Unholy Order

by William Heffernan

  “No problem,” Rasheed said. “You want me to stay after he bugs out?”

  Devlin nodded. “Just in case things don’t work the way we hope they will, and he heads back here.”

  “You got it,” Rasheed said. He grinned at Devlin. “You come a long way since you was that little-squirt detective used to tag along behind my big black ass.”

  “That’s little-squirt detective, sir,” Devlin said.

  “Oh, yeah. I forgot,” Rasheed said. He gave Devlin a serious fatherly look. “Watch your ass with this dude, Paul. He got that look in his eye. Like a real crazy scared motherfucker.”

  “I’ll watch him,” Devlin said.

  Rasheed turned to Sharon. “You too. Don’t trust him for a minute.”

  “I never do,” Sharon said.

  “I don’t like to be disturbed at home,” Meyerson said, when he opened the door to his apartment. He was dressed in a white collarless shirt that seemed almost clerical, black slacks, and shoes. He was surprised to find Devlin and Sharon facing him across his threshold. From what the doorman had said, he had expected two uniformed officers, not detectives, and certainly not the police inspector who had interviewed him at his office. He attempted to hide his surprise with feigned annoyance. Inside, his stomach was churning.

  The nervousness was not lost on Devlin.

  When Rasheed had buzzed Meyerson’s apartment to tell him that two police officers wanted to speak with him, Meyerson had initially claimed he was too busy. Rasheed, experienced in such games of avoidance, had told him the police insisted it was urgent and were coming up anyway, and there was nothing he could do to stop them.

  They were pushing him, keeping him off balance, making him feel everything was moving quickly out of his control. It would get worse.

  “It will only take a few minutes,” Devlin said. “You can refuse to let us into your apartment—it’s your right—but we still have to talk to you. We’ll just have to do it at the nearest precinct.”

  Meyerson glared at him, but Devlin knew it was all bluff. “Do I need my attorney?” The question came out with a sneer: more bravado.

  “It’s not that kind of talk,” Devlin said. “If it were I would have read you your rights as soon as you opened the door. But, again, it’s up to you.”

  Meyerson glanced past Devlin. “Who’s this?” he demanded, raising his chin toward Sharon.

  “This is Detective Sergeant Sharon Levy,” Devlin said. “She’s the lead detective in the Sister Manuela murder investigation.”

  Meyerson stared at Sharon without expression. It was the woman he had sent Valdez to kill, the homosexual filth who … who … who had destroyed everything he had planned. He fought down his anger and revulsion. “I read about you in tonight’s newspaper,” he said. “You seem to be the hero of the hour.”

  Sharon remained silent, just stared him down.

  The lack of response seemed to unnerve Meyerson, and he turned abruptly and started back into his apartment. “You may as well come in,” he said, almost as an afterthought.

  Sharon preceded Devlin into the spacious living room, turning in a slow circle, taking everything in as though looking for some treasure she might want to buy. The act seemed to annoy Meyerson, and he pointed to a large sectional sofa and suggested they sit.

  “I hope we can do this quickly,” he snapped, as he took a seat across from them.

  “As quickly as we can,” Devlin said, unperturbed. He crossed his legs, holding one knee with both hands. “As I told you earlier, we’ve arrested Sister Manuela’s killer,” he began. “A Colombian named Emilio Valdez.”

  Devlin watched Meyerson’s face as he spoke. The blue eyes remained cold and unmoved, but a slight tic hit one corner of his mouth at the mention of Valdez.

  “I’m pleased you solved the case,” Meyerson said.

  “Oh, it’s not wrapped up yet,” Sharon interjected. “That’s why we’re here.” She paused, letting Meyerson sweat the words, wondering if the other shoe, when dropped, would be for him.

  Devlin picked up the next line they had loosely scripted. “We know Valdez did the murder. The evidence is all there,” he said. “We also know he was involved in the Colombian drug trade. He was heavy muscle for a drug lord named Chavarría. Here in the States he took his orders from one of Chavarría’s top people, guy who runs a phony import business in the city, goes by the name of Ricardo Estaves. We’ve got him locked up too.”

