you have no relationship with him?”

  He sighed and met my eye. “I have the same relationship with Conor that I have with any one of my parishioners, Detective.”

  I nodded. “I see. I’d like to know a little more about these programs you run. What is their main focus?”

  He was a little more cautious this time, but again he felt on safer ground. He didn’t like the subject of Conor Hagan.

  “Mainly it’s the children. Not exclusively, there are many, many lost souls in the Bronx, Detective, as I am sure you are well aware. We care for the homeless as best we can, providing shelter and clothes and food. We provide help for women who…”

  He hesitated and Dehan said, “Whores.”

  He stared at her, a little aghast, then nodded and said, “Women who have lost their way. Many are addicted to drugs, or live in fear of their boyfriends, or the men who…”

  “Their pimps.”

  “Yes, thank you, Detective Dehan, but our main concern must be the children. For them, we have shelter, clothes and food, and we also do our best to provide them with schooling, even if it is just basic literacy.”

  I drummed my fingers on the table a moment. “This was the program that Alicia was involved in.”

  “The blessed child was instrumental in setting it up.”

  “Who funds these programs? Even with volunteers, something like this requires money.”

  His face went hard. He said, “Donations,” and clamped his jaw shut.

  I waited. Dehan sighed and said, “Donations from whom, Father.”

  “There isn’t a single donor…”

  I snapped, “We can find out. It will take longer, but we will find out. I already have the feeling you are holding back information, Father, do you want to compound that feeling or do you want to cooperate with us?”

  He drew breath but Dehan was in before he could speak.

  “What is it you are trying to hide?”

  “I am not trying to hide anything!”

  “So who funds these programs?”

  “I told you! All sorts of people!”

  “This morning you were at pains to stress that Conor Hagan does a lot to help the community. Is he one of your contributors?”

  He sighed, and it was shaky. “Of course.”

  “Does he fund the orphans program?”

  “Amongst others.”

  “He, amongst others? Or he funds that program, amongst others?”

  It took him a surprisingly long time t
o answer.

  “He funds that program, amongst others.”

  “Who else contributes to the orphans program?”

  He hesitated. “Off the top of my head, collections from the parish, Conor, a couple of local businessmen.”

  “Names?”

  “Sadiq Khan.”

  I stared at him in silence. Eventually, Dehan said, “Excuse me?”

  “Sadiq Khan, he runs a shipping company…”

  Dehan leaned forward. “Is he a convert to Catholicism?”

  “…No.”

  “He is a Muslim, then.”

  “I assume so, we have never discussed his religious beliefs.”

  Her voice was becoming tense, but I was curious to see where this would lead. “You never questioned the fact that a Muslim was funding a Catholic charity for orphans, in which the children were taught in the Christian faith?”

  “Detective! It is not for me to question his motives! If he helps our children then I am grateful. We both worship the same god, after all!”

  “So the bottom line is,” I said, “that this orphans charity is funded by Conor Hagan and Sadiq Khan.”

  “Yes, that is correct.”

  I sat back. “Not exactly ‘all sorts of people’ is it, Father?”

  “I suppose not.”

  I opened the folder and slid a photograph in front of him. It was the photo of the twelve kids standing together. His jaw dropped.

  “Holy mother of God…!”

  Dehan raised an eyebrow. “Do you know these children?”

  He nodded. “Yes, but how…?”

  “How what, Father?” She leaned forward, staring at his face. “How did we get the photograph?”

  He nodded again, staring at the picture. He picked it up and surprised me by smiling. He pointed. “Look, that is little Mati, this one is Jennifer… That little one with the cheeky grin, now what was her name? I’m pretty sure she was dyslexic, poor love. Sole, I am pretty sure it was Sole…”

  “Who are these children, Father?”

  He looked up at me, surprised, a little irritated.

  “Sure, this is Alicia’s first class. Isn’t that why you’re showing it to me?”

  Dehan frowned. “They are all girls.”

  “Well, of course they are, Detective Dehan! We segregate the boys from the girls, especially at that age! How else are you going to teach them? Have you ever seen a Catholic school that didn’t?”

  I could feel the rage building in her and I acted before she could open her mouth. I slid the next photograph in front of him.

  “Is this also standard practice in Catholic schools, Father O’Neil?”

  “Oh, sweet Jesus!”

  He tried to stand, staggering back as he did so. The chair toppled and he fell over the chair, sprawling on the floor. He was struggling to his feet as Dehan and I moved around the table. His breathing was quick and ragged and he was holding out his left hand, like he was trying to ward off the photograph. He kept saying, “What…? What…?”

  Dehan picked up his chair and I took his arm.

  He was staring into my face. “What is that?”

  I raised my eyebrows at him as I guided him back to the chair.

  “It is a picture of a naked child, Father; one of the children in your orphans program, funded by Conor Hagan and Sadiq Khan, and run by you.”

  “No.”

  He said it as he sat. He refused to look at the picture and said again, “No.”

  I sat, too, but Dehan remained standing, leaning on the back of her chair.

  “What do you mean, ‘No,’?”

  His voice was shrill. “What are these pictures? Where did they come from? Who took them? Who did this?”

  I spoke quietly. “I was hoping you would tell me that.”

  “Jesus, Mary and sweet Joanna! How in the name of all that is holy should I know?”

  Dehan’s voice was harsh. “You don’t like to upset Conor, do you, Father?”

