by Philip Kerr
“Had breakfast?”
“Seems you read my mind, Eamon.”
“You’ve lost weight. That’s easier to read than your mind, Gil. It’s not home cooking you’ve been having, I’ll bet.” He put his big hand on my shoulder. “Come through to the kitchen and we’ll get Mrs. Harris to cook something for you.”
I followed Coogan through the hall and into a well-appointed kitchen where the woman who had answered the door was polishing a stainless-steel cooktop in the center of a granite counter as big as the nave of a small and very clean church.
“Mrs. Harris?” said Coogan. “Would you cook Mr. Martins a huge breakfast, please?”
“Certainly, Your Excellency.”
“I’ve asked her not to call me that,” Coogan told me. “It makes me sound like I should be wearing a pith helmet and carrying letters of introduction to the queen, but she just ignores me.”
Mrs. Harris ignored him; she was already preparing my breakfast; and within twenty minutes it was served, and very good it was, too. Coogan watched me eat it with vicarious pleasure, almost as if he could taste every bit of it that went into my mouth.
“So what did you want to talk to me about, Eamon?” I asked. “Do you mind if I smoke?”
“No, go ahead. I like the smell of cigarettes.”
I lit one and waited. “And?”
He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. The archbishop and I have resolved the matter ourselves. Father Breguet, one of the priests at St. Benedict’s seminary, was suspected of having embezzled some church funds. Anyway, we thought it over and decided not to press charges.”
“You’re going to let him get away with it?” I frowned. “Mind if I ask why?”
For a moment, I had the impression Coogan was picking his words with care.
“His Eminence and I concluded that it wasn’t nearly as much money that went missing as we had earlier supposed.”
“Hardly a federal matter, I’d have thought.”
“No. But you’re the only law enforcement officer I know well enough to talk about these things without having a lawyer present.”
I grinned. “Well, I can’t complain about the food.”
“As it happens, there was another reason I had for going ahead and letting you come here.”
I sighed. “I’m not looking for eternal reassurance. Just some place to live.”
“Then you really have moved out.”
I nodded. “This morning, before I came here. Ruth was about to throw my ass onto the street. A woman can do that when she’s got custody of your kid. And when she’s got her daddy’s Benjamin Franklins bankrolling her. She always seems to know the very best moment to twist the knife in a man’s guts.”
“Well, I’m no expert when it comes to women,” he said.
I let out a long sigh and slapped my full stomach. “So, after I’ve left this wonderfully spic-and-span house of yours, Eamon, I’m going to find a motel and then look for an apartment somewhere.”
“Now, I might just be able to help you there, Gil. Mind you, it’s not exactly convenient. But it might tide you over for a while.”
“Well, my online search criteria are straightforward enough. They come down to this: the cheaper the better. I’m going to need what money I’ve got for a divorce lawyer. Look, it’s very kind of you to offer to help me, Eamon, but I don’t think life in a seminary would suit me right now. These days the only thing I pray for is to win the Texas lottery.”
“I was thinking, there’s a house you can have. All to yourself. And for as long as you want. It’s hardly ideal for a man who works in Houston. But if you’re needing to save money, I’m thinking for a while it might suit you.”
“I dunno, Eamon. I’m kind of particular about things being clean, you know?”
“An empty furnished house. With five bedrooms and a small garden, and it’s as clean as a whistle. Rent-free, too. Until you find something more permanent here in Houston. Which won’t take you long. You can move in today if you’re interested.”
“Of course I’m interested. But there’s just one catch, right? This is where you tell me the house is haunted.”
“It’s in Galveston.” Coogan put his hands in his pockets, pushed his belly out, and smiled, awaiting my response.
I thought for a moment. Galveston wasn’t exactly around the corner, and it was even farther away from Ruth and Danny in Corsicana. Fifty miles south of Houston, the largest seaport in Texas was only just starting to recover from Hurricane Ike. The place was virtually a ghost town. I’ve seen tumbleweed that looks more cheerful than Galveston, and so living there was hardly ideal. There was all that and the fact that I’d spend two hours on the I-45 every day. But what else did I have to do with my spare time? And there are major advantages to living almost anywhere when it’s rent-free, even in a disaster zone. Rent-free is as cheap as you can get. And useful when you don’t have the least fucking idea where you’re going to be spending the night. Besides, the true fact of the matter was that I had little stomach for the business of actually looking for a place to live. From what I’d heard, rentals were nearly always filthy. That part of finding a new place really appalled me. And I certainly wasn’t exactly looking forward to spending days cleaning a new apartment.
“It’s a dump, right? Like the rest of Galveston. Ike took the roof off and left the basement full of water. Either that or there’s still no electricity.”
Coogan shook his head. “Actually, it’s not a bad house. A bit quiet. Most of the neighbors moved out after the hurricane and they haven’t come back. But all of the damage was repaired and the house was redecorated only last year. There’s a wide-screen TV. A power shower. A fully renovated kitchen with all the modern conveniences. Until recently, the place was occupied by a priest who liked his wine and his creature comforts. Father Dyer. He’s in a Texas City nursing home. For retired members of the clergy. And I had the place professionally cleaned after he left, so right now it’s immaculate.”
