by Baxter Clare
The father offered a patronizing smile. “I dare to say our callings are vastly different.”
“How so?”
“No disrespect, Detective, but I don’t think being a policeman compares to devoting your life to God.”
“Maybe so,” Annie said into his gaze. “Still and all, an epiphany’s a pretty powerful thing, huh?”
“It is indeed.”
Annie continued, “An epiphany sets you on a path and you move ahead. You grow from that moment on and move out from the epiphany. You don’t keep clinging to the moment. Pardon my language, but it’s like getting a kick in the pants. It pushes you forward. It doesn’t keep you tied to the past.”
The father blinked.
A lock of hair fell across Annie’s eyes and she tossed it back, asking, “How old were you when Franco was killed?”
“I was seventeen.”
“Where’d you live?”
“Lower East Side.”
“Whereabouts?”
“Delancey Street.”
“That’s a rough neighborhood. A lotta kids don’t make it out.”
“I take no credit for it. God gave me the strength and the faith to succeed.”
“Where did you go to school?”
“Seward Park.”
“Are you a diocesan priest?”
He nodded once.
“That must keep you pretty busy.”
“The Lord’s work is never done.”
“Amen,” Annie replied, crossing herself quickly.
“You’re Catholic?” he asked.
“For all of my fifty-four years.” Annie smiled. “Father, I know you’re busy, but if I could trouble you with just a few more questions, what exactly was it you heard your neighbors talking about the morning after Mr. Franco was murdered.”
He waved a hand as if chasing a fly from his face. “Talk. That a man was stabbed while walking home on Ninth Street. What a shame it was. What sort of place were they living in where a man loses his life for three dollars. That kind of talk. Nothing concrete. Just the idle chatter of women and old men.”
Annie said, “Well, thank you, Father. I’m sorry we’ve taken so much of your time.” She slipped him a card. “If anything comes to mind, maybe you could give us a call, huh?”
Cammayo read the card. “Of course.”
Heading out the door Annie stopped to ask one more question. “Father”—she smiled—“pardon my ignorance, but why do you burn a Nino de Atocha candle at the grave?”
She and the father locked eyes. A small smile tipped his lips. “Much of my work is related to prison ministry. Saint Nino de Atocha, my child, is of course the patron saint of prisoners. And as I told you, I get much of my inspiration at Mr. Franco’s grave.”
Appearing satisfied, Annie said, “Thanks again for your time, Father.”
She and Frank didn’t speak until they were back in the car.
“Don’t forget the Nova,” Frank told her.
“Right.”
“What do you think?”
“What do I think? I think it’s funny that considering the Lord’s work is never done Father Cammayo makes time every two weeks to visit the grave of a stranger dead thirty-six years. I think that dog’s not runnin’ on all fours.”
“It’s kinda odd.”
Checking traffic over her shoulder, Annie said, “I think we need to do a little background on the padre.”
CHAPTER 37
“Hey. It’s Frank. Just wanted to say hi. I’ll try you later.”
Frank wondered where Gail was on a Saturday evening. Her jealous streak itched but she didn’t scratch it. Instead she reached for her journal. She got a paragraph written before Gail called back.
“Hi. I got your message. How are you?”
“Okay. How’bout you?”
“I had a lovely day. Trina’s here and we went for a walk on the beach and had a scrumptious dinner. It was really nice.”
Trina was Gail’s sister and Frank answered, “How long’s she staying?”
“Just tonight. She’s going home tomorrow.”
“I’m glad you took a whole day off. You’re not working too hard.”
“I know. I’ve got a stack of paperwork I brought home and I’ll get to it tomorrow but today I played. How about you? Are you about frozen to death?”
“Yeah. Ready to come home and thaw out.”
“When’s that going to be?”
“I’m not sure. I got a bite today.”
“You’re kidding!”
