Unholy Order

by William Heffernan

  Sharon smiled at the image. Hogan’s Alley was a term used for a police combat pistol range, where you fired at pop-up targets, some armed, some not. It tested a cop’s skill in deciding whether to shoot or withhold fire. “Nice comparison,” she said. “Except this target fired back with real bullets. You want me there to help straighten it out?”

  Devlin shook his head. “It’s what they pay me the big bucks for,” he said. “It’s called being a human commode.” He smiled at her. “The mayor will live with it. We’ve got a Colombian hit man in custody who shot two of our cops, and we’ve got a nun he’d targeted who’s still breathing. If he takes us to task about our methods he looks like a fool. And Howie Silver never lets himself look like a fool.” He gave Sharon an approving nod. “You did good, lady sergeant. Wounded cop chasing down an armed killer. The mayor just might end up giving you a commendation. It’ll be a damned medal if I’ve got anything to say about it.”

  “I’m just happy I finally got to kick the little weasel in the balls,” Sharon said.

  “Don’t tell me about any police brutality,” Devlin said. His smile widened. “You know, you’re getting more like Ollie every day.”

  “Oh, shit,” Sharon said.

  Good news arrived by way of Stan Samuels a half hour before Devlin’s meeting in the mayor’s office.

  “Did the prints come up positive?” Devlin asked.

  “It’s better than that,” Samuels said. “First, our guy is definitely Emilio Valdez. No question about it. We got a positive on the prints we took up in Westchester with the prints the Colombians gave us. But just on a chance I also asked them to ran them against the partials we got at the crime scene of the last priest who was iced. And guess what? That came up positive too. Not enough for a lock in court, maybe, but enough for us to be certain he’s our guy for that killing. All we gotta do now is dig out the rest, a little legwork to place him at the scene.”

  Devlin sat back, taking it all in. “You get on that,” he told Samuels. “Use the precinct detectives in Flushing who caught the case. And pull anybody else you need. I want you to identify everyone who was at the service in that church the night Father Halloran was murdered. Talk to the pastor. They usually have regulars at those services, old ladies who go to all of them, and who know everybody else who shows up and everybody who misses a night. Take the new mug shot we have on Valdez and show it around. Also show it in every store and gin mill in the surrounding area. Then do the same thing at every crime scene where a priest was murdered. If this guy Valdez did one, he probably did them all. I want to be able to prove it, and I need to do it fast. We’re running out of time on this thing.”

  Samuels nodded but didn’t move.

  “What is it, Stan?” Devlin asked.

  “You know what this is starting to look like? I mean with the nun and at least one of these priests tied to the same killer?”

  Devlin placed both hands on his face and ran them down toward his chin. “Yeah,” he said. “It’s all falling into place. And I sure as hell don’t like what I’m seeing.” He leaned back in his chair and gave Samuels a weary smile. “Now I just have to go to the mayor’s office and let the archdiocese and Opus Christi chew on my ass without letting them find out just how much we do know.”

  “Not even the mayor?” Samuels asked.

  “Not even him,” Devlin said. “Not yet. I want to see this Meyerson guy first. And I can’t do that until I hold the mayor’s hand for an hour or two.”

  Devlin entered Charles Meyerson’s office at five that afternoon. It was impressive: a great deal of open space dotted with starkly modern furniture, each piece artfully placed to take advantage of a wall of windows that overlooked Park Avenue. Devlin also found Meyerson impressive. He was tall and fit, somewhere in his mid-forties, with prematurely gray hair and piercing blue eyes, a no-nonsense banking executive who seemed fully secure in his element. Devlin couldn’t help wondering what else he was.

  “You told my secretary that you wanted to speak to me about Maria Escavera,” Meyerson began, when Devlin was seated in a visitor’s chair across from his desk. Meyerson’s own chair had a high back of black leather. There was not a scrap of paper in front of him, although numerous documents filled a console behind him, along with a computer and two multiline telephones. “I had my secretary pull Maria’s employment records in case you wanted to look at them. We can, of course, provide you with copies if you wish. Since she’s deceased, our usual employee confidentiality appears to be moot.”

