“Oh, Charles, I didn’t mean a thing by it. It’s just … well …”
Charles didn’t wait for any more. He turned without another word and stalked across the room, straight to the front door.
Beebee watched him, her mouth forming a small circle of surprise. “Oh, dear,” she said. “I seem to have made a little faux pas, haven’t I?” She pressed her fingers to her lips and began to laugh again.
Emilio had lost the woman when she and the young man entered the subway, so he had returned to Opus Christi headquarters hoping she would reappear.
The young man she had left with returned two hours later carrying a suitcase, and Emilio was preparing to give up his watch when the woman pulled up in a car driven by another man, who appeared to take up half the front seat. They parked slightly south of the building’s entrance and remained inside.
Emilio watched them for another hour. The glare of the afternoon sun made it difficult to see into the car, and neither his target nor this new man seemed to have any intention of getting out. There was little question this new man was a police officer, and that made any action here hopeless. Emilio’s pistol was equipped with a suppressor. Had the woman been alone, he could have waited for a lull in pedestrian traffic, walked by, and fired into the car. But two cops raised the risk, and risk was always best kept to a minimum. There was also the possibility they would drive off and he would lose track of her completely. Better to return to her apartment, he decided. If he could get inside he could lie in wait. Then it would be easy—nice and clean and quiet, just the way he liked it to be.
Emilio stepped out of the doorway and hailed a passing taxi. As he entered the rear seat he glanced at the unmarked police car. Just stay where you are for another half hour, he thought. A grimacelike smile flickered across his lips. He liked the idea of the woman sitting there, talking her stupid cop talk, never suspecting that she was being hunted. Another half hour, he thought again. It would be all the time he needed.
Chapter Ten
“So what’s he doing?” Sharon asked.
Red removed the earplug he was wearing so he could better hear her. “Boom Boom’s getting a religious lecture. Some crazy shit. Somethin’ called self-mortification.”
“I’d like to mortify the little weasel.” A smile played across Sharon’s lips. “Before you got to his apartment I helped him pack his suitcase.” She had to hold down a laugh. “The little pervert put in a deck of condoms. Can you believe it?” She raised her chin toward the building. “The whole place is full of virgin celibates, but Boom Boom thinks he’s still got a shot.”
“Hey, where’s there’s life—”
Sharon raised a hand, stopping him. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Where men are concerned, where there’s a heartbeat, there’s a hard-on.”
Red replaced the earplug and began monitoring the wire again. “Whoa,” he said. “This guy’s telling Boom Boom about this cord with knots tied in it. He’s telling our boy how he should use it to whip his own butt.” He listened again. “At least once a week he’s supposed to do it. While he’s saying his prayers.” He pressed a finger against the earplug. “Oh, man, this is too much. I got this snitch, this crazy hooker who’s into all that dorninatrix crap. She’d love this place.”
Sharon thought about the two young women they had interviewed; thought about them scourging themselves as they said their prayers; about the metal belt they wore around their legs for two hours each day, a belt they tightened so the small sharp spikes on the inner surface would cut into their flesh. If you could get young men and women to do that, you could get them to do anything, she reasoned—even swallow condoms filled with heroin.
“Sounds like they’re finished up for the day,” Red said, as he removed the earplug. “Boom Boom’s been told to go to his room and meditate on what he’s been told. They said a bell would ring for evening prayers and dinner. You wanna hang around or bag it?”
“Let’s give it another hour, then bag it,” Sharon said. “We can meet back here at seven tomorrow morning. Boom Boom’s supposed to go to his regular job. I told him we’d pick him up at Grand Central, but I want to make sure no one’s tailing him.”
“What’s he gonna to do if he’s got a tail?” Red asked.
“He goes to the city office he’s supposed to work at,” Sharon said. “Paul’s got it set up for him. If we don’t pick him up at Grand Central, he’ll figure we spotted a tail and he’ll go straight there. We’ll meet up with him there later.”
“You trust this guy, Peter—the one who got him into this loony bin?”
