Samuels was also fighting off a smile. He picked up a long yellow legal pad, several pages of which seemed filled with copious notes, and turned serious. “This is a silver-spoon guy,” he said. “What I got came from half a dozen different places, but it all paints pretty much the same picture. Boom Boom really milked the Opus Christi computer and the one at Meyerson’s bank, and there were some articles about the guy in the Wall Street Journal, the Times, and Business Week. I also got some background from his old college roommate, who doesn’t seem to like our boy very much, some business people who feel pretty much the same, and oddly enough from his aunt, his mother’s sister, who likes him even less.”
Devlin had been making some rapid notes. Now he looked at Samuels. “That’s quite a bit of contact in a short time. You find out what toothpaste he uses?”
Samuels kept his usual stoic expression. “Crest,” he said.
Devlin laughed. He was reasonably sure “the mole” wasn’t joking. “So give us a thumbnail, and go as heavy as you can on things that tell us where this guy is coming from.”
Samuels flipped some more pages. “Our boy comes from what my Jewish mother would call ‘a family that is very secure financially.’ Big bucks on his mother’s side. I mean not just comfortable. These people were so comfortable they were almost asleep.” Samuels flipped another page. “Meyerson’s father left when he was five. According to the aunt, the sister married beneath her, realized it, and tossed the guy out. Funny thing is, no other guy came knocking on her door after that, despite the big bucks. Auntie moved in, then later another woman named Christine Moore, All of them living there with our boy, all of them, from what I can get, pretty dominant women.”
“You get anything that indicated they were gay?” Sharon asked.
Samuels shook his head. “Nothing at all. But they weren’t women who were enamored of men.”
Ollie Pitts grunted. “What the hell does that mean? Women who weren’t enamored of men? You saying they were man-haters?”
Again Samuels shook his head. “No, I’m not. I got nothing to indicate they were lesbians, or man-haters, or anything like that. According to the sister, they didn’t need them and didn’t want them around.”
“Maybe they were just smart,” Sharon said, grinning.
Devlin held up his hand. “Okay. Okay. Let’s get back on track here. What else, Stan?”
Samuels flipped some more pages. “Anyway, Charles got shipped off to boarding school at seven, and pretty much saw his mother and aunt only on holidays. They even sent him to a fancy boys’ camp every summer. Then, when he was thirteen, his mother had a religious epiphany.”
Again, Ollie interrupted. “A what?”
“She suddenly got religion, big-time,” Samuels said. “Trotted down to church every day with her rosary.”
“That’s better,” Ollie groused. “Speak fucking English, will you?”
Samuels glanced at Devlin.
Devlin rolled his eyes. “Go on, Stan.”
“Okay. At that point Meyerson was going to Phillips Exeter, a pretty upscale boys’ prep school, but his mother decided to pull him out and put him in Saint Anselm, an equally pricey Catholic boarding school. She did send him to Yale after that—it was sort of a family thing to go there—but apparently religion stuck with Meyerson. His roommate at Yale says he was very big in the Cardinal Newman Club and was always bugging people about their morality. This could have been sour grapes on the roommate’s part, because Meyerson was also a member of Skull and Bones, Yale’s very exclusive secret society. His maternal grandfather and great-grandfather were in it before him, but even that family connection isn’t enough to get you in. It helps, but if you’re a real loser the door shuts on you pretty fast, so Meyerson must have had something going for him.”
Samuels flipped some more pages in his notebook. “Anyway, Skull and Bones was a key factor in the big banking job he walked into when he graduated. His grades didn’t hurt either. This guy is one very smart cookie. Started pretty high up the ladder and has gone even farther on his own ever since. He’s a legit expert on foreign banking and currencies, and even his business enemies say that on any given day he’s got the economies of half the world’s nations floating around in his head, right down to the nickel. So nobody takes him lightly when it comes to international banking. They just don’t like him.”
“What about Opus Christi, where does that fit in?” Devlin asked.
