Unholy Order

by William Heffernan

  “The archdiocese is aware of that,” Arpie finally conceded.

  “Our investigation indicates that none of these men contracted the disease from tainted blood transfusions or intravenous drug use. The information we’ve gathered has convinced us that all three were gay.” Devlin decided not to add the final conclusion that the disease had been contracted through sexual contact. He didn’t want to antagonize Arpie unnecessarily.

  The line of Arpie’s mouth stiffened, and he lowered himself into his chair. He extended a hand toward another for Devlin. “I would have thought the existence of a few gay priests was an old story,” Arpie said. “The fact that an even smaller number contract a disease associated with gay men also should not come as a surprise.” He tried a smile that died quickly. “The vow of celibacy is a difficult one, and priests are all too capable of human failings, Inspector—be they heterosexual or otherwise inclined.”

  Devlin took the offered seat. Arpie, he decided, was obviously a student of Aquinas. His circular reasoning was almost classic.

  “I’m not here to debate morals or sexuality or anything else, Father. We have several unpleasant facts staring us in the face. First, all the murdered priests were gay and all suffered from AIDS. Second, it appears they are being killed in alphabetical order. That leads us to believe that someone has found a way to use that illness to identify gay priests and has decided to eliminate them from the church.”

  Arpie leaned forward, resting his forearms on the desk. “I’m still at a loss about what the archdiocese can do to help you.”

  Like pulling teeth, Devlin thought. “We’re also aware that these illnesses were reported to the archdiocese.”

  Arpie stiffened again. “And you think we compiled a list and that someone got that list from us?”

  “I’m not saying that.”

  “Nor should you,” Arpie snapped. “First of all, there is no such list. And I assure you no one here would ever compose such a list, even privately. It is not something we would choose to have on paper, if for no other reason than the very fact that it might fall into the wrong hands.”

  Meaning anyone’s hands, Devlin thought. “But since you’re aware of illnesses among your priests, you could create such a list, if asked.”

  “And what purpose would that serve?” Arpie’s voice remained snappish, and his short, slender body seemed to have assumed a surprisingly combative posture. His hands were moving again like little pistons.

  “It would allow us to figure out who might be next on this killer’s list. And that would give us a chance to stop him.”

  Arpie waved his hand in the air, as though dismissing Devlin’s suggestion as foolishness. “There are a great many assumptions here. First, that your theory is correct, and not merely a series of coincidences. Second, that every parish in the archdiocese follows our instructions and reports serious illnesses.” He raised his eyes to the ceiling. “If only they all were that conscientious.”

  Devlin’s jaw tightened. The small scar on his cheek became lighter, more pronounced. Arpie was looking for an excuse to turn him down. Any excuse, any reason to avoid acknowledging the problem. “It’s not a perfect solution, Father. I accept that. It may not even work. I accept that as well. But it gives us a shot. Before another priest is murdered.” He paused, hoping the final words would have some effect. They didn’t. “I assure you, the list would be kept in confidence,” he added.

  Arpie’s poor attempt at a smile came again. “Among how many detectives?” The words dripped sarcasm.

  “The question is, How many more priests have to die before you agree?” Devlin snapped back.

  Arpie glared at him, his face red, hands moving along his desk like two spiders. “You think I’m not concerned about that?”

  “I think you care more about appearances.”

  “It’s my job to protect the archdiocese, the reputation of the church.”

  “And it’s my job to stop someone who’s killing your priests. Prioritize, Father. That’s all I’m asking. Or at least pass my request on to the cardinal.”

  Arpie leaned back in his chair, still glaring. “I’ll pass on the request,” he added at length. “But my recommendation, should I be asked for it, will not be affirmative.”

  Devlin offered up a smile as miserable as the ones he’d been given. “I didn’t expect it would, Father. But I had to ask. It will help ease my conscience when I put the next priest in a body bag.” He dropped his card on the desk as he stood. “All my phone numbers are there. Please call me when you have an answer from the cardinal.”

