We were out of the car now and exiting the garage to start walking toward the back door. Rachel hungrily eyed the bagel bag as she got her key ready to open the door.
“Okay, I’ll bite,” she said. “So what?”
“I’ll have to check the briefing packet on my hacking case to be sure.” I set the bagels on the counter and opened my computer. “But I’m right at ninety-nine percent already. The name sounded familiar when the priest said it, and I couldn’t figure out why.”
“I’ll die of suspense, but not until after I’ve had a bagel. You want one?”
“No, thanks,” I murmured. We finished breakfast less than twenty minutes ago, for crying out loud!
I clicked on the icon on my computer for the hacking case file and scrolled through the beginning part of it—the part that I’d just skimmed on my flight to Albuquerque. Most of it was the kind of inessential background detail that gets translated into pixels when a loss-prevention support assistant empties her notebook into a computer. But not all of it.
Bingo. There it was. I unholstered my phone and speed-dialed the shysterette’s number. Voice-mail. Sunday morning, figures. I started to talk before the beep was over.
“This is Davidovich, otherwise known as muscle. Before I got called into the Pitt MCM thing, I was working on a computer-hacking matter at a seminary in New Mexico. It was the second insured computer-hacking loss at a Church-related university in the last two months, so Transoxana put Loss Prevention on it. Last week I was talking with the rector of the seminary in New Mexico, and he mentioned that for decades they’ve been sending students to an Austrian university called Katholische Theologische Privatuniversitad. Probably butchered the pronunciation, but you get the idea. This morning I finally realized why the name rang a bell: KTP was where the first hacking-loss claim came from. Thought you should know.”
Chapter Forty-five
Cynthia Jakubek
“It’s like you’re setting me up for one of the top-ten dumbest cross-examination questions ever put to a witness.”
“By looking at my watch?” I glanced at Phil—yeah, we’d gotten from “Schuyler” to “Phil” without wasting any time about it—as I took a semi-final sip of coffee.
“Yeah. Actually happened once during cross-examination of an alibi witness. Supposedly. ‘Question: You say you were talking with the defendant at six minutes of eight at least a mile away from where the mugging happened at eight a.m.?’ Answer: ‘That’s right.’ Question: ‘How can you be so sure of the exact time?’ Answer: ‘Because it was Sunday morning and I remember looking at my watch and thinking if I didn’t get a move on I was going to be late for Mass.’”
“I’d never heard that one.”
“We use it to scare baby prosecutors. ‘Don’t ask one question too many.’”
“Well, it’s eerily appropriate. I’m lectoring at the ten-fifteen Mass at St. Ben’s this morning. Lectors are supposed to show up in the sacristy fifteen minutes before Mass, so I need to get on my way pretty soon.”
Late breakfast with Phil at the Omni William Penn’s sidewalk café. New York Times split between us and eagerly read with running commentary on both sides. Good talk. Flattering gleam in his patrician eyes and, to tell the truth, more than a dab of lust-light in my own. Not carried away in transports of ecstasy as I had been a few years ago by a guy who turned out to be using me, but comfortable. And happy. Verging on mellow. How would I like doing this on a regular basis—say, roughly every day? I would like that a lot.
We split the bill—don’t want to fall into any bad habits—and I headed for St. Ben’s. I had my reading prepared. Something from Paul, as usual. No need to turn off my mobile phone, because I hadn’t turned it on yet this morning. You have to draw lines, and that’s one of mine. I get Sunday mornings off. Period.
At ten on the dot I walked into the familiar sacristy scene: Father Larry vesting, sacristan making sure the ribbons in the jumbo missal the priest will use are at the right places, one server getting ready to light the sanctuary candles, my co-lector running a bit late, and Sister Luanga looking for the other servers who hadn’t wandered in yet. She sighed with visible relief when she spotted a second server stroll into the servers’ room and start looking for an alb and cincture to put on.
“How are things going, Cynthia?” I looked over my shoulder at Father Larry, who’d asked the question.