Sharon thought about that. “I don’t think we can trust anybody in that place. But with Peter we don’t have much choice. We’ll just have to watch Boom Boom’s back.”
Devlin took Adrianna and Phillipa to Umberto’s, a Little Italy eatery made famous a quarter century ago when Crazy Joe Gallo was gunned down over a plate of scungilli. Ever since she’d learned about “the mob rubout,” as she termed it, Umberto’s had become Phillipa’s favorite Italian restaurant. She had even asked her father to find out what table the Brooklyn mobster was seated at when two hit men sent him to “that big cannoli factory in the sky.” It had prompted Devlin to ban New York’s two tabloids, the Daily News and the Post, from their home.
Devlin’s cell phone went off halfway through their Shrimp Diavolo, and he went out into the street to take the call. He felt awkward doing so. He hated cell phones, hated being part of the endless band of idiots who walked the city streets with the obnoxious devices pressed to their ears. In the past, if you heard someone babbling on the street, you knew a lunatic was nearby and you could give him a wide berth. Now every other person babbled, and the lunatics hid among them.
This time the cell phone paid off. The call was from Father Arpie, the cardinal’s secretary, and Devlin listened as the priest seemed to choke on his words. The cardinal had agreed to provide a list of all AIDS-infected priests, providing it was kept in strict confidence. That, Arpie said, would mean that only Devlin had access to the full list, and that members of his squad would only be given the name of the one priest they would put under surveillance.
Devlin suspected the conditions were Arpie’s, not the cardinal’s. But it didn’t matter. He needed the list, and Arpie said he’d have it ready early in the morning.
Adrianna and Phillipa both gave him questioning looks when he returned. Like those of all detectives, Devlin’s calls often signaled his abrupt departure, and Adrianna and Phillipa—like all cop families—had learned to dread each inopportune ring.
Devlin smiled and winked at his daughter. “Not this time,” he said. “I’m yours for the evening.”
Phillipa’s face broke into a wide smile. “Great,” she said. “Because I want you to take me to Ferrara’s for dessert.”
Devlin winced at the thought. Ferrara’s Bakery had been a regular haunt of mob boss Giovanni Rossi. At least it was until Devlin left “John the Boss” locked in a Cuban jail. The result, not surprisingly, had been icy treatment the next time he visited that Little Italy landmark.
“I don’t know, honey. I’m not very high up on their hit parade. I don’t think they like me anymore.”
“Yeah, but they like little kids,” Phillipa said. She seemed to think about that a moment. “But maybe you better wait outside. I’d hate it if I ended up with a stale pastry.”
It was almost seven when Sharon finally made it back to her apartment building, a bag of Chinese takeout in her hand. It had been a seven-day week, with no sign of a letup, and all she wanted now was to scarf down her spicy orange chicken and immerse her weary body in a hot bath.
Sharon opened the two locks on her third-floor apartment, never noticing the small scratches left by Emilio’s picks. She scanned the room as she entered, just to be sure everything was still there. It had nothing to do with being a cop. Just being a New Yorker provided the necessary paranoia. Satisfied, she went straight to the kitchen and headed for the black-enameled refrigerator for th
e special bottle of soy sauce she kept there.
Emilio stepped into the doorway behind her and raised his pistol in both hands. Sharon caught his reflection on the refrigerator door, spun to her right, and sent the bag of orange chicken hurling toward his face.
The bag hit him just above the eyes, and his hand jerked to the right, sending his first shot an inch away from Sharon’s ear.
There was no time to go for her own weapon. She crouched and rushed forward. Still off balance, Emilio fired again, this time nicking her left shoulder. Sharon came up under his arm, hitting him with all the force she could muster. The blow sent them both hurtling back into the living room, and Emilio’s pistol flew from his hand as they hit the floor.
Sharon reached for the automatic tucked into a holster at the small of her back, but Emilio’s fist crashed into her jaw, knocking her to one side. Then he was up like a cat and out the front door before she could recover.
By the time she reached the hall outside her apartment she could hear the front door of the building slam shut. Then the pain in her shoulder hit, and she slumped against the wall.