  Emilio had taken up a position at the corner of Amsterdam Avenue and West 78th Street at seven that morning. It gave him a clear view of the address the man had given him. It was a four-story brownstone, and the doorbells next to the front door told him it had been divided into six apartments. Not bad, he had decided. How many tall redheads could there be in six apartments?

  Sharon had come out at eight, and Emilio had stepped back around the corner and into the doorway of an antiques shop as soon as she turned in his direction. He was pleased he had guessed right, that she might work on Sundays. It pleased him even more when she walked past without glancing in his direction.

  He had watched her walk toward the subway and had fallen in well behind her. She was a good-looking woman, he had decided. Beautiful legs and an even more beautiful ass. It would be a shame to put her away. He had consoled himself with the fact that she shared her beauty only with other women. She was already lost to the men of this world, he reasoned, so what did it matter?

  He had followed her onto the subway, still only 90 percent sure he had the right woman. There could be two tall redheads in the building—unlikely but possible. He wanted to be certain. There was no point in wasting the risk on the wrong woman. To do so would be unprofessional.

  Emilio’s doubts evaporated when Sharon changed trains at Times Square and took the shuttle to Grand Central Station. From there she walked to Second Avenue and entered a coffee shop across from Opus Christi headquarters. Emilio walked farther up the avenue and hid himself in the doorway of a closed clothing shop.

  It was a long wait. Occasionally, when women left the headquarters building, the detective would leave the coffee shop, catch up to them, and engage them in conversation. Then she would wait for others to leave and speak to them as well. When traffic slowed at the building she would return to the coffee shop and wait again, then start all over each time more women left the building.

  The pattern was broken in the middle of the afternoon, when a young slender man left the building and headed south on Second Avenue. This time the detective caught up with him and continued down the street. Emilio followed, keeping well back.

  “Hey, I’m already goin’ crazy in there,” Boom Boom said. “You tell the boss not to worry I’ll come on to any women. They don’t even let you see a woman, except when they go zippin’ out the front door.”

  Sharon rolled her eyes. “Spare me your social problems, Boom Boom. Try and stick to business. Police business.”

  “Hey, I’m inside. I’m into their computer system. All I need now is a little space when nobody’s watching me. Then it’ll be magic time.”

  “The inspector thinks we should wire you up. For your own safety.”

  Boom Boom shook his head. “I dunno. It wouldn’t surprise me if these guys sweep for bugs. They got security comin’ out the wazoo in there. I start givin’ off little beeps, and my ass is out the front door. Besides, I haven’t seen any kind of physical threat in there. These guys threaten you with hell, not the boneyard.”

  “I still think it’s a good idea. I can call Red on his cell phone and have him wire you up this afternoon. Where are you headed now?”

  “Home to my apartment to pick up some clothes. If I’m not back pretty fast they’ll get suspicious.”

  Sharon glanced at her watch. It was nearing noon. She knew Boom Boom’s apartment was on Riverside Drive. Red Cunningham should still be at t
he Columbus Avenue church where the last priest was killed. He could be at Boom Boom’s apartment by the time they got there.

  “I’m gonna go with the wire,” she said, “I don’t want your sweet little buns to get bruised.”

  Boom Boom grinned as she took out her cell phone. “Hey, Sharon, you like my sweet little buns, maybe we should go to my apartment alone.”

  Sharon threw him a look. “Not till you’ve had a sex change, sweetie.”

  Boom Boom screwed up his face. “Sharon, don’t even talk like that. Think of all the women who’d be in mourning.”

  Sharon gave him a mirthless smile. “You still wearing that little garter I put on you?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I’m wearin’ it.”

  “Then you better remember what I said about your mouth, unless you want me to tell Ollie all about it.”

  Boom Boom raised his hands in surrender. “Anything you want, Sergeant.”

  Sharon’s cold smile widened. “That’s what I like. A good little Boom Boom.”