“Keeping the balls in the air. So far. Hey, maybe there’s something you can help me with. An insurance guy I’m working with on a case mentioned a Latin term I’d never heard before: Acta Formalis Defectionis. Do you know what that is?”
“Something I hope you never sign. The full title is Acta Formalis Defectionis de Ecclesia Catholica. It’s a formal renunciation of membership in the Catholic Church. Does that help?”
“Well, I’m ahead of where I was fifteen minutes ago. Thanks.”
I checked my own reading in the Lectionary—someone should have scolded Paul about his penchant for run-on sentences—and took a look at the first reading as well, just in case my co-lector didn’t show up and I had to handle that one too. By the time I’d finished that, the second server had reached our area. His alb—basically an ankle-length gown made out of white cotton—looked okay. The knot in his cincture, though—not so much.
A cincture is a braided fabric rope tied around the waist of an alb to serve as a belt. The two free ends are supposed to hang down from the left hip, where the knot is, to well below the knee. This kid had a lumpy mess where the knot was supposed to be, and the ends barely reached the top of his knee. It looked like he’d knotted the strands one at a time and had just kept tying them until he figured he had something that would hold. With some amusement, I watched Sister Luanga struggling valiantly not to laugh at the thing.
“Here,” she said to the fifth-grader instead of chuckling. “Let me show you a trick with that cincture.”
The boy laboriously untangled the green rope, took it off, and handed it to her. She doubled it and then pulled it out nearly to arm’s length, holding the loop in her left hand and the two free ends in her right. She moved her right hand up to a foot or so above the free ends. After a pause to make sure she had the server’s attention, she began her instructional.
“When you put this around your waist from the back, you hold the loop just in front of your left hip and bring the free ends across the front of your waist over to the same hip.” She did this, except that she kept the entire cincture in front of her where he could see it. “Now, here is the tricky part, you see. You bend the loop backwards on the outside, and then take the two strands, well up from the free ends, and push them both through the loop, so now you have a double loop.”
She demonstrated this. Her hands worked with almost magical dexterity as she made the move look easy. Then she pulled the strands out and did it again much more slowly, so that the boy could see every step.
“You see?”
“Yes, Sister.”
“Now all you must do is put the two loose ends through the new loop you have made, and you have a nice, clean knot.”
Demonstration by Sister Luanga, nod from the server. She undid the knot and handed the cincture back to the server.
“Now you try it.”
He did. Epic fail on the first effort because he intuitively slipped the first loop in between the two strands instead of putting the strands through the loop to make a second loop. Sister Luanga explained this to the server, who tried again. This time he got it. And not a moment too soon. Father Larry was antsy for us to hustle to the back of the church for our procession up to the sanctuary.
All the way through Mass something kicked at me, tickling the back of my brain, tantalizing me like a Friday New York Times crossword clue that you think you ought to have but you can’t quite grasp. I gave special attention to my reading, hoping for some Pauline inspiration to clear up the puzzle.
No luck. He must have been thinking of something else when he dictated this one to some hapless secretary while both of them waited for hammering at the door that would mean armed men and unpleasant tomorrows.
Mass over. Up to the sanctuary for the recessional. Trek to the rear of the church in a tidy little procession, then back to the sacristy to straighten things up. By eleven-thirty I’d made it to the sidewalk outside the church. Life felt good. Pleasant sunshine, clear sky, unseasonably warm temperatures, and a nice little six-block walk to the building that housed my office. I’d parked my car—well, technically, dad’s car—in the ramp there. I figured to be sitting down to Sunday dinner in ninety minutes.
I decided that almost eleven forty-five was close enough to noon to justify turning on my mobile phone. I promptly heard a tonal beep!, telling me that some voice-mails would appreciate my attention. I looked at the first. Davidovich. I punched it up. I listened to it. And just like that the dominoes started falling in a cascading free association that would have made Rube Goldberg blush.