“Immaculate?”
“Immaculate.” He paused. “Look, Gil, none of the lazy so-and-sos in the seminary even wants to set foot in Galveston. They’re looking for somewhere with a little more action, here in Houston or in Dallas. Somewhere with some people. With some Catholics. And I can’t say that I blame them. The only regular congregations to be found in Galveston are the goddamn cranes and turtles. The house is close to the old cathedral. So you’d be doing me a favor if you could keep an eye on the place. Kind of like a caretaker. We’ve had a few problems with looters down that way. Bastards stealing lead off church roofs, shit like that. A tenant with a Glock might be just what the doctor ordered. If you like, we can drive down there now and take a look at the house.”
“Well, yeah, that’d be great, Eamon. If you’re sure you can spare the time.”
Coogan made a face. “I’m celibate, right? And there’s no damn game this weekend. So what else am I going to do with my frigging Saturday?”
I grinned. “It’s true what they say. If you want to lose your faith, make friends with a priest.”
FOURTEEN
God and BP have a lot to answer for in the Gulf of Mexico. But calling Galveston a ghost town was misleading. Even the ghosts looked like they’d jumped on a train across the Galveston Causeway, retreating inland and north back up the Gulf Freeway for a more congenial city to haunt, such as Houston or Dallas. Most of the ghosts anyway; about the only place that seemed as if it might still be home to a spook or two was the Catholic diocesan house where Bishop Coogan had taken me the previous day—the place where it seemed I was going to live for a while, in the absence of something rent-free that was any better.
From the outside, things did not look promising. It was a turn-of-the-century three-story wooden house with a corner turret roof, wraparound balconies and verandas, and a white picket fence. The house was much larger than I had imagined,
and like a lot of old places in Galveston, it belonged properly in a less congenial part of Amityville. I’ve seen creepier-looking houses, but only on the cover of a novel by Stephen King.
Inside, however, things were very much more agreeable. The place was spectacularly clean—Coogan hadn’t exaggerated about that. And the house was as well-appointed as he had promised it would be, with a wide-screen television, a well-stocked wine cellar, and a handsome library; it was nicely furnished, too, with a large and very comfortable bed, some fine Spanish rugs, and lots of leather furniture. I even liked the framed prints that were on the walls, although many of these pictures were of religious subjects. Coogan said they were by an English painter called Stanley Spencer, whom I’d only vaguely heard of: his The Resurrection, Cookham was pleasantly ordinary, while his Angels of the Apocalypse looked like a group of wives heading home from a Weight Watchers meeting.
In spite of these creature comforts, I did not sleep well on my first night. The tree out front was perfectly shaped for a hanging—an effect enhanced by a piece of ancient rope that was tied around the sturdiest bough; it was badly in need of pruning and, stirred by the Gulf breezes that had once made Galveston a better place to live than Houston, the branches tapped against the upper windows all night long. Being made entirely of wood, the house creaked like a wrecked schooner as it cooled after the high temperatures of the day, so that there were several times during the night when I felt obliged to get up and check what I already knew—that I was the only person in the house.
I wasn’t just the only person in the house. The general ghostly effect of my new home was enhanced—if that’s the right word—by the fact that most of the other houses in the neighborhood were boarded up and empty. I could have fired a whole clip out of the window and no one would have turned a hair. Galveston was getting back on its feet was the rumor at the local gas station but not so that anyone would have noticed. I’ve been in noisier boxes of cotton than Galveston.
Every time I looked out of a window I had the idea I might see a bunch of zombies coming along the street. At the local bodega on Strand Rear Street, by the greenish harbor, the guy behind the cash register was from some shit-hole town in Russia’s Arctic Circle; he joked that Galveston reminded him of home, and I believed him. I couldn’t have felt more cut off if I’d been manning a camp at the North Pole. And that particular Sunday morning, when I drove out of Galveston, I never thought I’d actually be glad to be heading for Lakewood Church.
I wasn’t long off the island across the causeway when my cell rang. It was Helen Monaco.
“Where have you been, Martins? I was ringing you at home all day yesterday,” she complained. “And you weren’t answering your cell or your e-mails.”
“Gee, Helen, it sounds like you were worried about me.”
“Where the hell are you, anyway?”
“Galveston,” I said. “It’s where I’m living, as of yesterday. That’s why you couldn’t reach me at home. I’ve moved out. I should have called the office and let them know but this is my first day off since Ruth left me.”
“Galveston? What the hell are you living there for? Are you tired of life or something?”
“It’s actually quite a nice house, in the day. And rent-free, too.”
“If I’d known you were that desperate, you could have had my couch.”
“Ah, that’s what you say now. But late at night, when we’d had a few drinks and you started coming on to me. Well, who knows how that might turn out?”
“And here I was, feeling sorry for you, sir.”
“Don’t. I’m doing just fine feeling sorry for myself all on my own.”
“You’re in the car. I hope I’m not going to spoil your Sunday.”
“Every day feels like Sunday in Galveston. That’s why I’m driving back to Houston.”