  With that he spun his chair around, retrieved a large blue folder, and placed it before him on his desk.

  “I’ve taken the liberty to review it myself,” Meyerson continued. “Just to refresh my memory. But I actually remember Maria quite well and quite fondly. She was an excellent employee, and one I was sorry to lose.”

  “What type of work did she do?” Devlin asked. He was studying Meyerson’s eyes, as every good cop does, always looking for some telltale hint of deception.

  Meyerson leaned back in his chair. “Our office handles international investments for the bank. Our brief is worldwide, but our primary effort has been in South America, and to some extent Central America. There are many emerging companies there who offer good opportunities for investment. We also consider loans to several Latin American nations as well. Brazil, Colombia, and Argentina are of particular interest, and Maria spoke both Spanish and Portuguese, which made her quite valuable. She also had a very good business sense for such a young woman. We hired her right out of high school, based on her language and secretarial skills, and were quite impressed with how rapidly she adapted herself to our needs.” He gave Devlin a small, regretful shrug. “As I said, we were sorry to see her leave. She was difficult to replace. Skill in more than one language is not easy to find these days.”

  “So she remained in your employ until she decided to enter the convent.”

  “Yes. It was a year and a half ago.”

  “And she still worked here when she became a member of Opus Christi?”

  “Yes, I believe that’s correct.”

  There was a hint of something in Meyerson’s eyes now, and Devlin leaned forward, trying to narrow the distance between them. It was a mild attempt at intimidation, one he had found effective when people were trying to conceal something.

  “Are you familiar with Opus Christi?” Devlin asked.

  Meyerson hesitated, then offered Devlin a smile. “I’m a Catholic myself,” he said, “so I’m acquainted with The Holy Order.”

  The use of the term set off an alarm in Devlin’s head, and he glanced down at his shoes to try and hide anything his eyes might give away. When he looked up, his face was blank. “Do any other members of the order work here?” he asked.

  Meyerson’s jaw clenched slightly. He seemed to ponder the question. “I really don’t know,” he said at length. “We try not to pry into our employees’ religious affiliations. Maria raised it with me because she knew I was a Catholic. I got the impression she was very devout in her beliefs, especially those she had adopted since joining Opus Christi.”

  “Did you ever see her after she became Sister Manuela?”

  Again, Meyerson hesitated. “Yes,” he said. “When the new cardinal was installed I was invited to the ceremony. I ran into her when I was leaving. I believe she was with some other nuns who were part of the crowd outside Saint Patrick’s Cathedral.”

  Devlin leaned in even closer. “I’m impressed,” he said. “At your getting an invitation to the cardinal’s installation ceremony. That was quite a hot ticket. I know that several of our chiefs tried like hell to wangle an invitation. They weren’t successful.”

  Meyerson gave Devlin another shrug, one intended to convey humility. “The bank does some rather extensive work with the archdiocese. I believe I was considered a suitable representative. I’m afraid it wasn’t much more than that.”

  There was another flicker in Meyerson’s eyes, and now Devlin was certain he was being lied
to. He decided it was time to rattle the man a bit.

  “Did Sister Manuela—I’m sorry, I mean Ms. Escavera—ever travel to Colombia for the bank?”

  Meyerson’s arms went momentarily rigid, but he forced himself to relax almost at once. If Devlin hadn’t been looking for the telltale he probably would not have noticed.

  “She traveled with me to Colombia on two occasions, I believe,” Meyerson said. “I can check our records and confirm the number if you wish.”

  “That would be helpful,” Devlin said. “Also the dates.”

  Meyerson made a note on the cover of Maria’s folder. “She was part of a small group that went,” he added, unnecessarily. “We traveled there on several occasions, and the personnel varied each time. That’s why I can’t recall exactly how many times she accompanied us. I do remember she was very useful as a translator. She had also lived in Bogotá as a child and had family there, so she was eager to go.”