  “We’ve got him solid on a couple of things,” Sharon said. “We expect we’ll have a lock on conspiracy to commit murder in the Sister Manuela case in just a few more days.” She gave Meyerson a small, knowing smile. “Seems he made a serious mistake, really blew it. Tried to have Valdez killed in the Brooklyn House of Detention but didn’t quite get the job done. Now Valdez knows he’s a dead man as far as his drug bosses are concerned, and his lawyer has told us he’s ready to sing as soon as the DA cobbles a deal.”

  Devlin leaned forward. “That’s why we’re here, Mr. Meyerson. We need to ask you some questions that might clear up a loose end we can’t seem to crack.”

  The tic was jumping at the corner of Meyerson’s mouth, and he raised a hand, rubbing the spot lightly to conceal it. “I’ll do what I can, of course. But I really don’t know much about this matter.”

  “It’s Sister Manuela we need help on,” Sharon said. “Valdez has been hinting things. Things about the drug shipments he was bird-dogging.” She paused, then looked to Devlin as if concerned she might be saying too much. Devlin nodded his okay for her to continue.

  “Valdez has been jabbering about religious artifacts being brought into New York. This makes sense, of course, with a nun being involved.” Sharon held up her hands. “Maybe two nuns. He did try to kill the other nun who was traveling with Sister Manuela, so we’ve got to think maybe he was trying to shut her up.” Sharon shook her head. “What we can’t figure is how these two nuns got involved. Sister Margaret insists she knows nothing about the drugs—and to be honest, I believe her. But that leaves us with Manuela, a twenty-two-year-old woman who worked for a bank and then joined a religious order. So we’re asking ourselves: What’s her motive? Obviously she didn’t care about money. If she had, why not stay at a bank? Helluva lot more chances to be dishonest there than a convent. And if she were mixed up with drug dealers back when she worked for you, a bank would be a great place to be. Drug lords are always looking for connections in banks to launder their money.”

  Meyerson stiffened visibly. “I assure you, Sister Manuela was doing nothing of the sort when she worked for us.”

  Devlin raised a hand. “And I assure you, we have nothing to say she was.” He shook his head. “But something was going on with this woman. Somehow this Valdez had enough of a hold on her to get her to swallow condoms filled with heroin. You only do that sort of thing for two reasons, greed or fear. I mean, it’s hard to imagine some nun being convinced she’s gotta do something like that for some greater good, right?”

  The tic at the corner of Meyerson’s mouth was flying again. Devlin decided to turn the pressure cooker up one more notch.

  “Then we’ve got the fact that Valdez was behind the murder of four priests. Were they involved in this drug business?” Devlin dismissed the rhetorical question with another shake of his head. “The only connection between the four of them that we can find—” He stopped, leaned forward to make his words more intimate, and then continued. “This has got to be kept in this room. Okay?” He waited again as Meyerson nodded. “The only connection we can find is that all these priests were gay, and all of them had been diagnosed with AIDS. So how does this fit? Did Sister Manuela facilitate this drug shipment as a price for getting these priests knocked off? And, if so, why would Valdez still murder them after he had already killed her?”

  “There’s got to be someone else involved,” Sharon interjected. “Somebody who was using Manuela. Somebody who had the power to do that.”

  “And that’s why we’re here,” De
vlin said, picking up the thread of their script. “Do you know anyone who had that kind of influence on her, anyone who could have exerted the kind of pressure needed to get this nun to play mule for a group of scumbag drug dealers?”

  Meyerson was momentarily unable to speak. Everything he had done, everything he had planned was coming back at him from the mouths of these … people … these police officers. He felt shattered, defeated. All he wanted was to rush to his cell, his sanctuary, and pray to God for deliverance. He looked up at Devlin and shook his head. “I didn’t know anything about this woman’s private life,” he said. He wanted out of here, now. “She was just … just an employee.”

  “Damn,” Sharon said. She shook her head, imitating Meyerson. “We were hoping you might have something we could use to get a handle on this last piece of the puzzle. Well, at least one good thing is coming out of it.”

