by Tracy Clark
“Your grandparents?”
I nodded. And Pop. “I could accept that. It made sense in the end.”
“There’s a lot more to it, though,” he said.
“Does any of it matter now?”
He looked at the building, the flowers, the street, and then me again. “I’d like to hope it might.”
“Okay, I’ll give you ten seconds to nutshell it for me.” I watched him, my eyes holding his, no play in them. Maybe there was just a little anger percolating down deep.
“I have no excuse,” he said.
“I agree. Eight seconds.”
“I’m here to ask for your forgiveness.”
That was a tough one. If Pop were here I might be able to work on forgiveness, but I was on my own. Forgiveness was going to take some doing. “Six seconds.”
He appeared confused, like he didn’t know what to say or do next. “I want to make amends.”
We were silent for a time.
“How many seconds do I have left?”
I didn’t answer.
“I’ll just keep going then, okay? I remarried. A couple times, actually, but I have a family now. You have a brother. Family’s important; I know that now. I still miss your mother and think about her all the time. I went by the cemetery to see her. Do you go?”
“She’s not there,” I said.
He nodded. “You deserve an explanation.”
I really looked at him. I had no idea how old he was when he last celebrated his birthday. You forget things like that over time. I knew he was an only child, so was my mother, so was I, but I knew nothing about his parents or how he grew up. What I did know, what I could feel, was that there was no emotional connection between us. There was nothing, except a slight fit of pique, mine not his. But anger was easy. Anger passes, if you let it. What do you do with nothing?
“Time’s up,” I said, my tone gentler. There was no point in working myself up, no sport in kicking a man at his most vulnerable. It was done, dead. He left. I went on without him. Move on, Cass, move on. I quietly gathered up my garden tools. “Nice seeing you again.”
His face fell. “I’m at the Fairmont, if you change your mind and want to talk, and I hope you do.”
“I won’t.”
“Well, I’ll wait all the same. I’m not giving up.”
I nearly chuckled. He’d promised much the same twenty-three years ago, right before he turned, walked away, and never came back. “I don’t believe you.”
He hung his head, nodded, and then turned to leave without another word. I stood there and watched him go. He’d remarried. He had a whole new life, a family. I went inside, leaving the garden for another day.
Chapter 18
The church was packed, as I knew it would be. I was sitting in the next to last pew on the aisle next to Whip, both of us dressed in black suits, though Whip looked very uncomfortable in his. He kept tugging at his collar and loosening his tie as though he were trying to wiggle out of a hangman’s noose. He caught me looking.
“I hate ties,” he griped. “You know who wears ties? Corporate raiders and aldermen on the take, that’s who. You cannot trust a man in a tie, and you can take that to the bank.” He scanned the pews. “Jeez, looks like everybody he knew is here. Good for Father Ray.” He glanced over at me. “And for you.” He sat quietly for a time. “Funny how a place can seem smaller than you remember.”
“Yeah.” I glanced up at the vaulted ceiling. The church could accommodate over a thousand sinners, and every spot of pew had a person sitting in it—young and old, wealthy, not wealthy by a long shot, black, white, homeless, VIPs, and average Joes; they were all here for Pop.
I watched as people moved slowly up the center aisle, fanning out at the foot of the altar, searching for a spot to squeeze into, everyone’s voice lowered to reverential tones, as though they were afraid to wake the saints. Above the altar table hung the figure of the crucified Christ reproduced in alabaster, his dying body flanked by stoic disciples painstakingly chiseled from Italian marble. I wondered where they had all been when Pop needed their intervention.
Whip leaned over to whisper in my ear. “I can pop a lock in twenty seconds easy.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “Just saying.”