  “Did Maria or any member of her family ever have any involvement with narcotics?” Devlin threw the question out like a heavy punch. This time the rigidity did not leave Meyerson so easily.

  His face flushed and his eyes filled with anger. “Of course not,” he snapped, then seemed to get a grip on himself. “I have no way of knowing about her family, of course. But as far as Maria was concerned, I’m certain she wasn’t involved in anything so unsavory. She was a very devout young woman.”

  Devlin nodded as though thinking that over. Slowly, he raised his eyes back to Meyerson. “The autopsy showed that she had a lethal amount of heroin in her system when she died. It also showed that it got there when one of several condoms she had swallowed burst in her stomach. It didn’t kill her, however. She died when the drug trafficker she was working for gutted her to retrieve the drugs.” Devlin paused a beat, letting it all sink in, before continuing. “Yesterday we arrested the man who killed her. His name is Emilio Valdez, and Colombian authorities have identified him as a professional killer for one of the Colombian drug cartels.” Again, Devlin paused, noting the pallor that had crept into Meyerson’s face. “He was arrested while he was attempting to murder a second nun—the one who was traveling with Sister Manuela. Oddly enough, the two nuns were returning from Bogotá. According to this other nun they were also bringing in some religious artifacts for Opus Christi. I wondered if you knew about any history with drugs that might help us.”

  Meyerson stared at him for several seconds. “None whatsoever,” he said.

  “Well, it doesn’t matter,” Devlin said. “We’re bringing this Valdez back from Westchester County tonight. We intend to lean on him until he tells us what we need to know. He will.” He gave Meyerson a bright smile. “It’s the only chance he has to save his ass.”

  Devlin took up a surveillance post outside Meyerson’s office building. He had telephoned Ollie and pulled him off the unit guarding Father Janis. He wanted to tail Meyerson when he left work, and then he wanted Ollie to stay on him throughout the night. Something smelled about the man, and he wanted to know what it was.

  Meyerson left his office at six-thirty, grabbed a cab, and headed across town. Ollie and Devlin followed in Ollie’s unmarked car. When the cab stopped in front of Opus Christi headquarters, Devlin got on his cell phone and contacted Boom Boom, who was already en route to Opus Christi headquarters from his cover job with the city.

  “Get here as quick as you can,” Devlin said. “I want you to eyeball somebody.”

  That’s Father Charles,” Boom Boom said, as he watched Meyerson leave Opus Christi headquarters. He continued to study the man as he went to the curb to flag down another taxi. “Yeah, that’s him. I’m sure of it. Our boy Peter pointed him out to me a few days back. Said he was one of the supernumerarier, a real bigwig. I guess I should have checked him out.”

  “You didn’t have any reason to,” Devlin said. “But you do now. I want you to get into the order’s computer system and pull anything that even touches on him. I also want you to find out if there are any links to Meyerson’s personal computer or the one he uses at the bank.” Devlin gave him a long look. “I especially want you to look for any connection to Colombian religious artifacts, Maria Escavera, this hit man, Valdez, or any of the priests who’ve been killed. Got it?”

  “You got it, Inspector.”

  A cab pulled up and Meyerson climbed into the rear seat. “Ollie, drop us off at the first corner you can without losing him,” Devlin said. “Then you stay with Meyerson for the rest of the night. I want to know everything he does. Call me at home if you see anything that looks even a little suspicious.”

  As Ollie started after the taxi, Devlin turned to Boom Boom again. “I want you to call me too, if you hit on anything. This guy stinks. He lied through his teeth when I interviewed him. So get me something on him. And get it fast.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Charles Meyerson was sweating. He sat in the rear of the cab dabbing his face with a folded handkerchief, surprised that he was suddenly awash. It had not been an unusually hot day. On the contrary, he thought, a heavy rain the previous evening had cooled things considerably. He rolled down the window, and a gust of noxious fumes poured in. He reached out again to close it and noticed his hand was trembling. Damn.

