“What about us?” Sharon asked, inclining her head toward Pitts.
“Ollie’s going to arrest Estaves.” He turned to Pitts. “Take some uniforms with you and bring him in.”
“What’s the charge?” Pitts asked.
“Conspiracy to commit murder, for starters. We’ll add on other charges as we need them. Anything we can dream up to keep his lawyers hopping. When you bust him, grab any records you find in his apartment. I’ve arranged to have some narcs there with a search warrant. They’ll also have one for his office, and they’ll check that out after we bag him. I’m also asking our Colombian friend at the UN to get the feds involved if we need them. We want to be sure we can hold this guy for the next forty-eight hours before some sharp ambulance chaser cuts him loose. After that it won’t matter. What I have in mind is going to have to work within that time frame, or it’s not going to work at all.” He held Ollie’s eyes. He had already told all of them about Estaves’s threat against Phillipa. “It wouldn’t break my heart if this guy fell down a couple flights of stairs,” he said.
Ollie grinned at him. “Hey, you know how these Colombians are,” he said. “Clumsy little fuckers.”
Devlin nodded and turned back to Sharon. “In the meantime, you’re going to an impromptu press conference with me. It’s time for you to become an official hero.”
“Really?” Sharon said. “A real-life hero, huh? Long overdue, if you ask me. But maybe you should tell me why I’m a hero. Specifically, that is.”
“We’re going to announce the capture of a prime suspect in Sister Manuela’s murder,” Devlin said. He paused. “We’re also going to tie him in to the murder of Father Halloran, and let the press know, without coming right out and saying it, that we believe he was involved in the murders of the other priests as well.”
“I thought we didn’t want to do that,” Sharon said.
“Now we do. It’s time to put a little pressure on Mr. Meyerson.” Devlin leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers in front of his face. He stared through them, as if looking into the future. “We’re going to tie it all together: the attempted hit on you, the attempt on Sister Margaret, you and Red capturing Valdez in Westchester, the whole ball of wax. We’re also going to tell them we’ve taken Estaves into custody as a possible co-conspirator.”
“What about motive?” Sharon asked. “I mean, that’s a little touchy … politically … right? What are we going to tell them about that?”
“We’re not. But we’ll imply very strongly that we’ve been dealing with a religious lunatic. We’re going to give the press enough to run wild, while we go after the real lunatic.”
Sharon smiled at him. “You’re going to panic Meyerson. That’s it, isn’t it?”
“We’re going to do more than that. We’re going to make him believe that his big dream is evaporating. His plan to rid the archdiocese of gay priests is headed straight for the toilet, and there’s nobody left to help him.”
Sharon’s smile widened. “You’re going to ruin that poor man’s day.”
“Could be,” Devlin said. “But that’s just for starters. Charles Meyerson’s life is about to become a real nightmare.” He turned to Ollie again. “After you lock Estaves up I need you to make some phone calls to set up something else.” And he explained what he wanted.
John Barger moved along the corridor with his medications cart, a corrections officer trailing closely behind. He was a large man in his mid-twenties, with a shaved head and a badly trimmed goatee. The medications he dispensed were nothing special, mostly Advil and other over-the-counter painkillers. There were also fresh dressings and a bottle of alcohol on his cart so bandages on wounds could be changed, all treatments that did not require the assistance of a doctor or a registered nurse. Barger was neither. He was a prisoner who, off and on, had spent a total of nine years behind bars.
Barger’s criminal history went back to his early teens, when he had specialized in mugging elderly women who had just cashed their Social Security checks. Within a few years he had graduated to petty stickups and then to the street sale of narcotics. Soon he had expanded that business by running a handful of addicted whores. His “women”— mostly teenage girls—worked the low end of the trade, offering themselves on the dark, seedy avenues west of Times Square. Barger had killed two of those young prostitutes when they had failed to meet his financial expectations. He had also killed a rival pimp who had tried to lure one of his women away. He had beaten all three to death with a metal pipe. It was his preferred method of violence; he had often told other inmates about the pleasing sound the pipe made on the fourth or fifth blow—a soft wet splat, like hitting a ruptured melon.
