Gibbons glared at her. What the hell does she think they do, call ahead? Sure, why not give suspects enough time to get their stories down pat before you get there? The way Cummings figured things, that would be the polite thing to do, and with her, civilized behavior counted for a lot. Jesus, she was an ass.
The girl closed the door and slid the chain off. When she opened it again, Gibbons noticed that she was pregnant—not real pregnant, just starting to show. Her mousy brown hair stood up straight over her forehead, glued that way with that mousse crap these kids all wear. The rest of her hair was an awful-looking rat’s nest. He figured her to be fourteen, maybe fifteen.
“I’ll go get her,” the kid said. She went back through the hall and disappeared into the back of the building.
The smell of wet paint drifted out through the open door. The painter looked like a real halfwit, staring straight ahead at the wall in front of him, rolling over the same strip, up and down, up and down, not going back to the pan for more paint, not moving on to a new spot, just moving that roller up and down, up and down.
Gibbons knew Cummings was waiting for him to say something about the guy. He wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction.
“So where’s Tozzi today?” she said.
Gibbons shrugged. “I dunno.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t bring him along. Having seen how he deals with the mentally disturbed, I can’t imagine what he’d do to a nun.”
Gibbons raised his eyebrows and shrugged. He wasn’t gonna say a word.
“Or is he too preoccupied with that girl now?”
“What girl?”
“That young girl, the one on TV.”
Gibbons knit his brows and deliberately looked puzzled.
“Stacy Viera.”
Gibbons grinned. He knew who Cummings was talking about; he just wanted to hear her say Stacy’s name. She and Lorraine had been referring to Stacy as “that young girl” ever since they met her at the hospital.
“So? Is he still seeing Stacy?”
Gibbons shrugged. “I dunno what Tozzi does on his own time.”
But it wouldn’t take too much imagination.
Cummings frowned. “You may not realize it, but Lorraine is pretty upset about this. She thinks her cousin is just leading Stacy on.”
Gibbons shrugged again. “The girl’s over twenty-one … I think.”
“Age has nothing to do with it. It’s Tozzi’s attitude. You can see it in his face. He thinks of Stacy as his personal pinup girl.”
“Did he tell you that?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know that’s the way he feels about her? Maybe he respects her for her mind.”
Cummings folded her arms and looked over her glasses. “Not likely.”
“You’re just assuming he’s up to no good. But you don’t know for sure. And neither does Lorraine.”
“I’m not assuming anything. What I see is a special agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation carrying on with a television personality of some local repute whose popularity is based on her sex appeal and implied lasciviousness. This association does not fit in with the circumspect image the Bureau expects from its personnel. And I’m not entirely sure Tozzi has the moral fiber to keep his relationship with Stacy from becoming a serious embarrassment to the Bureau.”
Gibbons bit the insides of his cheeks before he cursed. “How would you know what kind of ‘moral fiber’ Tozzi has?”
“I’ve seen the great qualms he had in belittling Sal Immordino. Dating Stacy doesn’t seem to pose much of dilemma for him. I realize Tozzi’s your friend, but face it, he’s an oral personality. He takes what he wants when he wants it with little regard for others.”
“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
Cummings pointed at the backward words painted on the glass in the front door: The Mary Magdalene Home for Unwed Mothers. “Places like this exist because of people who can’t control their wants and desires.”
“You saying Tozzi would knock Stacy up and then abandon her? Is that what you’re saying?”
If Tozzi did, he’d kill him.
Cummings closed her eyes and shrugged. “I’m not saying he would. I don’t really know him well enough to state a professional opinion. But the potential for unacceptable behavior exists in every personality.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She held her chin and studied him for a moment. “Your adamant defense of your partner couldn’t stem from a vicarious thrill you’re getting out of Tozzi’s relationship with Stacy, could it? Armchair quarterbacking in a psychosexual sense?”
Gibbons ground his molars. “Save the psychology for the real nuts, okay?” Bitch.