Samuels searched his notes, stopping when he had found the right page. “Early in his banking career, Meyerson did a stint in Europe—first Madrid, then Rome. He got tied into Opus Christi in one of those places—I really can’t pinpoint which—but I know he was pretty well placed in the order when the Banco Ambrosiano scandal hit. One business adversary claims he played a key role in the bailout of the Vatican Bank—the deal that gave the order its personal prelature. Right after that, according to Opus Christi computer records, he was ordained as a priest. There’s no record of his ever going through any formal training. It looks like it was a reward, or something, for what he did.”
“It’s not supposed to work that way, is it?” Sharon asked.
“Not according to anything I’ve ever heard,” Devlin said. “But this is a strange group. They seem to be a religion within a religion.”
“Anyway,” Samuels continued, “when he got back to the States he played a big part in financing the order’s move to this country. His bank holds a lot of paper for these people, and according to the order’s records he’s donated a good chunk of money to them as well.” He glanced at Devlin. “Serious money,” he said. “We’re talking high six figures.”
“So he’s got his own dough,” Devlin said. “He lives like he does, so you’d think so, but you can never tell how much is really behind the flash.”
“He’s got it,” Samuels said. “His mother died five years ago. Up till then Meyerson lived with her. He’d moved back into the old lady’s brownstone on East Fifty-third after he graduated from Yale, and again when he came back from his stint in Europe.”
“The other women still there then?” Devlin asked.
“Oh, yeah,” Samuels said. “But not anymore.”
“What happened?”
“The old lady’s will divided her estate into thirds, after leaving a chunk to the Catholic church. One third went to Meyerson, one third to her sister, the aunt, and one third to her friend Christine Moore.” Samuels flipped to another page. “Meyerson was pissed about the will, and according to the aunt hired an attorney to break it. But the mother had had a better lawyer. The way it was set up, Meyerson couldn’t do a thing. He did get the Fifty-third Street house, though, so he threw the other two old babes out and sold it.”
“Vindictive little prick,” Sharon said.
Samuels shrugged. “He thought he got screwed.” He smiled. “Only ended up with about ten mil, plus the couple he got for the house.”
“Poor baby,” Sharon said.
“Hey, this is a guy who knows money,” Samuels said. “Picking up ten million when he expected thirty didn’t exactly bring a smile to his face.”
“Did the old lady give any money to Opus Christi?” Devlin asked.
Samuels shook his head. “Not according to their records. And the aunt told me the old lady didn’t approve of them. Called them a bunch of Catholic Moonies.”
“Even though her boy was a big shot?” Sharon asked.
Again, Samuels shook his head. “To that old broad, big shots only included presidents and popes. Everybody else was an employee.”
“But Meyerson was definitely a wheel in the order, right?” Devlin asked,
“Oh, yeah,” Samuels said. “Right up at the top they know our boy Charles. Hell, the boys in the Vatican know him.” Samuels paused. “There’s one other thing. I checked this list of people Boom Boom came up with. I’m not sure how it fits in, but it may explain why the archdiocese is backing these Opus Christi clowns.”
“Spill,” Devlin said.
“I can use anything I can get on the archdiocese right now.”
Samuels flipped a few more pages. “I talked to everybody on that list, the one with names and addresses and dollar amounts next to them. All these people were in foster care, or orphanages, or group homes when they were kids, and in each case those places were run by Catholic Charities of New York. Also in each case, these people claim they were subjected to physical or sexual abuse, and each one filed a claim against the archdiocese within the past year. They’re all adults now; these are old cases. They happened a long time ago, and most of the priests and nuns involved are long dead or at least retired. But it would still have been a big scandal, and these people who were supposedly abused were threatening one big-assed lawsuit if the archdiocese didn’t pay off.” Samuels stopped and smiled. “And guess who contacted each of them and negotiated an out-of-court settlement?”
“Meyerson,” Devlin said.