  Meyerson stared at her, confused. “I don’t understand.”

  “The priests,” Sharon said. “There were more than just four on Valdez’s list. At least the others are safe now.” She paused for effect. “And the way it’s working out, it may end up being a good thing for the archdiocese—for the church, even.”

  Meyerson’s confusion deepened. “I don’t understand what you’re saying. Are you saying these deaths were a good thing for the church?” A hint of suspicion came to his eyes as they darted back and forth between Sharon and Devlin.

  “No, of course not,” Sharon said. “The fact that it’s over—that these other priests are safe—that’s good. But it’s also done something else. It’s given these other priests, the ones who are safe now, the courage to do something that might help their church.”

  “And what is that?” Meyerson snapped. He was having trouble controlling his emotions now, and he struggled to keep himself in check.

  She glanced at Devlin, then shrugged. “Well, it won’t be a secret much longer, so I guess I can tell you. These priests—the surviving ones, I mean—have decided to out themselves. They’re going to make their homosexuality public. They’re even going to acknowledge that they contracted AIDS when they … when they”—Sharon waved her hand in a small circle—“sinned, I guess you’d say.”

  Sharon watched Meyerson straggle against his anger. She could almost see the outrage boiling up inside him, see him fight to keep the words down, words that might give away his hatred of those men.

  Devlin saw it too and pushed ahead, twisting the knife even deeper. “They’re actually going to do more than just acknowledge their own homosexuality and their … medical problems.”

  Meyerson snorted, unable to hold it in any longer. “I would think that would be quite enough,” he snapped.

  “Hey, easy there, Mr. Meyerson,” Sharon said. “I’m homosexual myself. It’s not all that bad.”

  She watched Meyerson’s eyes widen, his lips tighten in a thin line as he fought back some unspoken rebuke. Her open acknowledgment also made him shrink back, to push himself farther into his chair. It was as if the word homosexual itself produced a need for greater distance between himself and any person who used it.

  “I didn’t mean to imply anything adverse,” he finally said.

  Sharon thought the words almost choked him.

  “We know you didn’t,” Devlin said. “What I was getting at was that these priests plan to form a group, an organization of some kind.”

  “Of gay priests,” Sharon said. She tried to put some sense of pride in the words to goad Meyerson even further. “I guess there are quite a few more than just them.”

  Devlin picked it up again. “I spoke to them—when we told them they were out of danger, that the killer had been caught—and several of them told me they intend to lobby the archdiocese and the church itself. They’re going to press for an acknowledgment of gay men in the priesthood. They want the church and the laity to accept the fact that homosexuality exists within the clergy.”

  “Kind of give up the don’t-ask-don’t-tell approach,” Sharon interjected.

  Devlin again: “They said they’re also going to press for an end to celibacy. Get the church to recognize that priests and nuns should have the right to marry.”

  “Gay priests?” Meyerson’s entire body had stiffened. He seemed to realize that his outburst was untoward, and he forced himself to relax. Everything about him seemed to slacken; everything except the inner rage that remained in his eyes.

  “I don’t think they meant that,” Devlin said. “I think they meant heterosexual priests and nuns.” He hesitated, scratched his head, and looked at Sharon. “You don’t think they meant gay priests should marry, do you?”

  Sharon shrugged. “I don’t think so. At least not as part of any first step to overturn celibacy. I think they know that won’t fly. At least right off.”

  Devlin stared at her, incredulous. “You think somewhere down the road, they’ll want that? Gay priests, I mean, getting the right to marry?” He shook his head. “No, you’re off base there, Sergeant.”

  Sharon shrugged. “Hey, gays are getting married in Vermont. People are starting to accept the fact that this isn’t some kind of perversion.”

  Devlin continued to shake his head. Meyerson was watching them both now, almost as if it were some kind of tennis match. There was no question in either Sharon’s or Devlin’s mind about which player he was rooting for.

  “Okay. Okay. I agree these murders are going to raise people’s consciousness about homosexual members of the clergy. It might even force the church to formally accept them. But marriage? No way. Not in our lifetime.”