“Very bad. This is very bad.”
They both stared at the painter as he kept rolling over that same spot. He was shaking his head and mumbling to himself, eyes glued to the wall.
“This is bad.” The guy didn’t seem to know they were there.
Suddenly Sister Cil appeared, swooping down the hallway like Batman. She was wearing the heavy-duty habit, the black one that went down to her ankles. A bad sign. She usually wore the more modern version, the knee-length skirt and the little headpiece that showed her hairline. Gibbons knew that when she wore this getup, she was going to be filled with the spirit of the Lord her God, which meant she’d evade all his questions and stonewall it.
The nun stopped by the painter and admired his work, then took his arm and moved the roller a foot to the right. “Very good, Donald. Now try using some more paint.”
Sister Cil swooshed toward the door to greet them in a flurry of black cloth, head-tilted smiles, and glinting glasses. The Catholic caped crusader. Gibbons could understand why people who went to parochial school never get over the experience.
“Agent Gibbons, how are you?”
“You remember me.”
“Of course I remember you.” She turned her high beams on Cummings. “And you are…?”
“Madeleine Cummings. I’m also with the FBI.”
The nun nodded and smiled. At what, no one knew.
“I apologize for just showing up like this, Sister”—Cummings glanced sideways at Gibbons—“but my partner insisted. We’d just like to ask you a couple of questions, if you can spare a few moments.”
“Of course, of course. Come into the parlor. And watch out for the wet paint.”
The caped crusader led the way to the front room off the hallway. It was a dark, dingy room with big bay windows covered with heavy drapes drawn halfway. Rather than taking advantage of the daylight, the room had ice cube-tray fluorescent fixtures buzzing on the ceiling. These walls needed a paint job even more than the hallway, but the way their painter was going, it was gonna be a while.
Three worn, mismatched sofas were arranged around the old brownstone’s white marble mantelpiece. A television set was inside the fireplace. The kid who’d answered the door was sitting on the sofa closest to the TV, engrossed in a soap opera. Another kid, an out-of-the-bottle blonde with a rat’s nest of her own, was sitting next to her, holding an infant. Gibbons could only see the baby’s legs because his head was under his mother’s oversized T-shirt, sucking away. Neither of the girls paid any attention to the visitors. The soap was more important.
“Please sit down.” Sister Cil indicated the green brocade sofa directly opposite the two kids.
Gibbons caught Cummings staring at him again. She thought she could read his mind. She was probably thinking he was getting all bent out of shape because the kid was breast-feeding over there. He didn’t give a shit. You couldn’t see anything anyway—just a little bit of her bare belly and the baby kicking his legs, having a ball under there. It was no big deal. What the hell did she think he was gonna do? Throw a blanket over them? Make the kid leave the room? Christ, the poor girl’s life was miserable enough. Let her have her soaps in peace.
&n
bsp; Sister Cil sat with her hands clasped in her lap. “So how have you been, Mr. Gibbons?”
“Fine, Sister. Fine.” Gibbons watched for signs of sarcasm in her relentlessly pleasant demeanor. He and Tozzi were the ones who had arrested her brother in Atlantic City two years ago. She knew he was here to ask about Sal.
“And how is Mr. Tozzi doing these days?”
Gibbons nodded. “He’s fine.”
“I take it he’s not your partner anymore. You’re with Agent Cummings now?”
Gibbons and Cummings answered together. “Temporarily.”
“Oh.” Sister Cil smiled and nodded. “Before we get to your business, may I ask you something, Ms. Cummings?”
“Yes?”
“Now, you don’t have to give me an answer right this moment, but I would be terribly grateful if you could come back some evening and speak to the girls. They have so few good role models, and I think meeting a successful woman from the real world would make a big difference to some of them.” Sister Cil nodded in the direction of the two kids zoned out on the other couch.