Inwardly, I was impressed with the time. It took me more than triple that to pick a quality lock. I stared at the confessional, my mind on Pop’s last moments, wondering if I’d ever be able to look at this church, or any other, as places where bad things did not happen. Like I’d done at Pop’s funeral, I checked around for Anton Bolek, Maisie Ross, and George Cummings. I didn’t see Maisie. She was likely done with Pop at this point anyway. You couldn’t harass a dead man. There was no sport in it. Surprisingly, I spotted Bolek, not in a pew, but holding up the side entryway, dressed not in a suit, but in his janitorial greens. Why was he here? I watched him for a time, then my eyes slipped away to find Thea sitting up front weeping. When I turned back to Bolek, he’d gone. Someone tapped me on the shoulder. George Cummings. Whip eyed him suspiciously, but said nothing.
“I just stopped by to say hello,” Cummings said, “And to ask if you’ve been able to come up with anything new.”
“Not yet. Still digging.”
“I get the same answer from the police. I never realized how slow moving this kind of thing can be. Since we talked, I’ve been keeping my eye open for a few of those homeless people that used to hang around here, but I haven’t seen them. Maybe they got scared off by all the trouble.”
“That could be,” I said.
“Well, I’ll keep looking. I had this thought, too. We keep sign-in sheets for when we open up the hall for the free meals. I’m not saying it’s one of them for sure, but if you ever need to take a look at who was in and around here about that time, I’d be glad to give you a look. There could be something there, you know?”
“Thanks. That’s a good idea.”
He reached into his pocket. “You gave me your card; here’s mine. Call if you want that look.” Cummings slowly moved away in search of a seat. I tucked his card into my bag.
“What’s his story?” Whip asked the second he was gone.
“Parishioner. He could be a good source of information.”
Whip studied the back of Cummings’s head. “Smiles too much. Happy people make me nervous.”
“When did you get so cynical?”
“Halfway through my first stint in the joint.”
We watched as Father Pascoe made his way slowly up the center aisle, greeting those on the aisle with a handshake and a regal smile. I caught his eye as he passed and offered a small wave. He smiled back, but I could tell his heart wasn’t in it.
Whip leaned over and whispered. “Is that him?
My eyes tracked Father Pascoe all the way to the altar. “Yep.”
“Does he always look like he swallowed a bat?”
“Yep.”
Whip shook his head. “Probably a sin wishing you could push a priest’s face in, right?”
“While actually sitting in church? I’m almost sure of it.”
Whip thought for a moment. “I think I could sell it to St. Peter.”
There was another tap on my shoulder; this time it was an old woman in a church hat sitting in the row behind me. When I turned around, she pointed toward the front doors.
“That young lady’s trying to get your attention.”
I looked where she pointed, shocked to see an old friend, Sister Barbara Covey, standing there waving me back.
“It’s Barb!” I whispered to Whip as I eased out into the aisle.
He turned and waved. “You said she was in Africa?”
“She is. She was.” I eased out of the row. “Guard my seat with your life.”
“Like you even had to ask. I’ll even make enough room for Babs.”
I chuckled. “The last time you called her Babs she chased you three blocks with a two-by-four.”
“We were thirteen!”
“Yeah, but she’s sti
ll a Covey.”
In fact, Barb was the youngest of nine rambunctious Coveys, all of them tough as nine-inch nails and not a bit shy about showing it. In school, she questioned everything and broke every rule just to prove she could. She rode the nuns like rodeo horses all the way to graduation day, and then surprised them all—and the neighborhood, too,—when she turned around and became one of them. No one saw it coming, especially the beat cops who knew the Coveys all too well, having picked up every last one of them at one time or another for breaking curfew, bloodying noses, busting streetlights, or spray painting the sides of mail trucks or neighborhood dogs.
“I’ve been signaling for you for ten minutes,” Barb said, pulling me into a hug. She looked as though she’d flown ten thousand miles folded up in an old steamer trunk, her unruly red hair pushed under a battered Cubs hat, her pale skin tanned and freckled by the African sun. I’d called her to tell her about Pop, but, though we talked by phone regularly, it had been a year since I’d last seen her. She was supposed to be in Tanzania teaching English to little African children, not standing here dressed like a safari guide, a dusty rucksack slung over her shoulder.
I pulled her over to a quiet corner of the drafty vestibule. “How’d you get here? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?”
