Unholy Order

by William Heffernan

  The press had already gathered when Devlin left the church. There were at least thirty reporters and photographers milling behind a police barricade, print and radio jockeying for position with four TV crews in what had commonly become known as “the swarm.” He debated passing them by with his usual No comment but decided it might not be wise. Not this time.

  When he turned toward them, cameras immediately zeroed in and the questions began to fly. He always marveled at the way the press responded to any offer of information. It was an immediate feeding frenzy, each of them fearful that some morsel might escape their eager jaws. He held up a hand and waited. It was a way to force a temporary silence—make them fear they might get nothing at all.

  Devlin started with the basics, the dead priest’s name and age; the fact that he was a curate at this church for the past six years, where the body had been found, and the apparent cause of death—numerous bullet wounds from shots fired at close range.

  Again the questions flew at him, and he waited patiently for the one he wanted.

  “Is there any connection between the murder of Father Halloran and the other priests’ deaths?”

  Devlin turned to the questioner, ready to offer the bit of information that might keep them at bay for at least a day or two.

  “We’re looking into that, of course,” he began. “But our preliminary investigation has come up with a number of discrepancies that make that possibility questionable.”

  Again the hungry voices sang out their demands for more.

  Devlin raised a hand. “First, this murder involved the use of a pistol. In the other deaths, weapons were used that allowed the killer or killers to commit the crime more quietly and to escape without creating any unwanted attention. Second, Father Halloran was killed when he stumbled onto another crime in progress. The killer had just attacked another priest, the pastor of this church, Father Vincent Clabby. The killer had knocked Father Clabby unconscious in an apparent robbery attempt.”

  “Did Father Clabby see the killer?” a voice shouted.

  Devlin held up his hand again, stopping another barrage.

  “Father Clabby was struck from behind. Father Halloran apparently came on the scene and rushed to his defense. We know he struggled with the killer and was shot and killed. The killer then apparently panicked and fled. Except for a very bad lump on his head, Father Clabby is unhurt.”

  “Did the killer take anything—money, whatever?”

  Devlin shook his head. “Nothing that we can determine at this time. We believe the killer fled immediately. Father Halloran had given him all the trouble he could handle.” He waved off another barrage. “There’s just one more thing I can tell you. The evidence clearly shows that Father Halloran saved his pastor from more serious harm. He may have even saved his life. He was a hero. He gave his own life in defense of another priest.”

  There it was. The easy headline, the tear-jerking story they would all chase—at least for a day, maybe two if he was lucky.

  More questions erupted from the swarm—gluttons not yet sated and still wanting.

  “That’s really all I can give you now. Until the forensic and medical work is finished, we won’t have anything else. Thank you.”

  With that Devlin turned and fled, followed by more uselessly shouted questions. It was the best he could do: buy some time and hope for a break before the vultures gathered again.

  Howie Silver looked like one of those vultures when Devlin entered the office the mayor kept at Gracie Mansion, his official residence in Carl Schurz Park on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. Dressed in a silk bathrobe and leather slippers, he paced back and forth behind an antique desk. He needed to shave and run a comb through his hair. His eyes were shadowed and sunken from lack of sleep. In short, he looked very tired and very unhappy.

  “I heard a radio report, quoting you,” he snapped. “It said this killing may not be connected to the others.”

  Devlin, seated in an oversized club chair, shook his head. “Don’t believe everything you hear.”

  The mayor stopped pacing and stared down at him. “It’s bullshit?” he demanded.

  Devlin shrugged. “It could be exactly what I said it was. But I’d bet the pension it’s the same killer.” He paused to give the mayor time to absorb that. “The dead priest was infected with the virus, like all the others. He just wasn’t on the list we got from the archdiocese.”

  “Why the hell not?” Silver was staring at him as though he had personally done something to keep Halloran’s name off the list.

  Devlin kept his voice calm. “The list the archdiocese gave us was based on information reported from the various parishes. They’re supposed to report serious illnesses so the archdiocese can plan for possible replacements, or whatever other needs an illness creates.” He waved a hand, taking in other things that went unspoken. “Father Halloran’s illness wasn’t reported, so he never made the archdiocese’s list. We believe the murders are being committed in alphabetical order. We thought the killer was using the same list the archdiocese gave us. Obviously, that’s not the case. We were watching the priest who was next on the archdiocese’s list. And while we were doing that, Father Halloran got iced.”

  The mayor ground his teeth. “But this Halloran fit the pattern? Alphabetically, I mean?”

  Devlin nodded. The mayor already knew the names of the dead priests. He just needed reassurance. “Donovan, Falco, and Hall were the first three names on the archdiocese list. They were also the first three hits. Father James Janis was next on that list, and he’s the one we had under protective surveillance. Unfortunately, the killer has his own list, and it seems to be more complete than the one we were given.” He watched the mayor place his hands over his eyes and shake his head. “There’s more bad news, Howie, and you might as well hear it. Right now, we don’t know if there’s somebody else who fits in before Father Janis.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Again the mayor shook his head. “So now you just sit and wait, and you hope this Father What’s-his-name is really the next one on the killer’s list. Is that it?”