Barger had never been charged with the three murders. NYPD investigations of crimes against prostitutes and pimps were cursory at best. His last arrest had involved an assault against an undercover cop, for which he had received a severe beating and a two-year sentence. Within months of his incarceration, the New York City Department of Corrections had decided to make him a trusty.
Barger moved down the hall, dispensing Advil and Tylenol through small openings in the solid steel cell doors. Most of the patient inmates on the hospital ward were ambulatory, those needing more serious medical attention being housed in the less secure prison ward at Bellevue.
The young thief, pusher, pimp, and murderer had come to the attention of Ricardo Estaves when he had put out feelers among the drug dealers housed in the prison. Using one of those men, he had offered Barger five thousand dollars, along with the guarantee of a job when he completed his current sentence. Barger had no idea who his benefactor was but had been assured by his fellow inmate that the offer was “money in the bank.” He was also assured that the corrections officer now following him along the corridor had been paid “to take a walk” when they reached the cell occupied by Emilio Valdez.
Valdez lay on an ancient hospital bed that was bolted to the floor. Unlike beds used in regular hospitals, this one was raised and lowered with a hand crank at its foot. Since orderlies only visited the ward to deliver meals and medications, this meant that the position of his bed could be changed only at those times. Inmate patients could, of course, operate the beds themselves if they were physically able. Emilio was not. The hip-to-ankle cast he wore on his left leg, together with the pain in his smashed femur, made it impossible.
Now, as he lay in his eight-by-eight-foot cell, Emilio anxiously awaited the arrival of the orderly. He had been flat on his back since breakfast, when he had cajoled a corrections officer into lowering the bed again to ease the pain in his leg. Now his back was getting stiff from lying in a fixed position, and he wanted the bed raised to ease that pain.
Emilio heard voices outside his door, then a voice explaining that Emilio’s cast had to be checked. He heard a key rasp into the lock and another voice saying that something had been left behind but the speaker would be right back.
When the door opened, only the orderly entered the cell. This was unusual, since a guard had always been present when anyone entered his cell in the past. Emilio, intent on the repositioning of his bed and the easing of his pain, paid no attention to that anomaly. He also failed to notice that the orderly had closed the solid cell door behind him.
“Hey, man, I need this bed up,” Emilio said. “My fucking back is killing me.”
Barger nodded and moved forward, the hint of a smile on his lips. He liked it when people trusted him. He liked the sense of power he felt when he knew he had fooled them into complacency. He liked it even better when they realized their mistake, that sudden awakening that came into their eyes just before the fear set in. He liked the fear, too, of course. That was always the best part, the icing on the cake—that and the cries of pain. The cries of pain were good, too.
“You want an aspirin or anything?” Barger asked as he reached the bed.
Emilio shook his head. “Just the fucking bed, man. My back feels like somebody hit me with a bat.”
Barger
placed a hand behind Emilio’s head, raised it slightly, and removed the pillow. “It’ll just take a minute,” he said. He smiled. “They told me it should be fast. No unnecessary pain.”
Emilio didn’t seem to hear the words at first. Then they registered, and his eyes darted to the closed door. “What are you doin’?”
The sudden realization of what was happening came to his eyes now. Barger smiled again. Then the fear hit full force, and Barger’s smile widened. He jammed the pillow down on Emilio’s face and pressed his considerable weight against it. Emilio’s body began to thrash wildly, and Barger placed a knee against his chest to hold him to the bed. Muffled cries came through the pillow; Barger wished he could hear them more distinctly. He couldn’t tell if they were curses or a plea for mercy. He liked the latter better. The concept of mercy denied appealed to him.