  He stared out at the sidewalks, still filled with people who had worked later than most, all of them unaware of him as he drove past—a man whose life was crumbling. He clenched his fists in his lap, struggling to drive the tremors away. Father George had just confirmed his worst fears. Everything he had planned, everything he had tried to do for the church, was falling apart. And the man had just sat there, fuming about the police incursion on the order’s property. It had been all he could think about. Of course he didn’t know the rest. It had been held very closely, as any good business arrangement should be. And now, if that fool Emilio talked, it would all come back on him. And on Estaves.

  He straightened in his seat. Yes, that was it, Estaves! Estaves had assured him he could make the police back off.

  He leaned forward and told the driver to change his destination. It was his only hope now, and he would have to risk it.

  Devlin entered the loft and found Phillipa on a chair in a far corner, her face in an angry pout. Adrianna was at the opposite end of the loft, cleaning the brushes she had used that day. She did not look happy either.

  “Hi, guys. Why does everybody look so glum?”

  Adrianna’s eyes met his in a hard, even line. “I think you should ask your daughter,” she said.

  He turned to Phillipa, who was staring at him as well. “I think you should ask your girlfriend,” she snapped.

  Devlin blew out a breath, removed his jacket and sidearm, and placed each in the coat closet by the door, the pistol going into the lockbox he kept on the top shelf. He turned back to the two women in his life. “So, tell me about your fun day,” he said.

  “I really don’t care to speak about it,” Adrianna said.

  “Neither do I,” Phillipa chimed in.

  Devlin let out another breath. Then he walked to the kitchen counter, where he kept their modest supply of liquor. “I think I’ll have a comforting after-work drink,” he said.

  “Make me one too,” Adrianna said.

  He glanced at his daughter. “Martini?”

  She gave him an evil look, the kind young girls master before they learn to walk, and turned back to the Harry Potter novel that lay in her lap.

  It took another half hour before the complaints of the day unfolded. A friend of Phillipa’s—an older woman, age twelve—had two tickets to a rock concert at Madison Square Garden. The group was one Devlin had never heard of, but that was far from a surprise. The point of contention was Phillipa’s attendance, unchaperoned, solely in the company of her twelve-year-old friend Joslyn.

  Adrianna had suggested it was unwise and not something she could agree to.

  Phillipa had argued that all her friends were allowed to go to rock concerts alone.

  Adrianna ha
d questioned that assertion and offered to telephone Joslyn’s mother to see if a proper chaperone could be arranged.

  Phillipa had insisted that would be embarrassing and make her feel like a child.

  Adrianna had pointed out that she was ten years old, which qualified as being a child.

  Phillipa had snapped back, “You’re not my mother!”

  The discussion ended there until Devlin came home.

  “You can’t go unless there’s a parent with you,” he said.

  “Daaad. Joslyn only got two tickets, and one of them’s mine,” Phillipa whined. “And there are a hundred thousand cops at Madison Square Garden. It’s the safest place you can be.”

  He looked into her beautiful young face, at the spray of freckles now tinged red with adolescent anger. “There aren’t a hundred thousand cops on the entire force,” he said.

  “You know what I mean. It’s safe. It’s protected….”

  “It’s filled with lunatics and people using dope,” he countered.

  “No, it’s not. It’s safe. It really is. Joslyn’s been to concerts there before.”

  “Alone?”

  Phillipa didn’t answer. Instead she again offered her assurances that the concert would be safe.

  “I’m a cop, and you’re telling me what’s safe in New York?” he asked.

  Phillipa glared at him. “You’re just like her,” she snapped.

  “Does that mean I’m not your parent either?” Devlin asked.

  That seemed to stop her, and she stared angrily at her lap.

  The telephone postponed further comment. It was Ollie.

  “Guess where our boy has been for the last half hour?” he began.

  “;Tell me.”

  “A certain co-op on First Avenue.”

  “Estaves?” Devlin said.

  “The same. I double-checked with the doorman. Our boy asked for Estaves and went on up.”