“Yesterday morning I got a call from a guy I know in HPD. On Friday night they busted a forty-one-year-old Caucasian woman named Gaynor Carol Allitt for causing an automobile accident after she ran a red light on North Post Oak and Woodway. It was nothing serious. Just a couple of fenders bent is all. It seemed as if she might have been spooked by a patrol car that was heading for Memorial Park to check out this latest murder. At least that’s what the two patrolmen thought. But when they questioned her, she became almost hysterical and told the two officers she wanted to confess to a murder.”
“To the serial killings?”
“To the murder of Philip Osborne.”
“But she’s a loon, right? She has to be.”
“That’s what the police thought. So they fluttered her. And the polygraph said she was telling the truth. That’s when they called me. And when I spoke to her last night, she sounded pretty reasonable; like she was in earnest. She didn’t give any details, but she’s sticking to what she told HPD. She told me she heard about Osborne’s death from the TV news and felt guilty about it. Which is why she confessed in the first place.”
Suddenly the idea of going to Lakewood did not seem so very important. Besides, I already knew in my gut that I was probably wasting my time. Texting Ruth that I was out of her house on Driscoll Street looked like the easier option—one that wouldn’t have required me to wear a tin hat.
“Where is she now?”
“They transferred her to Travis Street. That’s where they did the polygraph. Apart from that, the only reason HPD is still holding her is because I asked them to. In their opinion, she just doesn’t look right for murder and belongs in a hospital. After all, it’s not like Osborne was actually murdered. At least as far as we know he wasn’t.”
“You want to meet me at the Coney Island on the corner of Dallas?” I asked.
“Sure.”
“I’m on my way.”
Surrounded by other tall modern buildings, 1200 Travis Street was thirty stories of honey-colored stone already hot to the touch. The ground-floor lobby was enclosed by tall plate-glass windows with big logos and outsize community slogans. Except for the cops going in and out of the front door in their sky-blue shirts and navy blue pants, the general impression was of an international advertising agency rather than the headquarters of the Houston Police Department. I parked the car, and peeling the shirt away from my back, I flung my jacket over my shoulder and headed for the Coney Island on the opposite corner. I wasn’t much of a cook, and with nothing in my refrigerator after just one night in my new home, I was ravenously hungry.
Inside, Helen was at a corner table. Her blond hair hung loose about her powerful-looking shoulders, which were left bare by the light sleeveless dress she was wearing. I sat down opposite her and nodded affably at a half-eaten fat pill and an empty coffee cup.
“Looks like you’ve been here awhile, Agent Monaco.”
“Not really. But I could use another cup of coffee.”
The waitress came over, poured some more coffee and some water, and I ordered greedily. I handed the sticky plastic menu back and, as soon as the waitress was gone, I took out a little bottle of antibacterial hand gel and rubbed some into my hands.
Helen smiled.
“Same old Gil Martins.”
“What?” I said.
“I wouldn’t worry about the germs. The cholesterol in your order’ll kill you. That or those cigarettes you’ve started smoking again. I can smell them on your clothes.”
“You know, with a nose like yours, you should work for the FBI.”
My breakfast arrived and Helen did a good job of restraining her horror while I ate it.
Helen said, “Don’t mind me. I love to watch people make pigs of themselves.”
“Sorry, but I haven’t eaten since yesterday afternoon,” I explained. “There’s no real food to be had anywhere in Galveston.”
“What’s the house like?”
“Creaks a lot. Especially at night. But otherwise quite comfortable. Cops expecting us?”<
br />
“At eleven o’clock. The detective’s name is Kevin Blunt.”
When my breakfast was over, I fisted my chest and paid the check.
We went outside where the heat hit us like a prairie fire, crossed the street into the cool of the HPD building, and announced ourselves to the Bratz doll who was the receptionist.
A few minutes later, Inspector Blunt came down and took us to a windowless interview room. He was the heartless authority-figure type with a neat line in crusty dialogue that lived up to his name. He was wearing ostrich-skin cowboy boots and a blue linen blazer with gold buttons that had little rattlesnakes on them, probably good likenesses of his children.
“You ask me, you’re wasting your time,” he said, inviting us to be seated. “A murderer?” He shook his head. “I’ve worked homicide for twenty years and in my opinion this woman’s got JDLR stamped on her forehead. JDLR for murder, in case there’s any doubt.”
JDLR is one of those acronyms in law enforcement’s glossary that are—most of them—designed to stop the great American public from knowing as much about us as they’d like to know; it means “just doesn’t look right.”
“If you feebees think it’s worth it, then go ahead and be our guest,” he grumbled. “Hell, we love to cooperate with the Bureau. It actually makes us feel like we’re important. But in the absence of any evidence other than Miss Allitt’s improbable confession, I can’t hold her after today. Hell, we’re not even treating Philip Osborne’s death as suspicious. And I’ve got better things to do on a Sunday than chaperone an interview with a woman who is frankly delusional.”
“We’re certainly grateful for your cooperation, Inspector,” I said.
Wearily, he picked up a telephone and asked someone on the other end of the line to bring Gaynor Allitt along to our interview room.