On TV, a rich-bitch blonde was huffing and puffing around an office, talking down to her little brunette secretary. The blonde seemed to be warning the brunette about seeing some guy, saying it wasn’t “very smart” for her to be seen with him. The brunette cowered a lot and had a good “distressed” face. The blonde acted mainly with her shoulders. The kids were riveted.
The nun sighed. “I wish I could afford more stimulating diversions for the girls than this trash. But I suppose I should be grateful that we even have a television. Money has always been a problem for us, but donations are down and it’s become particularly difficult.”
Cummings turned from the soap opera back to Sister Cil adjusting her glasses. “Media images are very problematic for adolescents. Young women seem to be especially vulnerable to misleading messages, particularly those concerning idealized concepts of romance. These messages have largely become the operating subtext of most commercial television programming. Young women become so eager for the kind of glamorous romance they see in the media, they become easy prey for manipulative men.” She adjusted her glasses again and looked Gibbons in the eye.
Gibbons rubbed his jaw, looked at the ceiling, and sighed. Give me a break, will ya?
Sister Cil laid her hand on her chest and pursed her lips. “You are so right, Ms. Cummings. I hear virtually the same thing from every young woman I talk to. They want to be loved so badly that they will submit themselves to any boy who shows them the slightest bit of attention. Men seem to have an animal instinct when it comes to finding girls like this. They seem to be able to smell them. I’m sure they’re not evil people, because they must be subject to equally distorting influences of their own. But when it comes to innocent young girls, men do become sinful. It may be nature’s way, but it’s not right.” Cil was all choked up by the time she finished her little spiel.
“This is bad. Very bad! Very bad!”
The painter wasn’t facing the wall. He was staring at Cil, his face crumpled and fretting, a lot more distressed than that brunette on TV. He reached into his pocket and took out a set of rosary beads, black wooden ones. He was getting paint on them. “This is bad! Very bad!”
Cil shot up off the sofa and went to him, putting her arms around his shoulders to comfort him, shushing him and telling him it was all right, it was all right. He grazed her skirt with the roller and left a pale yellow smudge. She plucked the roller out of his hand and set it down in the tray on the floor. “Come with me, dear. It’s time for a break. Maybe Lucy will make you a cup of tea. How does that sound? A nice cup of tea.” She led him through a doorway to the back of the house, his agitated mumbling trailing behind. “This is bad. Very bad! Very bad!”
The kids on the couch hadn’t moved. They were still glued to the set. The baby under the blonde’s shirt had stopped kicking.
When Gibbons turned back, he caught Cummings staring at him again. “You may as well say it,” she said. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“How the hell do you know what I’m thinking?”
She smirked. “Come on. I know what you think of people like that man. You’re prejudiced against people who have problems.”
“I didn’t say a word.”
“You don’t have to. It’s all over your face.”
Gibbons looked at the ceiling and bit his upper lip. Working with her was like having a goddamn wife on the job. Even Lorraine wouldn’t be this bad. He raised his finger and was just about to tell Cummings off when Sister Cil swooped back into the room and resettled herself on the sofa, rearranging the folds of her habit to cover the paint smudge.
“I apologize for the outburst,” she said, clasping her hands in her lap again. “He’s a very sweet man, but certain things upset him without warning. I’m afraid with my dwindling budget, we can’t afford to hire professional help.” She broke out into a beatific smile. “But the paint is very good quality and it was a donation. That’s something to be thankful for.” She bowed her head. Amen.
Gibbons smiled and nodded, wanting to stick his finger down his throat. “Speaking of money, Sister, that’s something I want to ask you about.” He sat forward and leaned toward her. “From what I understand, you run this place on your own, and the diocese doesn’t provide you with any funding. Is that correct?”
Cil nodded, her glasses glinting. “Yes, this is a private charity.”
“Why’s that? Wouldn’t you do better hitching your wagon to the diocese? In terms of funding, I mean.”