“Sonofabitch,” she muttered.
She inspected the jagged rip in her lightweight linen jacket and thought immediately that it was brand-new. It was the first time she had worn it.
“Sonofabitch,” she muttered again and headed back inside her apartment. Briefly, she debated whether to put in a 10–13 call—officer in need of assistance—as required by department policy. She wanted every patrol car in the area looking for the man who had shot her, and she knew a 10–13 would bring them all rushing to her door. There wasn’t much choice. If she ignored regulations she’d have Internal Affairs climbing all over her. Besides, she wasn’t sure she could even give an accurate description of the shooter. It had all happened too fast. She muttered again, picked up the telephone, and punched in 911. Then she spotted Emilio’s pistol off in a corner of her living room.
“Maybe I’ve got you after all, you little prick,” she growled.
Devlin’s cell phone rang as he stood on the sidewalk outside Ferrara’s as instructed. It was Red Cunningham, and Devlin paled with the first news and then blew out a long breath when he learned that Sharon’s wound was superficial.
Red had been headed home when the 10–13 call had come over his radio. He had recognized the address and immediately doubled back.
“Was it a burglar?” Devlin asked.
“Doesn’t look that way, boss. We got the gun he used. Sharon managed to knock it out of his hand.” He paused. “It was equipped with a silencer. Looks like a straight-out hit to me. With any luck we’ll lift some prints off it.”
“Make sure it’s bagged and tagged,” Devlin snapped. “I want a clear chain of evidence.”
“Already done,” Red came back.
“Good. I also want a twenty-four-hour watch on her apartment. The hospital too, if she stays there. What hospital is she at?”
Red told him.
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
Adrianna and Phillipa came out of Ferrara’s with a box of pastries.
“We decided to have dessert at home,” Phillipa said. “They gave me one stale one. They said it was for you.” She was grinning up at him, then noticed the look on his face and the smile evaporated.
“Sorry, honey. I have to take a pass.” He glanced at Adrianna. “Sharon’s been hurt.” He raised his hands. “She’ll be okay, it’s not serious, but I’ve got to get over to Bellevue.”
Fear had crept into Adrianna’s eyes, and he glanced down and saw the same look in Phillipa’s. It was another unwanted part of a cop’s life.
He bent down and kissed his daughter. “I’ll be home soon,” he said. He cupped her chin and raised her face to meet his own. He smiled. “Save me that stale pastry, kiddo.” The fear refused to leave Phillipa’s eyes.
“It’s not really stale, Daddy,” she said. “I was only kidding.”
Sharon was in a black mood when Devlin arrived at Bellevue, the hospital of choice for all wounded cops because of its reputation as the city’s finest trauma center. Red rolled his eyes, warning him, as he entered a small treatment room off the ER. Sharon was seated on the edge of an examining table and looked as though she might bite anyone who came too close. The sleeve of her blouse had been cut away and her left shoulder was swathed in bandages. Her eyes became even more hostile when she saw Devlin.
“I don’t need a twenty-four-hour baby-sitter,” she snapped.
Red gave Devlin a sheepish look. “Sorry, boss. I told her about the watch on her apartment.”
“And I don’t need it,” Sharon snapped again.
Devlin ignored her. “How’s the shoulder?” he asked.
Sharon glanced at the bandages, almost as if she hadn’t noticed them before. “The jacket’s hurt worse than I am,” she said. “A hundred and sixty bucks. First time I ever wore it. And this blouse. Another eighty. Sonofabitch. When I find the little bastard I’m gonna shoot him and then I’m going through his wallet.”
“You give Red a description?” Devlin asked.
“Yeah.”
“Give it to me.”
Sharon shook her head. “It makes me feel like an idiot, but all I have are impressions rather than a clear picture. It happened so damned fast.” Her jaw tightened. “A weasel comes to mind. He was skinny, pinch-faced, dark complexion, dark eyes. I remember the eyes, both of them open, looking over the barrel of that automatic. And when I slammed into him, there wasn’t a lot to him. Maybe he went one hundred forty, one hundred fifty pounds. But wiry and strong. The little bastard hit me a good shot in the jaw.”