  Devlin inclined his head to one side. “Unless the archdiocese does something I asked them to do about an hour ago.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “I asked Father Arpie—that’s the cardinal’s secretary—to contact every parish, explain the situation, and ask if they have any priests who’ve been diagnosed with AIDS.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said he’d ask the cardinal.”

  “Shit.”

  “My feelings exactly,” Devlin said. “If you could urge the cardinal to agree, it would help.”

  The mayor looked stricken by the thought. He immediately changed the subject. “What about this dead nun and the guy who shot one of your detectives?”

  Devlin leaned forward in his chair and rested his forearms on his knees. “We’ve identified the shooter in Sergeant Levy’s apartment. His name is Emilio Valdez. He’s a Colombian hit man who works for one of the smaller drug cartels. We’re reasonably sure he’s the same person who forced Sister Manuela to carry drugs into the country and then killed her. But we need to reach the other nun—the one Sister Manuela was traveling with—to get a more positive ID. So far Opus Christi has refused to tell us how to reach her.” Devlin paused. “I could really use a court order to force the issue.”

  The mayor shook his head emphatically. “We’re not hauling any church group before a judge. Period. You must be working on it in some other way.”

  “I am,” Devlin said, “but it’s slow going.”

  “Do I want to know what you’re doing?” the mayor asked.

  “No, you don’t,” Devlin said. “And even if you do, I won’t tell you. I’ve got a cop hanging out on a limb on this.”

  The mayor raised both hands. “That’s fine. I don’t want to know. Just get it done. Christ, solve something! Those bastards at One Police Plaza are beating the war drums. They want me to cut you off at the knees. It�
�s only a matter of time before they start spreading that idea to the press so they can put me in a box on this.”

  Devlin leaned back in his chair. “And what happens when they do?’ he asked.

  “You don’t want to know, and I won’t tell you even if you do,” the mayor said, mimicking him, “I’m hanging out on a limb on this one.”

  Charles looked out of place in the basement office. He was dressed in a pale-gray summer-weight suit, a crisply starched shirt, and a regimental tie. Estaves sat across from him, behind the building superintendent’s desk. He was wearing a flamboyant silk shirt opened halfway down his fleshy chest.

  “I dislike meeting here,” Charles said. “I’ve told you that before.” His face twisted in displeasure, very much the business executive forced to go somewhere not befitting his station.

  Estaves gave him a patient smile. He didn’t care what Charles liked or disliked. He didn’t care anything about the man, other than his value as an asset. And that was a temporary circumstance. Only for the present, he told himself.

  “The police watch me closely,” Estaves said with a shrug. “It’s the price of doing business.”

  “What is it you want?” The impatience in Charles’s voice was palpable.

  “We have a problem we must resolve. I told you this when we spoke before, but you refused to help me.” He waited and then, when Charles failed to respond, continued. “This nun who has disappeared—the one who was traveling with the unfortunate Sister Manuela—we need to know where she is.”

  “Sister Margaret? Why?”

  Estaves offered up another shrug. “As I explained before, she has become a problem to us.”

  Charles’s face flushed with anger. “She’s done nothing. She’s a problem to no one.”

  Estaves shook his head sadly. “Charles, you identified the problem yourself. If the police find her, there may be things she could tell them.”

  Charles’s back straightened, every muscle suddenly rigid. “The police officer, that vile woman, is the problem,” he snapped. “And your man was supposed to resolve it.”

  Estaves smiled coldly. “You are mistaken, my friend. Oh, it’s true; the police are a problem. But eliminating this particular woman will solve nothing. There are many detectives. If this one is eliminated, another will take her place. Emilio was foolish to agree to your proposal.” He smiled. “I think greed for the money you offered got in the way of his good judgment.” He shook his head again. “No, Charles. The solution is not eliminating one police officer. The solution is eliminating the information the police seek.” He placed his elbows on the battered desk and clasped his hands. “There are two ways to do this. First is the nun. Tell me where she is, and we will begin to solve this problem. The second way I will describe in a few minutes. After you tell me what I want to know.”

  Charles’s face was stricken. “I won’t. I won’t do it.”

  Estaves smiled at him as he might smile at a small child who had said something foolish. The man had so much power in his work, so much respect, and yet he was a fool. “Yes, you will, Charles. You will do as we ask.” He took in a deep breath. “Please don’t make me tell you why you will do this. It would only offend your manly pride, and that is something I do not wish to do.”

  Charles stared at him. His jaw began to tremble. “You bastard,” he said. “I never should have done business with you.”