She held up a scarred flip phone that looked as though it had been used as a baby chimp’s chew toy. “I tried, but I couldn’t get you. When I couldn’t, I figured you were busy giving the cops the business.”
“You didn’t have to come. I would have called.”
“I know. And I tried sitting it out, but I couldn’t sleep for worrying. Then I got mad, and prayers weren’t helping. Finally, I just had to be here. He would do the same for me.”
“How’d you know about the memorial? I just found out about it myself two days ago.”
“Happy accident. I’ve been traveling for over a week. There was a bumpy truck ride to the nearest township, then three dodgy prop planes to get me to Zanzibar City, then Lufthansa to O’Hare, stopping twice to switch planes. I’m jet-lagged, and I’m covered in dirt and mosquito balm. I hitched a ride from the airport to your place with a kind man named Sharif. Don’t give me that look. He was perfectly nice. But when I got to your place, you weren’t there. Mrs. Vincent filled me in and was nice enough to drop me off. Her car is massive, by the way, and built like a freaking tank. They really don’t make them like that anymore, do they?” She peeked into the church. “Great turnout. So what do we know so far? Who are we after? Which Covey do I have to call?”
Whichever one she called would be trouble, I thought. Barb’s brother, Sean, once stole a squad car right out of the district lot and then drove his girlfriend around town in it all night. He was now a detective working out of the Twenty-second, but everybody still called him Booster. Even Barb’s mother had an edge. She once cussed out a monsignor.
I led her inside. “We’ll hold off on calling the Coveys, and I’ll bring you up to speed later. Whip’s saving our seats.”
Her face lit up. “I can’t believe Charlie’s here. Where’s he been?”
“Long story. I’ll tell it later over a cold glass of milk.”
Barb pulled back. “Milk? After the odyssey I’ve been on? I’m going to need something stronger than that.”
“Fine. I’ll swipe some Communion wine. Let’s go.”
* * *
I waited for Communion to make my move, while those who wanted it were out of their pews and heading toward the altar, their hands clasped in prayer. Farraday and Weber had slipped in just before the start of Father Pascoe’s homily and had wasted no time scanning the church to find where I was sitting. What did they think they were doing? Did they really think Pop’s killer was going to stand up in a crowded church and confess to double homicide? I nodded to Weber. Farraday I ignored. When the time was right, I slid Whip a knowing glance and moved to get up. Barb grabbed my arm. “I saw that. What’s going on?”
“I need to stretch my legs. I’ll be back in a bit.”
She didn’t believe me. “Try again. Where are we going?”
The row ahead of us emptied as people headed toward the altar. “We are not going anywhere. I’m going to stretch my legs. You and Whip are staying here until I get back.”
Whip leaned over. “Look, Babs, we’ll explain all this to you later.”
Barb glared at Whip. Whip grinned. It was 1996 all over again, sans the two-by-four. I eased out of the pew. I’d have to thank Whip for the diversion later.
He grabbed my wrist. “Anybody heads that way, I’m right behind them. Just so you know.” He angled his head at Barb, who sat pinch-faced beside him. “I’ll fill Barb in. Go.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but closed it again. Truthfully, I could do a lot worse than Whip as backup. I slipped out of the pew, eased around the Communion line and made it out of the church, hopefully, without anyone noticing. Standing out on the front steps, I took a good long look at the street. A line of black limousines sat parked at the curb, each with a bored driver behind the wheel. At the mouth of the street, two squad cars sat idling, protection and transportation for all the VIPs inside. News vans, their satellite dishes raised and ready, sat behind the limos with reporters cooling their heels inside, waiting for the church to let out. Pop had been a big deal. He might have had a lot of enemies, but he had an equal number of powerful friends.
I strolled toward the courtyard as though I were out for a contemplative walk, feeling for the picklocks in the pocket of my suit jacket. I had intentionally worn slacks instead of a skirt, and flats instead of heels, in case I had to go to Plan B and climb through a window. Whip had boasted he could pick a lock in less than twenty seconds. Only I would take that as a personal challenge.