After three minutes Emilio stopped moving, but Barger held the pillow in place for another thirty seconds, just to be sure. Five thousand bucks was a nice piece of change. So was the promise of a job with a major drug dealer. He didn’t intend to screw up and lose either one of them.
Barger removed his knee from Emilio’s chest and placed the pillow behind his head again. He used two fingers to close his partly opened eyes and rearranged the bedsheets. It was only then that he noticed he had an erection. Later, back in his own cell, he would think about the killing again and satisfy himself.
Barger left the cell and went back into the corridor to await the corrections officer, who was already headed back in his direction.
“Everything okay in there?” the officer asked, when he reached Barger.
“He’s sleepin’ like a baby,” Barger said. “Didn’t even have to give him a fuckin’ aspirin.”
The officer slid his key into the lock. “Let’s finish this medications tour,” he snapped. “I go off duty in half an hour, and I’m takin’ my old lady out to look at new cars.”
Chapter Twenty
The media were gathered in the press briefing room at One Police Plaza, an auditorium off the main lobby that was also used by the NYPD brass to host civilian awards ceremonies, high-profile promotions, and the presentation of service commendations and medals.
Devlin had planned a smaller event, but when he had informed the mayor what he was about to do, Howie Silver had insisted it be more high profile so he could make a personal appearance before the cameras.
Silver had also required the attendance of several chiefs, who would have preferred to be cleaning washrooms rather than take part in any event that acknowledged the achievements of Paul Devlin’s squad. They were gathered in a grim line behind the mayor, who was flanked by Devlin and Sharon Levy, the designated hero of the hour.
The mayor began by announcing the arrest of Emilio Valdez, identified only as a Colombian national who was being held at the Brooklyn House of Detention pending arraignment. Valdez, he said, would be charged with the murder of Sister Manuela. He had also been connected to the death of Father William Halloran in the Flushing section of Brooklyn and was considered a prime suspect in the deaths of the three other priests. He also informed the press that a second man, another Colombian named Ricardo Estaves, had also been taken into custody and was being questioned as a possible co-conspirator. Additional arrests were also possible, he said.
When the mayor finished his announcement the press erupted with its usual cacophony of questions, and the mayor turned the briefing over to Devlin.
Laying it out much as he had with his staff, Devlin gave the press the high points of the various crimes, placing heavy emphasis on the attempted murder of Sergeant Levy and her subsequent capture of the suspect when he tried to murder a second nun. He also praised Red Cunningham, whom he credited with saving the life of the second nun by taking a bullet intended for her. Estaves, he said, was being questioned because of his known ties to Valdez, along with certain evidence gathered in the course of the investigation. Additional charges were being considered against both men, he said, adding that the police department, through the district attorney’s office, would ask that each be held without bail when those charges were lodged against them.
The press erupted again, asking for more details about the murder of the four Catholic priests, but Devlin deftly sidestepped each query, claiming that the district attorney’s office had asked that additional details of the crimes be withheld. He then redirected the press’s attention to Sharon Levy, stating that she had agreed to give a full account of both the attempt on her life and the subsequent capture of Emilio Valdez in Westchester County. Previously the press had been told only that a “deranged man, dressed as a custodian” had opened fire at a religious retreat. Devlin apologized for “this ruse,” as he termed it, but said it was needed to avoid alerting Estaves and other possible suspects.
“There was a little more to it,” Devlin said, with a smile tinged with regret. “We just couldn’t tell you about it until we had all the evidence in hand. Now we can. Or, rather, the very courageous Sergeant Levy can.”
Sharon shot Devlin a look and stepped up to the bank of microphones. She was perfect for the role of reluctant hero. Tall, willowy, redheaded, and beautiful, only her automatic holstered at the waist gave any hint that she could also be a lethal adversary. The fact that she was a lesbian and one of the toughest cops on the force—with a mouth to match—was known only to her peers. Devlin wondered how the story would be played if the media, especially the tabloids, were to find out.