The nun tilted her head and paused for a moment before she answered. “Yes and no. We would receive money from the diocese if we chose to be under their auspices, but we would also be subject to their scrutiny as well.”
“Is there anything wrong with that?”
“Well, Mr. Gibbons, you must understand that I greatly admire Archbishop Leahy. He is truly a wonderful human being, and it’s my opinion that the policies of his administration do not reflect his own personal feelings of Christian love and charity. But there are certain people in the diocese who are not hospitable to my goals here at Mary Magdalene. They feel that the work we carry on here is better done by secular social service agencies, and that we are—well, frankly, they don’t feel that we’re necessary. The thrust of the diocese’s efforts today is education—which is a worthwhile goal, I don’t argue with that. What I do find objectionable is their implied policy that some people are beyond the Church’s concern, that when a young girl makes a grave mistake, she should be thrown on the scrap heap and left to the uncertainties of the secular agencies.”
“In other words, the diocese would shut you down.”
The nun tilted her head a bit more. She looked like a mynah bird, all black and just as vague, searching for one of her memorized phrases. “The diocese might do that, yes. If we took money from them.”
“So where does your funding come from?” Cummings asked.
Gibbons almost dropped dead. For once, Cummings was being helpful.
“Mostly private donations.”
“And have these donations been able to sustain you here, Sister?”
The beatific smile returned, more radiant than before. “We get by, Ms. Cummings. The past couple of years have been difficult for us, but God provides.”
Gibbons pulled on his lower lip. “How about your brother Sal? Does he help you out?”
The saintly smile dimmed as the corners of Cil’s mouth drooped. Her eyeglasses flashed. “How do you mean, Mr. Gibbons?”
“Up until two years ago, your brother was involved with several lucrative business enterprises. He must’ve socked away a nice little bundle. I would think Sal would be your guardian angel.”
“My brother has never had any ‘business enterprises,’ Mr. Gibbons. He is a very ill man. He has very few assets of his own.”
“Yeah, that’s what they tell me, but I find that hard to believe. We do kno
w that he has at least one numbered bank account in Switzerland and a holding company in Panama.”
Cil’s back stiffened. “Oh, really?”
Gibbons puckered his lips and nodded. “Really.”
“I think you’re mistaken, Mr. Gibbons. I am my brother’s legal guardian, so I know what he has. About fifteen thousand dollars that came from an inheritance. I put that money into long-term certificates of deposit for him in order to earn the highest interest rate available.”
Gibbons just stared at her and let it get uncomfortable, the overwrought dialogue from the soap opera filling the room. “How about we level with each other now, okay, Sister?”
The nun looked puzzled. She was good at looking puzzled. Gibbons had seen that face plenty of times. It was especially good when she was in custody. Sister Cil had been there that night they arrested Sal in Atlantic City. She looked real puzzled in handcuffs.
Gibbons tried to see her eyes past the glare in her glasses. Fifteen grand, my ass. Sal had to have more cash than that to hire a shooter.
“Lying is a sin, Sister. Even when you’re trying to protect your own brother.”
“I don’t lie, Mr. Gibbons. You should know that.” Her mouth was a short, flat line.
“This place has really gone downhill since the last time I was here. About two years ago, just before Sal was arrested. Could it be, Sister, that this appearance of poverty is all for show? Like Sal’s supposed mental illness?”
She was seething, but keeping a lid on it. “I can assure you, Mr. Gibbons, that I would not subject these young women to any degree of hardship if I had the means to afford better. As I said, Sal has the certificates of deposit, and we maintain a small joint savings account—not quite two thousand dollars—which we agreed to use only for dire emergencies. I can show you all the papers.”
“Hmmm…” Gibbons nodded. “When you say that you and your brother agreed to use this savings account only for dire emergencies, does that mean you discussed it with him?”
“I informed him, Mr. Gibbons. You know he’s not capable of understanding such matters. He’s a very ill man.” Her glasses were beaming death rays.
5 Bad Moon Page 14