Rousing organ music wafted out of the church’s open windows, accompanied by tinny voices mumbling their way through “Amazing Grace.” I climbed the rectory steps like I belonged there, but stopped when I caught sight of the door, which stood ajar. The fact that I wouldn’t need the picklocks should have delighted me, but instead it lifted the hairs on the back of my neck. I checked the lock. It hadn’t been busted or forced. There were no outward signs of tampering. It simply looked as though someone had failed to shut the door behind them, which didn’t sound at all like Father Pascoe or Thea. Neither would have been so careless, not in this neighborhood, not after what happened to Pop, not even with two squad cars parked across the street.
The wisest thing would be to flag down one of the cops and have them check the house, but then I’d lose my one shot at getting inside to look for Pop’s datebook. I gently pushed the door open, stepped into the foyer, and listened for sounds that didn’t belong. Had someone wandered in? Somewhere toward the back of the house a clock ticked loudly and coffee was brewing, the smooth aroma of it filling the entire downstairs. I slid my gun out of the holster just in case, holding it down at my side. I slipped quietly into Pop’s office. The boxes I’d checked were still there, but new ones had been added since I’d been here last. There was no one hiding behind the door; there was no other place anyone could hide.
I tiptoed back into the hall and headed toward the kitchen. I checked inside the utility closet as I passed it. Nothing but brooms, and mops, and boxes of Hefty bags. The kitchen was clear; a full pot of coffee sat waiting for whoever had brewed it. Back up the hall, I eased the door open on what used to be Father Pascoe’s office before he took over Pop’s. He hadn’t completely moved all of his things, and what was left behind had been frighteningly arranged, stacked and placed in such a manner as to suggest that Father Pascoe might suffer from some form of OCD.
A line of religious figurines sat on the desk, each one a different saint. I devilishly toyed with the idea of moving each of them a millimeter off its mark just to send Father Pascoe reeling, but squashed the petty urge. I slipped out of the room, closing the door behind me, reholstered my gun, and double-timed it back to Pop’s office, suddenly mindful of the fact that the church
music had stopped. There was no telling how much time I had left. I had to move quickly.
Six new bankers’ boxes with HEATON stenciled on the lids sat on the floor against a wall. I started there. On my knees, I searched the first four boxes without finding anything useful, only more parish forms, office supplies, and a few new photographs. I’d have to tell Thea that I wanted those, too. I found Pop’s datebooks in the fifth box, each one labeled by year, the earliest dating back to 1993. Two years before he came to St. Brendan’s. I stopped my search, held the book. I wanted the datebooks, too. Setting the book aside, I searched the box for the 2018 book, but it wasn’t there. The last book was for 2017, way before Pop got into whatever trouble he’d gotten into, way before someone began following him and Cesar showed up. I checked the box again, hoping I’d just overlooked it, but again I came up with nothing. The book wasn’t there.
Singing started up across the way. Good sign. I checked the closet, but it held nothing more interesting than a black overcoat hanging from a wooden hanger. I checked the pockets, but found only half a roll of Lifesavers. I headed upstairs to Pop’s bedroom. It was forbidden territory, and every step I took on the stairs felt like I was breaching the entrance to some sacred sanctum, but I kept moving. This was my first time past the first floor, my first time seeing where Pop had really lived. There were name plates on the walls outside each room. I found Pop’s. His door was open. I eased inside. The room smelled of sandalwood and Ivory soap, like Pop had, but it was barely big enough to accommodate the twin bed he’d slept in. I could have swung a cat by the tail and hit all four walls. The man hadn’t been fussy, but how could he possibly have slept here without feeling like the walls were closing in on him? It appeared as if everything was as Pop had left it. I drew in a breath, and got a whiff of something besides sandlewood and soap. It was must, as though the room had been locked up tight for months without any circulating air. I padded over to the window and opened it just a crack, then checked my watch for time. I’d been in the house about twenty minutes. I wouldn’t have too much longer.