  “Hey, don’t get too overjoyed. I could tell them you’re lyin’ about the garter, you know.”

  “The inspector will back me up. I put it in my DD-Five. Everything except you wanting me to move it higher up your puny little leg.”

  Charles, you must come. The most delightful people will be there. Those trite and tired words had actually been spoken to him almost three weeks ago by the woman whose home he was about to enter. Now, as he thought back to that rather graceless conversation, a small sneer came to Charles Meyerson’s lips. The most delightful people were those who were one with the Lord, and he knew this opulent Park Avenue apartment he was about to enter would be devoid of any.

  The hostess, Margaret Dunstreet, greeted Charles warmly as soon as he entered. She was a slender bottle blond somewhere in her forties or fifties. Like that of most of the women of her set, her age was difficult to determine. Her face, like those of her friends, was fixed in a rigid mask, the skin drawn so tight by repeated facial surgeries that it appeared ready to crack if stretched in any direction. Even the smile she wore gave off hints of strain, as if it too had been surgically imposed. Margaret was the wife of a partner in one of the nation’s major brokerage houses and in many ways reminded Charles of his own mother. He utterly despised her.

  “Charles, I’m so delighted you came,” Margaret said, as she leaned in to kiss the air near his cheek. “And you will be too,” she added in a whisper. “Everyone is discussing money, money, money. Your expertise is very much needed.”

  Charles smiled, asked after her husband, and was told he was “milling about” somewhere.

  “Just look for one of those little cartoon balloons hanging in the air,” Margaret said. “If it’s filled with dollar signs, you’ve found him.”

  Charles located Edgar Dunstreet just as Margaret had suggested, surrounded by men whose lives were consumed by investment. The wives who stood beside them were equally consumed, but simply with the rewards of that game. Charles always likened them to vultures at the site of a fresh kill—heads bobbing, pleased and reassured to see the carcass laid out before them, yet eager for the larger carnivores to finish so they could take over the feast. He immediately decided he did not want to join this group. He intended simply to compliment his host and move on to more gentle conversation. Edgar, however, would have none of it.

  “Charles. We were talking about Indonesia. I’m trying to convince Harry, here, that they’ve bounced back and are a good target for investment.” He clapped his friend on the shoulder. “He just won’t agree with me. You’re the foreign expert, what do you think?”

  Charles gave Edgar a regretful smile. “I’m afraid I agree with Harry. Personally, I plan to hold off on Indonesia, at least for the next year or two.” He offered a helpless gesture. “It’s also the recommendation I’ve given my bank.”

  Edgar seemed confused. “Good Lord, why? I was sure you’d be hopping on their wagon.”

  Charles shook his head. “Corruption there has been so systemic, especially among the government-controlled banks, I’m just not convinced it’s been reversed. If it hasn’t, they’ll be back in the same morass they encountered a few years ago. I’d give them another year or two, just to be safe.”

  Edgar’s eyes brightened. “But the time to jump in is a year or two ahead of the herd.”

  Charles smiled. “You’re probably right, Edgar. But you know how we bankers are. We want to be sure about our money before we hand it out. We’ve been burned too many times.”

  Edgar’s friend, Harry, grunted agreement. “Haven’t we all.” He gave Charles a nod of approval. “I’m pleased to hear you share my view. I’m still not convinced the Pacific rim—excluding Japan, of course—is a good place to have one’s money.”

  Charles turned to him. “In large part, I agree. Now, South Korea is a different matter. Their economy is strong, and they have some well-run companies: KIA, Samsung.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Some others as well. And if negotiations succeed with the north, they’ll be positioned to tap into a very cheap source of labor. That’s a country into which I’m eager to put our money.”

  “How do you feel about Cuba?” Harry asked. “When the embargo is eventually lifted, of course?”