“No. The mystery visitor turned out to be a goddamned priest. Imagine my surprise. Didn’t know I could still be surprised. Anyway, I tailed him to this church and called Annie. We lost him while I was waiting for her to show but a secretary gave us his address. We tracked him down—Annie did all the talking—but his story sounds pretty hinky. Some bullshit about how my father’s murder changed his life. It was an epiphany for him and he’s never forgotten.”
“Well, how did he know your father?”
“He didn’t. The man was a total stranger to him. He claims he heard about it the morning after it happened and he went and visited the spot and practically ascended. His story holds water like a leaky bucket. Annie and I went back to the precinct and worked the computers for a couple hours. Nothing unusual apart from the fact that he is Monsignor Roberto Cammayo.”
Frank summarized from the notes she’d been jotting down in her notebook.
“Born nineteen fifty-three, in Colon, Panama. Mother Rosalia Pretto, father Romeo Cammayo. Mother’s remarried. Name’s Calderon. The guy does prison ministry so there was a lot of DOJ background on him. He was arrested twice for public protest. Has a sister with a rap sheet half a mile long, mostly prostitution and possession. Sister’s name is Alvarez. Flora Alvarez. Last known address was Baruch Houses, where the mother lives. So guess where I’m going tomorrow. Of all the places to live in Manhattan she’s got to live there.”
“What’s Baruch Houses?”
“The last place my mom and I lived.”
“Oh.”
“Anyway, the padre’s story smells. He spends an inordinate amount of time paying homage to a thirty-six-year-old memory.
Just doesn’t make sense, so we’ll pump the mother tomorrow. See what she remembers.” Frank reached for the bottle of Perrier by her bed. “Another thing. Why would my dad’s death in particular stand out? This was the seventies. The city was in the middle of a huge crime wave. People getting killed—especially where Cammayo lived—would have been an everyday thing. So why the sudden epiphany for a murder that one, he didn’t even witness? Supposedly. Two, for a man he didn’t even know? A complete stranger. And three, my dad was popped up on Ninth Street. If Cammayo was living down on Delancey at the time, like he claims, then that’s not even his neighborhood. It all stinks like a week-old fish. I’m not buying it. I don’t know what he’s hiding but we’ll figure it out.”
“Well, it’s great you have a lead.”
“Yeah. It is.”
“You don’t sound happy about it.”
“No, I am. It’s just… weird. Standing in this guy’s apartment and listening to him talk about my dad. I felt like I was watching a movie I’d already seen. I gotta admit I’m a little numb. It was exciting following him, but it’s still weird. Half of me really hopes he knows something but the other half wishes this would all go away. Half the time I’m sorry I opened this whole can of worms, then half the time I can’t wait to dig deeper. Guess the cop and the daughter in me are duking it out.”
“Who’s winning?”
“I don’t know. Doesn’t matter, I guess. Either way, it won’t bring him back. Even if Cammayo did it, even if he turns out to be a hope-to-die junkie turned priest who killed my father, it still won’t bring him back. Nothing can ever change that and I still hate that.
“I guess that’s the bottom line. I hate all this. And I want to find the hype that started all this shit and make him hurt, too. Priest or not. Wh
oever he is I want him to hurt as bad as I do.” Frank sighed. “But I know hurting him won’t fix the hole my dad left. Nothing can change that. So then I start arguing, why am I doing this if nothing’s going to change? I can’t fix all those years without him so what the hell’s the point? Then Lieutenant Franco chimes in—‘It’s the law. Justice. Man committed a murder he should be caught and punished. The fact you can’t bring your father back is irrelevant. It’s a matter of law and order. Period.’ I just wish it were that simple. Sorry. I’m rambling.”
“You’re right. You’ve become practically loquacious since you quit drinking.”
“Ah, there’s my English professor. What’s loquacious mean?”
“Talkative.”
“Ah. Sorry.”
“No, I like it much better than your characteristic reticence. That means silence.”
“I knew that one.” Frank smiled at the wall.