“You got it. Paid them off personally with cashier’s checks written on his own bank. Funny thing is, no money came out of his personal accounts when those checks were written. I know that for a fact. I had Boom Boom check them all. But somehow he paid all these people off. So suddenly we have no more threats against the archdiocese. No more impending lawsuits.” He cocked his head to one side. “Hell, who knows, maybe that’s how our boy got that special invite to the installation of the new cardinal,” Samuels added.
Sharon eyed Devlin. The others followed her gaze. “You thinking what I’m thinking?” she asked. “That our boy used the drug money he got from Estaves to buy his church out of a little scandal?”
Devlin nodded. “And then decided to make sure it didn’t happen again, by knocking off priests he considered a risk.”
“What about the heterosexual priests?” Sharon asked.
“He had no way to find them,” Devlin said. “Not anybody who might be doing the same thing today, anyway. As far as the old priests and nuns who might still be alive, he couldn’t just ask the archdiocese for their names. He’d become a prime suspect if somebody started knocking them off.”
Sharon nodded. “But the gay priests were threatening his church with a different type of scandal, because all of them had AIDS.” She shook her head. “I dunno, boss. This guy may be a lunatic, but he’s also carrying some heavy weight with the archdiocese, and that makes him a dangerous guy to go after. Especially the way we plan to nail him.”
Devlin considered her words. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I think Mr. Meyerson may have given us a way to get the archdiocese off our backs. Or at least decide to turn their backs on their Opus Christi friends until they see which way this is all going to fall out.” He thought about that for a moment. “I think I’ll pay Father Arpie a little visit, before we make our move against Meyerson, and see what he thinks.” He looked at each of the detectives in turn. “As far as Meyerson goes, I don’t think we have any other way to nail him, other than the one we’ve worked out. Estaves won’t rat him out. He knows we don’t have enough on him, personally, to do more than push for deportation. Valdez was the only one who could finger Meyerson, and I wasn’t willing to cut a deal with that murderous little prick.” He gave them a wan smile. “I don’t think the DA really wanted him after he found out what he was going to say. But it’s a moot point, anyway. Valdez doesn’t figure in anymore, except as a way to push Meyerson the way we want him to go. As long as he thinks he’s still alive, we can use him.”
“Maybe we should have cut a deal,” Samuels said. “If you’re wrong about how the archdiocese is going to react, your ass is really on the line this way.”
Devlin pondered Samuels’s words. He knew they weren’t intended as criticism, only concern for the potential political quagmire that lay ahead. “Maybe,” he said. “All of our asses are on the line on this one. Maybe I was thinking too much about my kid. Maybe I should have pushed to have Valdez handed over to the witness protection program and put him where Estaves couldn’t reach him. But it’s too late now.”
“Don’t second-guess yourself, boss,” Ollie snapped. “The scumbag shot two cops. You don’t make deals with assholes who shoot cops. And as far as protecting your kid goes, nobody’s gonna question that.”
Devlin smiled at the words. It was typical cop. In the poker game of life, two wounded cops beat four murdered priests and a murdered nun anytime. And a threat against a cop’s family trumped everything. “Too late for second guesses anyway,” he said.
They were all quiet for several moments.
Sharon finally broke the silence. “So now we go after Meyerson.”
Devlin nodded. “First I’ll pay a little visit to Father Arpie. Then we go after our boy. I want you with me for both,” he told Sharon. “I want a witness for my conversation with Arpie. As far as Charles Meyerson goes, you’re the one who took Valdez down. I want Charlie-boy to see the woman who ruined his little game. I think you being there might push him the way we want him to go. Especially if we script it the way I have in mind.”
Devlin turned to Ollie. “You go and set everything up.” Then, to Samuels: “I want you and Boom Boom on Meyerson. Stay on his tail. I want to know everything he does, every place he goes. Make sure your cell phones are charged so you can tip me about it step by step. And stay close. If we need you, we’re gonna need you fast.” Devlin hesitated, thinking over everything he had told them. “I guess that’s it,” he said. “Let’s do it.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Father James Arpie stared at Devlin and Sharon with horrified eyes. His mouth moved for several seconds before any words finally emerged.