Standing before the microphones, Sharon played her part as the demure woman detective who had twice faced death at the hands of a deranged religious fanatic. She declined to speculate on the motivation of either suspect, insisting that any comments she might make could jeopardize the district attorney’s case.
But the press seemed satisfied. The story had everything they required—murder, madness, and a cop who looked like a photographer’s model to provide “art” for their copy. When they left the auditorium, Devlin had what he wanted: news accounts certain to shake up Meyerson, and the media off on a tangent that would give him the time he needed to play out the rest of his script.
That plan took a major hit before he reached his office, when the mayor’s voice crackled over his cell phone. “Get the hell over here quick.” Silver paused as though fighting hyperventilation, then added, “I just got a call from Corrections. They just found Valdez dead in his cell.”
Howie Silver paced his office like a caged cat. “So where the hell does this leave us?” he demanded. He glared at the corrections commissioner, who except for Devlin was the only other person in his office. “I just get through taking bows for what my cops did, and now I’ve got shit all over my shoes for what my Corrections Department didn’t do—keep a goddamn killer from getting knocked off in one of my prisons. Explain this to me, please.”
“It’s bad, but maybe we can get around it,” Devlin said, before the corrections chief could respond. He didn’t want to waste time with recriminations.
Both men turned to him, expectantly.
“How many people know Valdez is dead?” he asked.
“Only a handful. We haven’t even moved his body. In fact, we haven’t even gotten a forensic team into his hospital cell,” the commissioner said. He was a nondescript middle-aged politician, an African-American who had come up through the ranks of the party machine. He had no idea how a prison should be run—let alone a murder investigation—but was smart enough to accept the advice of professionals when decisions had to be made.
“You let us handle that,” Devlin said. “We’ll get them in quietly, dressed as corrections officers. As far as anyone else is concerned, Valdez isn’t dead. He was attacked but he survived, and he’s being moved to the Bellevue prison ward for treatment. Fortunately the ME’s office is right next door, and we can slip the body in there without anybody knowing the difference.” He looked hard at the commissioner. “But you’ve got to sit on your people. Every one of them who knows the truth has got to keep his mouth
shut. I need forty-eight hours, maybe less, but if this gets to the media I’m dead in the water.”
Silver glared at his commissioner. “Can you at least do that?” he snapped. Then he turned to Devlin. “What the hell are you planning?” he demanded.
“You don’t want to know,” Devlin said. “But if it works, we’ll be out of this thing clean.”
“Politically clean?” There was open wariness in the mayor’s eyes.
“As clean as possible,” Devlin said.
Silver’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure I like the way that sounds,” he said. “We can’t afford any more trouble with the archdiocese. I am not going to let those people take me down. Remember our meeting. The clock is ticking. Understood?”
Devlin arched his eyebrows. “I’ll do the best I can, Mr. Mayor. Let’s put it this way. If it doesn’t work, I know we’re in a pile of shit. I also know what it means for me.”
“Also understand it’s not something I’ll want to do,” Silver said, “but I will. So don’t make any more mistakes, Paul. Make sure this time it’s clean. Not just as clean as possible. Clean.”
“I’ll do my best,” Devlin said. “Let me get out of here so I can make it work.”
“So where do we go now?” Sharon asked, when Devlin returned to his office and told the team about Valdez.
“We move everything up twenty-four hours.” He turned to Ollie. “Have you set things up the way I told you to?”
“Everything will be in place by seven tonight,” Pitts said. “Oh, by the way, Estaves is in the prison ward at Bellevue. Silly bastard tried to make a run for it when I collared him.” He shook his head. “Fell down and broke his fucking leg. Sorry about that. I should have been more careful with him. Never thought he’d make such a dumb move.”
Devlin fought off a smile. “Pity,” he said, “but it can’t be helped.” He turned to Stan Samuels. “What did you come up with on Meyerson?”
Unholy Order Page 24