  Estaves began to laugh. “Oh, Charles, why do you say such things? If you had not done business with us you would not have had your share of the profits, and you would not have been able to use those profits to save your church.” The laughter ended in a broad smile. “It would be unfortunate if the public learned how that money was used, would it not? It would also be unfortunate if we were forced to end our agreement and withdraw our help in your other cause.” He shook his head. “If we were forced to do that, all these priests you hate so much, they would still be at the altar every Sunday, would they not?” He forced away more laughter. “But let us not talk of these things. We want to continue offering our help in these matters. After all, this is all for the greater good. It is God’s work. Is that not what you told me?”

  “I didn’t expect you to blackmail me,” Charles snapped.

  Estaves leaned back in his chair. “Let’s not use ugly words with each other,” he said. “It is simply a question of leverage. As a banker you understand that, am I not right?”

  Charles glared at him. “We had a straightforward business deal. I provided you with a service. You agreed to a certain share in the profits and to provide an extra service in return. But that wasn’t enough for you, was it? You spied on me. You discovered what I was using the money for, and now you are using it against me.”

  Estaves leaned forward, his features no longer benign. “You listen to me, you foolish man. You will have everything you want. Everything!” He shouted the final word, his eyes glaring anger. “If you live up to your end of our bargain. I assure you we will live up to our end. We will kill your priests for you. And you will continue to provide a means to bring our product into this country and be free to use your share of the profits in any way you choose.” He leaned forward, still glaring. “But we also will do whatever is necessary to protect our interests. And if you interfere with that …” He left the warning unspoken. “Do we understand each other?”

  Charles’s hands began trembling, and he clenched his fists to hide it. “I understand,” he said. “I understand all too well.”

  Estaves smiled at him. “Good, Charles. Very good. Now you will tell me where this nun is.” He waited as Charles told him. “Very good, Charles. Very good. Now we will eliminate our problem with this nun. And we will also do the second thing I spoke of. We will convince these police to”— he waved his hand in the air, then continued—“to soften their investigation.”

  Charles stared at him, his eyes filled with suspicion. “How will you do that?” he demanded.

  Estaves smiled. “As I told you, Charles, eliminating this one police officer accomplishes nothing. Another would only take her place. But all police officers have commanders who direct their efforts. I have looked into this situation. The commander in this matter is a man named Devlin. He has a daughter he loves deeply.” A smile returned to Estaves’s lips. “So … we will send him a message about his daughter … along with a very simple suggestion. It is something that has worked very well in my own country. And I assure you it will work here as well.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Thomas glanced at the others who were gathered around him and let his eyes come to rest on Boom Boom Rivera. He disliked this man Ramon. He distrusted him, and he was frustrated that the others could not see the reason for his concern.

  Thomas had gathered a small group in the dayroom to discuss their spiritual well-being. The two young men who were among those under his charge had come willingly. He also had insisted that Peter attend with this new probationer, Ramon Rivera. It was not common for probationary members to take part in these sessions, and Peter had resisted at first. But Thomas had exerted his will, and the younger numerarier had finally given in, as Thomas knew he would. Peter was no match for him and never would be.

  He kept his eyes fixed on Boom Boom as he began. “I want you to listen to our discussion, Ramon. Feel free to ask any questions at the appropriate time. Also be prepared to answer questions that we may ask you.” He paused, keeping his eyes hard. “Do you understand?”

  Boom Boom gave him a friendly smile. It was all facade. What he really wanted was a chance to grab the sonofabitch by the throat and choke the bastard until he turned just a little bit blue. He hoped this job ended with some arrests. He also hoped Thomas was one of those arrested. He very much wanted to slap the cuffs on him and see his hard little self-important eyes turn to jelly.

  “I’m looking forward to it,” Boom Boom said. “I need all the spiritual guidance I can get.” He fought his facial expression, kept the smile from becoming a smirk.

  Thom
as didn’t seem to notice. He nodded and turned back to the others. Then his eyes snapped back to Boom Boom, as though preparing to catch him out.

  “How do you feel today, Ramon?” The words came out more a demand than a question.

  Boom Boom placed a hand on his chest. “Me? I feel great. Hey, I feel really at one with the Lord.” I also feel horny as a motherfucker, Boom Boom thought. And if I don’t get out of this nuthouse soon I’m gonna go outa my gourd.

  Thomas’s eyes filled with challenge, eager, ready to pounce.

  “I envy Ramon.”

  The thin, reedy voice snapped Thomas’s attention away. The words had come from a plump young man with an acne-stained face. They had been spoken almost as a plea, and his eyes seemed to hold that same begging quality.

  “What do you mean, Joseph?” Thomas seemed annoyed by the interruption, and the angry tone in his voice made the plump young man cringe.

  Joseph lowered his eyes, and for a moment Boom Boom thought he might burst into tears. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just … I just …”

  “It’s all right, Joseph. Finish what you started to say.” Thomas’s voice had softened, but just barely.

  Joseph glanced at him nervously, then fell to his knees as if about to confess some sin. “It’s just that I try so hard to be one with the Lord.” He hesitated. His eyes seemed to be searching Thomas’s face for some sign that he would understand. “I just … I just always seem to fail. I become distracted … and tempted.”