“Narcotics? You’re sure?”
Devlin folded one leg over the other and answered slowly, keeping his voice soft and confident. “We know Meyerson was paid off for helping ship drugs into the United States. The shipments came into the country in religious artifacts that supposedly belonged to Opus Christi. We also know those payments came directly from the drug dealers. In addition, we know the money was never deposited in any of Meyerson’s accounts. And we also know that Meyerson personally paid off every person who had made a claim against the archdiocese. He made those payments with cashier’s checks written on his own bank. I don’t think it will be very hard to show where that money originated.”
Arpie began to stutter. “We … didn’t … know … any of this.”
“Did you ever question where the money was coming from?” Devlin asked.
Arpie stared at Devlin. “No. There didn’t seem to be any need. The problem with those people … the fact that we could end it …” His eyes took on a pleading quality. “We knew Charles, knew he was a good Catholic.” His final words seemed to come back at him like a slap to the face. “Certainly you don’t think we would have accepted the money if we knew it came from something so … so …?”
“Of course not,” Devlin said. He paused. “But that doesn’t change the facts. And it certainly offers no guarantee what other people—people not friendly to the Roman Catholic Church—will think.”
Arpie straightened in his chair and fought to put some force in his voice. “I insist that you protect us from this. We were innocent of any knowledge. We were—”
Devlin’s voice became sharper. “You’re not in a position to insist on anything, Father,” he snapped. He let the statement sit for a moment, then softened his voice. “But I’ll do everything I can … providing you help me.”
Arpie stared at him. He began to stutter again. “This … is … this … is—”
“A request for help,” Devlin said, cutting him off. “That’s all, Father. Just a request for help.” He turned to Sharon. “Isn’t that how you understand it, Sergeant?”
“Oh, yeah,” Sharon said. She looked at Arpie and smiled. “That’s all it is, Father. A request for help. So help me, God.”
Arpie’s face reddened; then he seemed to get control of himself. He turned to Devlin. “What do you need?”
“First I need you to call the mayor and back off on al
l your earlier threats.” He waited until Arpie had nodded agreement. “Then I want you to call a couple of your parishes. And this is what I want you to tell them.”
Rasheed O’Neil stood in the lobby of Meyerson’s building like a block of black granite. When he saw Devlin and Sharon approaching the front door, he stepped out onto the sidewalk to meet them.
O’Neil was a first-grade detective out of Midtown South who was closing in on his thirty years. Devlin had worked with him as a rookie detective, and when he needed additional manpower to keep Meyerson under surveillance, Rasheed was the first to come to mind.
“You see our boy?” Devlin asked. There had been no handshakes, no outward sign that they knew each other, just in case anyone was watching.
“He’s up in his apartment,” O’Neil said. “Came in about two hours ago. Kept lookin’ over his shoulder like he expected somebody might be right behind him.” He gave Devlin a big-toothed grin. “Spotted me and wanted to know who I was; where was the regular doorman. I just give him my ‘Yes, massa’ smile, an’ tol’ him I was fillin’ in because the regular dude was sick.”
“He seem to buy it?” Sharon asked.
O’Neil turned his toothy grin on Sharon. “Hey. Who’s gonna doubt an honest-lookin’ guy like me?”
“I saw you coming down the street I’d head the other way,” Devlin quipped.
O’Neil’s grin widened. “I get that sometimes. Usually from chickenshit white boys. No offense intended, Inspector.”
“No offense taken, Rasheed.” Devlin looked down the street. It was seven in the evening, and the traffic along Central Park West was heavy. Rasheed, as directed by Devlin, had blocked off a parking space twenty feet from the front entrance with orange traffic cones, so Samuels and Boom Boom would have a place to set up for their tail. Rasheed also had a radio so he could alert them when Meyerson left the building.
“When he leaves, after you alert our unit,” Devlin said, “I want you to use your passkey and check his apartment. Then call me and let me know if anything looks out of place. Okay?”
Unholy Order Page 25