“You keep saying little. Was he short?”
“Maybe average height at the most. Probably less. As a guess, I’d say five-seven or five-eight. No more than that.”
“What about his hair?”
Again, Sharon shook her head. “Dammit, I’m not sure. My eyes were on the damn automatic, and on his hands—to try and see what he was doing with them after I knocked him down.” She gave a faint smile. “What he was doing with them was smacking me in the mouth. Shit, I didn’t even know he had dropped his weapon; didn’t even get another look at him until he was going out the door.” She gritted her teeth in anger. “I was just trying to get my weapon out before he took another shot at me.”
“What’s your impression?” Devlin asked.
Sharon thought a moment. “Thin. Brushed straight back. Maybe a widow’s peak. I do remember he was wearing gloves—skintight leather—so we’ll probably get zip for prints.”
“Maybe not,” Devlin said. “Unless he was a real careful guy and wore them when he was loading the clip. We’ll check the clip and the bullets. We might get some partials.”
Sharon was still annoyed with herself and struggled to come up with something more. “If I had to pick a nationality or ethnic mix or whatever, I’d say Italian or Hispanic. But that’s based on his coloring. I never heard him say anything. He just made his play and did a rabbit when it went sour.”
Devlin stepped closer and placed a hand on her good shoulder. “I’m glad it went sour, kid. I hate inspector’s funerals. The damned bagpipes always get me.” His words got no reaction, and he realized she was still suffering some level of shock, if not physical, at least mental. “What does the hospital say?”
“They say I’m fine. They loaded me up on painkillers and gave me a prescription for more. I can leave whenever I want.”
Devlin nodded. “Red and I will take you home. And there will be a guard on your apartment, so don’t even think about giving me grief about it. And you’re off the chart until that shoulder heals.”
“Give me twenty-four hours and I’ll be fine.”
Devlin shook his head. “Let’s take it a day at a time and see how you feel. Tomorrow morning I want you to start talking to Ollie about any old cases that might have produced this. I can’t see how it could be the one we’re working on now, but we’ll take a look at that too
. In the meantime, we come up with some decent prints, we’ll run this bastard down before he knows what hit him.”
Chapter Eleven
Devlin arrived at the cardinal’s office at eight the next morning. Father Arpie was waiting for him in the empty reception area, and it seemed obvious the early meeting was intended to avoid other members of the archdiocese staff. Arpie was not a happy man and insisted on revisiting the conditions the cardinal had supposedly laid down.
He handed Devlin a sheet of paper. It was plain unmarked stationery with four names listed alphabetically—first and last names only, with no “Father” or “Reverend” in front of them, no visible connection to either the Catholic priesthood or the Archdiocese of New York.
“This, as they say, is for your eyes only,” Arpie said. “No exceptions. I have not included the names of the dead priests. It seemed unnecessary.” His voice and eyes were like ice.
Devlin was reminded of a priest from his youth, one he and his peers had avoided at Saturday confessions. The man’s voice had been severe enough to conjure up the eternal flames of hell.
Arpie’s eyes bored into him. “If I am ever asked about this list, I will deny any knowledge of it.”
Devlin was so surprised by the words he couldn’t avoid smiling. “That would be a lie, wouldn’t it, Father?”
Arpie continued to glare at him. “Count on it,” he snapped.
It was raining heavily when Devlin left the chancery office. Men selling cheap umbrellas already occupied every corner and Devlin wondered, as he often had, where these men came from. Even unexpected showers brought them out. They seemed to materialize as soon as a drop of rain hit the pavement, each one ready with boxes of umbrellas. An old partner had once suggested they lived in a rabbit warren of tunnels beneath the sidewalks, where they lay in wait for the first clap of thunder.
Devlin was due to meet Ollie Pitts at Sharon’s apartment, but first he took a cab north to Columbus Circle for a prearranged meeting with Father William Martin.
Unholy Order Page 13