  He was shaking his head, staring at her like she was a dangerous lunatic.

  “You can’t think…”

  “It’s a profitable racket.”

  “No!”

  “What do you get out of it, Father?”

  “No, no!”

  “Or maybe all you have to do is look the other way, advise the kids to accepts God’s will and pray for his forgiveness. Is that what you do?”

  “No! No, no, no, and a thousand times no!”

  He’d managed to silence us. He stared furiously at us in the ringing silence. “You are wrong! I don’t know what this filth is, but it has nothing to do with me and I can tell you it has nothing to do with Conor!”

  Dehan’s voice was heavy with scorn. “He sticks to the moral high ground of extortion and drug trafficking, does he?”

  Father O’Neil was shaking and his face was flushed. He leaned across the table, thrusting his face at Dehan. “Listen to me! I will admit that I try to keep the peace with people like Conor. It would take a much braver, and a much cleverer man than I to run that church, with as many charitable programs as I have, without a deal of give and take with the criminal community. Because the whole, damned community is the criminal community! And if I don’t toe the line, Detective, then people’s legs get broken and people die!” He pointed a furious finger at her. “So don’t come to me with your holier-than-thou airs and bloody graces! Before you lecture me on morality, young lady, you come down to Lafayette and run that church for six months, and tell me you never made a deal or an accommodation!”

  We were quiet for a moment while he breathed and got a grip. Dehan spoke softly. “I lived in that neighborhood for twenty years, there is nothing you can tell me about it that I don’t know.”

  He nodded, staring at the tabletop, and then raised his face to look at her.

  “And how many people came to you for guidance and help? What do you tell a woman who comes to you weeping, Detective, saying that a gang member wants her for his girlfriend, he wants to have sexual intercourse with her, but she doesn’t want to? She asks you for guidance and you know…” He raised his hand and pointed at her again. “You know that if you tell her to say no, he will kill her, or her husband, or her children! What advice do you give that woman? When the whole community looks to you for guidance, and you know that if you guide them on the right path, the repercussions to them will be death, brutality and violence, what do you do?”

  I looked at Dehan to see if she would answer. Her eyes were shining with anger, but she had no answer for him. I looked back at him and said, “You call the cops, Father O’Neil.”

  He burst out laughing. There was something manic to it.

  “The police, is it? Is that the answer?” His face twisted suddenly into a mask of rage. “And what, Detective Stone, when it is the police doing the murdering and the raping? Whom do you call then?” He stood. “I have no idea who took these disgusting photographs, Detective, but I can tell you categorically that it was not me and it was not Conor. He may be a gangster, but he is not a twisted pervert.” He pointed at the stack of photos in front of me. “For that kind of filth, maybe you should look closer to home!”

  And with that he walked out.

  We both sat in silence for a good thirty seconds. Finally, Dehan said, “What did he mean by that, Stone? What did he mean, closer to home?”

  I pulled the photographs back across the table, careful only to touch the rim, and stared at them a while.

  “What do you think he meant?” I said.

  NINE

  The door opened and a uniformed sergeant leaned his head in.

  “Detective, you have a call from the lab. He has been trying to reach you on your cell.”

  “Thanks, Sanchez. I’ll call him back.”

  I dialed Frank’s number and put it on speaker.

  “Stone, I’ve been trying to reach you. It’s about the computer.”

  “What have you got, Frank?”

  “Not much, I’m afraid. Twelve years i
s a long time, but we managed to salvage a couple of emails and what appears to be part of a list. Some of the names had deteriorated beyond salvaging, but I’ve left two that were partly intact because they had recognizable letters remaining. I’ve sent the files to you. The emails are interesting, you’ll see why straight away, but I’m not sure how useful they’ll be.”

  “Thanks. Any word on the photos?”

  “Yes, the word is, I am not Harry Potter. I’ll have something for you as soon as I can get to them.”

  “Thanks, Frank. I did mention it was child prostitution, didn’t I?”

  There was a pause.

  “I’ll get onto it straight away.”

  “Good. I’m sending something else over to you for comparison.”

  While I was talking, Dehan had left the room. I caught up with her at the desk, she was printing the emails and the list. She handed me copies of each and dropped into her chair. I sat and started to read.

  The first was short, but it was a bombshell.

  Sean, Darling, let’s not let this thing get out of hand. I have made up my mind. You are the man for me and I do not plan to let you go. You know what I am like when I make up my mind…

  Sonia

  The sender’s name and email address were at the foot: Sonia Vincenzo. Dehan whistled. I looked up. We stared at each other.

  “You thought it was interesting because of his haircut? Stone, this case is Pandora’s Box. What’s next? Love letters from the White House?”

  I closed my eyes and shook my head. “Sean O’Conor in bed—literally, not figuratively—with the capo of the New Jersey Mob’s only niece? That is a serious plot twist.”

  She was scanning the next sheet. She said, “Keep reading.”

  I flipped it over and read:

  Listen, you sad piece of shit, if you think you can climb in these pants and then just walk away with a kiss and a wink, think again! Your Irish fucking charm don’t cut no ice with me or with my uncle. I hope you got your knees insured, Sean, because you are going to need all the fucking medical attention you can get when Dino and his pals get through with you, you fucking Mick bastard. You are dead!

  “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. If that’s how she felt about Sean, how do you think she felt about Alicia?”