“I like it a lot. I like knowing what’s going on in your head. It makes me feel like you trust me enough to tell me. I hated when you were drinking and you’d just shut down. I always felt so left out.”
“I know. You were. Everybody was. Including me.”
“So talkative is much better.”
“Good. ‘Cause that’s what I’ve got to learn to do. Talk, talk, talk. I’ve even started a journal. Can you believe it?”
Gail laughed. “No, I can’t. My God, you really are changing.”
“I’m trying, doc. Trying like hell.”
“Well, it sounds like you’re doing a wonderful job. Tell me more.”
“Let’s see.” Frank stretched on the bed, reveling in Gail’s voice. “It’s been a helluva couple weeks. For that matter, a helluva last six months. I wonder what I’d be doing right now if I hadn’t called Joe that night.”
“I can guarantee you wouldn’t be talking to me.”
“Or sleeping in a cop’s guest room in New York, and certainly not tracking down leads in my father’s murder. It still sounds weird saying that. My father’s murder. It’s almost like having an out-of-body experience. I think I’m still kind of numb around it. And that’s okay. I need some distance to be able to do this. But you know what? I didn’t call to hear my own voice. Tell me about Gail.”
“Gail’s all right. It’s nice to see Trina. I miss her. I should take a weekend off and go up to my mom’s to see everybody.”
“You should. It’d be good for you to get out of the morgue and spend more time in the fresh air. How much of that shit can you breathe before it gets to you?”
“Oh, come on. I’m lucky if I spend a couple hours in there. You know I’m always in a meeting or at the university or in my office. I’d love to be in there more.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re not. Can’t be good for you.”
“Hey, congratulations. When did you get your medical degree?”
“Same time you went into stand-up comedy.” Gail laughed, making Frank smile again. “Think when I get home you can squeeze me in for dinner? Sometime between your day job and your night job?”
“I’ll check my schedule,” Gail assured.
“You do that. Let me know.”
“I will.”
To postpone hanging up, Frank asked how Gail’s co-workers were, her boss, even her cats. When the clock on the nightstand flicked to midnight, she said, “I’d love to talk to you all night but I should let you get back to Trina.”
“Yeah. We’re going to watch a video. Romantic comedy. You’d hate it. You should get to bed. It’s late there.”
“Yeah, I know. See you when I get home?”
“You bet. Get some sleep, copper. Good luck tomorrow.”
“Thanks. Say hi to Trina for me.” There was a pause at Gail’s end. Frank had seen the women in Gail’s family close ranks around each other and she guessed they hadn’t been happy about Frank dumping Gail. “Or don’t,” she added.
“Yeah. Maybe later.”
“Right. Well, have fun.”
“Okay,” Gail answered softly. “Sleep tight.”
Frank hung up, too wired to sleep. She paced the small room, sipping Perrier and pausing to write in her notebook or check her father’s file. In between, she tried not to read too much into why Gail wouldn’t say hi to Trina for her.
CHAPTER 38
After Annie went swimming on Sunday morning she and Frank headed for the Baruch Houses. Frank asked, “Was that true what you told Cammayo yesterday, about wantin’ to be a cop?”
Annie offered a crooked grin. “Let’s just say I went to Brooklyn College and one day there was a car crash out front, okay?”
Frank tried not noticing the familiar sights outside her window. “So why did you?”
“Steady paycheck. Good benefits. Good pension. Somethin’ different happenin’ everyday. You?”
“Same,” Frank fibbed.
Crossing Canal Street Annie asked, “You ever been in Baruch?”
Frank nodded.
“It’s the largest public housing project in Manhattan. Got twenty-four hundred apartments.”
“I know.”
“How do you—? Don’t tell me you lived in Baruch, too.”
“Last two years of high school.”
“Where else?”
“That’s all. East Village, to Masaryk, to Baruch.”
Annie went quiet and Frank liked it that way. Her eyes skimmed the skyline, refusing to dip to street level. Even after Annie parked Frank averted her gaze.