Davidovich/collar robber/seminary-computer-hacking/art-heist/dead-guy-in-Vienna/Insider-at-the-museum/Tally-hustling-Sean-and-Abbey/collar-robber again/Willy-in-Vienna/Acta-Formalis/Tally-in-Vienna/Von-Leuthen/reconciliation-room/Willy-worming-out-of-me-that-confessions-weren’t-heard-on-Sundays/Willy promising to tell me the whole story tomorrow…Hoo-boy!
I wheeled around and sprinted back toward St. Ben’s. Reached the church in four minutes flat. Front doors locked. Figures. More than half-an-hour after the end of the last Mass. I raced around back. The Open Door Café would start serving at noon, and Sister Luanga would be getting ready. No key, but she’d recognize me. Around the corner to the back of the church. Line of hungry homeless already formed outside the door. Adrenaline racing, heart pumping, blood pounding my temples, sweat streaming, fear gripping my gut. A voice came from behind me as I whistled past the waiting men.
“Hey! Hey, hey!”
I looked toward the voice in the line and saw a blur.
“Later! Sorry!”
Passing the door that would be opened in a few minutes to the guests, I stopped at the service door leading directly into the kitchen. Sister Luanga stood like an answered prayer at a stainless steel counter inside. My rap on the window drew an impatient backward jerk of her head, telling me to go to the other door, but then she saw me. She hustled over to open the door.
“CYN-thia! What is it?”
“Something upstairs!”
I pushed in and scampered by her toward the basement’s main hallway. I’d barely found enough breath to get the words out. I run ten miles a week (except when I don’t), but running is one thing and hurtling like you have a rapist with herpes chasing you is something else.
Hallway dimly lit to save money but I knew my way around. Twenty loping strides to the stairs that led to the church. Up the stairs to the servers’ room, behind the wall on the left side of the sanctuary. The door leading to the front of the nave was locked from the inside, which is the side I was on, so no problem getting through that one. I should now be diagonally across from the reconciliation room on the other side of the nave, near the back, but I couldn’t see it in the almost lightless church.
I decided to run across the front of the nave, directly in front of the sanctuary, and then down the side aisle outside the pews. My flats sounded to me like thunderclaps on the terrazzo floor. So much for the element of surprise. Tough. Keep going. Careful turn down the side aisle. Moving a bit more cautiously now, but still making enough racket to startle the stained glass saints in the windows above me.
By the time I reached the reconciliation room my eyes had adapted to the near darkness and I could make out the door. No light showing behind the pane of glass. I peered in, but all I saw was a deeper shade of darkness. Couldn’t hear a hint of a sound from inside, of course.
I tried the door. Open! If I’d had the tactical sense that God gave geese, that would have told me something important, but I don’t and it didn’t.
Now I heard something. Labored, choking breaths and thrashing body movement, like you’d expect from someone having a nightmare. Found the light switch and flipped it on. Willy! Lying on the floor, purple-faced, twitching spastically—and with a thin, beaded cord constricting his neck—secured with a slip-knot exactly like the one Sister Luanga had taught the server that morning.
Dropping to both knees, I attacked the thing. Thank God for short nails. I managed to work two fingers underneath the top two strands and get a little separation. The would-be killer hadn’t finished the job, and I didn’t want to finish it for him. He’d probably heard me clumping through the church like a lummox and scooted out of the room to hide somewhere until he figured out what I was doing there. Which meant it was ten-to-one he was still here.
No time to think about that now. The purple discoloring Willy’s face seemed to deepen as with agonizing slowness I gentled the strands free. Got the first two strands pulled up enough that I could start delicately tugging them out of the loop and simultaneously pulling the outside of the loop toward me. Finally the tension gave and the whole cord went slack.
What next? Nine-one-one or CPR? CPR.
Kneeling beside his body, I interlaced the fingers of my two hands and put the heel of my right hand roughly between where the nipples of his breasts figured to be. Push, hard, going for a two-inch compression. Repeat. And again. Thirty times. Pause. Face as close to his mouth as I could stand to check for any sign of normal breathing. Nada.