  Charles offered a pained shrug. “The Canadian, German, and Spanish firms that have done business there up to now have done reasonably well—primarily the tourist industry, of course. When U.S. companies join them, they can expect similar or perhaps slightly better results. But nothing dramatic is going to happen until Castro or his successor eases up on their model of joint-venture capitalism. The Cuban government is slow and inefficient and still far too entrenched in dogma to allow its economy to take off. Until that ends, or at least until they allow corporations fully to own their investments, U.S. banks are going to remain cautious about financing Cuban-based projects. U.S. companies who import from Cuba will have the strongest investment potential—again, because of cheap labor and low prices. However, I’m still skeptical about industry operating on the island itself. They’ll have cheap labor, but they won’t have full control of their capital investment, and at the same time the Cuban government will want to milk them to help maintain the rather extensive social programs they presently offer their people.” He shrugged, dismissing the idea. “Nice for the Cuban people, but not terribly good for business.”

  Harry’s wife—yet another plastic surgeon’s meal ticket—cocked an eyebrow. “My, how unegalitarian of you, Charles.”

  Charles gave her a cold smile. “Is there such a word?” he asked.

  Charles excused himself a few minutes later and moved about the gathering, finally stopping at a small group of women engaged in idle chatter. That suited him better and he joined them, only half listening to their words, satisfied with his role as a passive participant.

  He accepted a glass of champagne from a waiter and turned slightly toward a nearby window. His reflection came back at him, and what he saw pleased him. He was dressed in a lightweight linen blazer, a traditional navy blue but lacking the brass buttons he had always regarded as a bit tawdry. Beneath the jacket was a matching collarless shirt, and the combination, he thought, seemed almost clerical. It was a satisfying vision. Without appearing to leave the group, he eased a bit closer to the glass and looked down onto Park Avenue. What he saw there tainted that earlier image.

  The building he was in had a large courtyard, separated from the street by a high iron fence. Beyond it the median divider that bisected the roadway was awash with flowers. It was a beautiful ribbon of color, intended as a synonym for this wealthiest of New York addresses. Yet beneath those flowers, he knew, lay the burrows of an extraordinary concentration of rats, which for years the city had unsuccessfully fought to control. It was like so much of the city, he believed—so much of life. Beauty hiding corruption, the vileness below fully entrenched and inescapable. A small shiver passed through his body, but he pushed the accompanying thoughts away.


  “They call it a civil union, and these two women were married last week, right on the lawn of the house next to ours.”

  Charles’s head snapped around. “I’m sorry, I missed that,” he said to the woman who was speaking.

  She gave him a broad smile, pleased that he was interested. Her name was Beatrice—Beebee to her friends. “Well, you know we have a summer house in Vermont. In Dorset, actually. And there’s this recent law that’s been passed up there that allows homosexuals to marry.” She waved a hand and hurried on. “Well, it’s not marriage, really. They call it a civil union. I’m told it’s intended to give them the same protections as married people—inheritance, various tax advantages, insurance benefits, even divorce settlements, if you can imagine that.” She let out a little titter before continuing. “They even get a license when they do it, and they hold these little ceremonies, complete with a justice of the peace, or any minister who’s willing to take part. I understand a Catholic priest even officiated at one not long ago. Isn’t that remarkable? It’s all so delightfully silly.”

  Charles’s entire body went rigid. “I think it’s an abomination,” he hissed. His face became an angry mask. “Are you sure a priest actually conducted one of these ceremonies?”

  “Oh, yes,” Beebee said. “I gather there was quite a fuss about it. There’s even talk about him being defrocked, or whatever it is one does to a priest.”

  “He was probably one himself,” Charles snapped. He seemed unable to speak for a moment. “But to put his blessing on such deviancy….” Again, he seemed to ran out of words and just stood there, red-faced.

  Beebee’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Why, Charles, you’re being so … so homophobic. I think it’s all just a silly lark, and I always thought—well, you being such a confirmed bachelor and all … I always assumed you’d be … more sympathetic to those people.” She glanced at the other women and began to laugh.

  Charles’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You thought what?” He stared at her, his face scarlet.