“What?”
“What, what?” Frank countered.
“Whaddaya lookin’ for up there?”
“Nothin’.” Frank got out. She let Annie lead the way even though nothing had changed in twenty-seven years.
A man in torn clothes started toward the detectives. Recognizing the car and making them for cops he retreated. The women climbed to the fourth floor and found the apartment they wanted.
“You okay?”
“Peachy.”
Annie shrugged and rapped hard on the metal door.
“Who is it?”
“Police.”
“Police?”
“NYPD. Open the door.”
There was grumbling but after a series of locks tripped, a thin, ashen-skinned woman opened the door. Unkempt and red-eyed, she bounced in her own skin. A crackhead.
Holding her ID out, Annie asked, “Rosalia Calderon?”
“She ain’t here.”
“Are you Flora Alvarez?”
“Yeah.”
“Can we come in a minute?”
“For what?”
“We’d like to ask you some questions.”
“I ain’t done nothin’!”
“Not about you. About an old homicide, when you would have been about five.”
“Five?” came the shouted reply. “Don’t know nothin’ ‘bout no homicide when I be five.”
“You might be surprised how much you remember. Can we come in?”
“I don’t know.” The woman looked over her shoulder, pulling at a twist of hair. From inside the apartment a television and a radio blared.
“I promise we’ll only be a minute.”
Flora pulled the door open.
“Do you live here?”
“Don’t it look like it?”
As Frank took in the blankets on the couch, empty Rheingold cans and full ashtray, Annie asked, “How long have you lived here, Miss Alvarez?”
Flora raised a hand over the floor. “Since I was dis big.”
“Would you have been livin’ here in nineteen sixty-nine?”
Struggling to make the calculations, Flora finally agreed, “Yeah, I’d a been here.”
“Who else was living here then?”
“My mother. My father was dead. He was a electrician. He got shocked to death when I was four. My brothers woulda been here.” She scowled, reaching for a cigarette. “Pablo woulda still been here. Maybe. No,” she decided, lighting her smoke and inhaling deeply. “He be gone by then. I remember he l
eft in winter.”
“Who’s Pablo?”
“My brother.”
“How many brothers do you have?”
“Two. Well, three, maybe. I don’t know.”
“You don’t know how many brothers you have?”
Alvarez scratched under her hairline. “Pablo he took off in ‘sixty-nine and we ain’t seen him since.”
“Why’d he take off?”
Alvarez shrugged. “Berto said a dealer be lookin’ for him and he had to go. Owed the man lotta money is the story I always heard.”
“Who’s Berto?”
“Roberto. Roberto and Edmundo my brothers.”
“You’re sure Pablo took off in ‘sixty-nine?”
“Yeah.”
“And it was winter?”
Alvarez bobbed her head without hesitation. “Pablo had his own bed and when he left, I got one of his blankets.”
Annie and Frank looked at each other.
“And no one’s heard from him since?”
Alvarez blew smoke. “That boy prob’ly been dead a long time now.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He a junkie,” the woman stated wistfully. “A junkie ain’t long for this world.”
Alvarez’s foot bounced and between drags she beat a steady tap-tap-tap with her cigarette on the ashtray.
Frank told her, “Describe Pablo for us. The last time you saw him.”
“That was a long time ago,” Alvarez answered, gazing back into the past.
“Try. How tall was he?”
“Taller than Berto, by a little. Skinny. He was always skinny but he got skinnier after the junk. He wunt light like me. He was dark, like our daddy. And handsome, too. Before the junk, I remember dat. He used to swing me ‘round ‘til I be dizzy. He made me laugh. He made me a doll once. Outta wood. He liked to carve things. I remember dat. He be always carving some’tin’. He was nice. I liked Pablo.”
“How much older than you was he?”
The question confounded Alvarez. Her face frizzled up. “I don’t know. Maybe twelve, t’irteen years.”