Deep breath for me. Pinch Willy’s nose shut with the thumb and index finger of my left hand, pull his mouth open and pin his tongue down with my right, and blow air into that mouth, hoping enough of it would get into his bruised windpipe to open it all the way back up. Head-up, exhale, repeat. The summer before my senior year in high school a perky little fifteen-year-old had taught me basic CPR so that I could get a lifeguard job at a municipal pool. Toward the end of the summer, I’d taught her how to smoke, so I guess I got the better of that deal. She’d called the two mouth-to-mouth efforts “recovery breaths.”
Back to the chest compressions. Thirty times. Pause. Hint of real breathing, but not enough. Two more recovery breaths. Halfway through the next round of chest compressions I sensed his torso start to heave a little. Checked his mouth. I got the blessed odor of Marboros and black coffee—blessed because air brought me the odors. Willy was breathing again. I sat back on my heels, hoping and praying that I’d brought it off.
“I’ve already called nine-one-one.”
I jumped like a six-year-old watching a horror film as I heard Tally’s voice behind me. I jerked my head around to look at him, framed in the doorway with looming darkness behind. Think fast, Cindy. Pretend you’re in court.
“Tally, thank God you’re here!”
“This gentleman and I had an appointment. His idea of a joke, I suppose, choosing St. Ben’s for our meeting. Got here before Mass was over, looked around, and then waited forever, but we didn’t connect. Then I saw a chap who looked a little dodgy slipping out the door as if he didn’t want to be seen. Thought I should investigate. Slow work with nothing but my cell-phone as a flashlight. Didn’t even think of looking in here. I’m glad you somehow stumbled over him.”
Thank God for long-winded egotists. Tally’s nervous logorrhea gave me time to come up with something.
“Okay. If you’ve called nine-one-one, you’d better go push the front door open and wait there to let them in. The doors are locked.”
His skull might as well have been transparent. I could see the metaphorical wheels turning. Was she really that dumb? Buying the generic bad-guy line?
“You’re right,” he said at last. “I’ll wait for them. You’ll stay with Szulz?”
No, you moron, I’ll just pop down to PNC Park for this afternoon’s ball game.
“Yes, I’ll stick with Willy.”
He backed up about three feet, then turned to his left. Trying to make it look good, I suppose. That gave me all the room I needed. Quick arch backward, stretched my left arm out and back until it hurt, caught the edge of the door and slammed it shut. And punched the little button that locked it.
I sensed Tally wheeling back in indecision, but I couldn’t really see him anymore. Did he think about banging on the door, trying to force his way in? Good luck with that one. Ever hear about the seal of the confessional? Whatever, he ended up not doing it. He probably figured that he’d give me maybe three minutes and then come hustling back, yelling that the EMTs were here.
I called nine-one-one, because Tally sure as hell hadn’t done it.
“What is your emergency?”
“Attempted strangulation at St. Benedict the Moor Catholic Church.” I rattled off the address. “Victim is near death and needs immediate attention. Pulse weak, respiration shallow, eyeballs distended.”
“What is your—”
“Cynthia Jakubek. Victim is in immediate danger of death, repeat, immediate danger of death.”
“Dispatching.”
I gave her thirty seconds, then spoke up again.
“Now listen carefully. The front doors of the church are locked. Call Father Larry in the rectory and tell him what’s happened. Have him meet the EMTs outside with the key when they arrive.”
“Is the perpetrator still in the vicinity?”
“Don’t know.”
“Are you with the victim?”
“Yes.”
“Are you in immediate danger?”
“No.”
“Stay where you are.”
“Count on it.”
Seemed like two hours later when I finally heard sirens in the distance, but it couldn’t have been more than three or four minutes. It gave me time to fish the much-folded von Leuthen letter out of a pouch in a money belt that Willy had concealed under his shirt and waistband. Right on cue, maybe thirty seconds after the first audible klaxon, Tally appeared in the window, rapping on it and mouthing They’re here! They’re here!
Collar Robber: A Crime Story Featuring Jay Davidovich and Cynthia Jakubek Page 18