  Again, Sharon shrugged. “Hey, wait and see, Inspector. Once you acknowledge gay men in the priesthood; once you acknowledge the right of heterosexual priests to marry … All I’m saying is, what’s fair is fair. And people are going to see that.”

  Devlin waved away her argument. “We’re getting off base here.” He turned back to Meyerson and shook his head. “Anyway, these priests aren’t in danger anymore. And we’re still stuck with the same problem—Sister Manuela and how she fits in all this. We were hoping you might be able to help us—some hint, something she said, some person she mentioned as being very influential in her life.”

  Meyerson shook his head. He looked numb, Devlin thought. The little boy at his own birthday party who had just seen his party balloons all burst at once. “I can’t help you,” he said. “I can’t think of anyone. I wasn’t that close to the woman.”

  Rasheed was waiting for them when they got off the elevator. “You get what you wanted?” he asked.

  “Oh, yeah,” Sharon said. “He’s almost fucking catatonic.”

  “You think he’s scared enough to run?” Rasheed asked.

  They moved out onto the sidewalk. Devlin glanced down the street and saw that Samuels and Boom Boom were in place. He nodded an acknowledgment. He would not go to the car and speak to them, wouldn’t risk drawing attention to their presence.

  He turned to Rasheed. “I can’t read the guy at all. He’s scared. But how can you tell what a scared nutcase will do? He might sit up there in a corner, suck his thumb, and rock himself to sleep.”

  “I think he’ll move, and move fast,” Sharon said.

  “I hope you’re right,” Devlin said. He turned to Rasheed. “He comes down with a suitcase in his hand, you blow the alarm fast.”

  “Like Gabriel with his fuckin’ horn,” Rasheed said.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Charles Meyerson sank to his knees in the small celllike room that had once served as a maid’s quarters. The bare hardwood floor pressed into his knees, the discomfort, normally pleasant to him when he prayed, unnoticed now.

  The room was dimly lighted by a votive candle placed before the statue of the Virgin on his bedside table, the light flickering so the photograph of his mother beside it seemed strangely animated. Charles did not see any of it. His eyes were closed tightly, his mouth moving with prayers that flowed by rote. He had placed a repentance belt around his thigh and tightene
d it so the small spikes on the inside of the strap cut into his flesh, causing a small trickle of blood to seep into his black trousers. There was a knotted rope in one hand, a scourge, and he methodically whipped his buttocks as he prayed until it, too, caused blood to stain his slacks.

  Sister Manuela filled his mind as he prayed for guidance. He had offered up similar prayers months ago before he had approached her about the first step in his plan. She had been reluctant at first, but he had pressed her, told her The Holy Order had become victims of Chavarría and his drug cartel and his minions would seek vengeance against her family in Colombia if she refused to help.

  He told her it was his fault that he had fallen into Chavarría’s clutches, because he had trusted him. The man had the same name as the founder of their holy order, Father José Chavarría de Mata. He had taken it as a sign from God, he had said, the lie burning in his throat. Now he too was being threatened. She had only to help bring the religious artifacts into the country, to protect her family, to protect him and The Holy Order itself. Maria Escavera had looked at him with pleading eyes, begging him to allow her to escape this task. Finally, she had agreed. She had grown up in Colombia and she understood the ruthlessness of the cartels, the brutality of the men who ran them—men who brought government officials to their knees out of fear. She believed what he told her, and she reluctantly said she would do as he asked. Yet her eyes had held something else even then: the promise of disaster, some inner understanding that all would not go as he planned. But the pressure he had exerted had worked, and it had led to her death. He had not known that Valdez would use the same pressure, the same threats, to force her to do more.

  “Forgive me,” he whispered. Charles squeezed his eyes tighter as he continued to whip himself. He was not asking the young nun for forgiveness. That would have been pointless. He was asking forgiveness of his God. Forgiveness for his failure. The young nun, all the others, he believed, lived to serve, to do the work of Christ. How God chose to reward or punish that work was beyond the ken of man.