“Sorry I’m late, Father. Debbie Feldman.”
One side of his mouth curled. “Not a problem, my dear. God loves the tardy too.”
He held the door open and she stepped into the vestibule. He touched the holy water in the bowl that hung from the wall, blessing himself as she watched.
“I take it you’re not Catholic, dear?”
“Jewish.”
“Beautiful religion. We have something in common—the Old Testament.”
She scratched her head and smoothed disheveled black hair before scribbling a note and pointing to the statue of St. Ambrose.
“Is that the Madonna?”
A smile. “No, dear, that’s our St. Ambrose, a pious and eloquent man. One of the first Doctors of Catholic theology.”
She looked around, pulled the door open to the church proper, and stepped inside.
He moved quickly and caught the door before it closed. “Go right in, my dear. Step right in.”
She was already at the last row of benches, looking toward the faraway altar, then up at the painted ceiling. She turned and looked at the choir, the balcony wall with its carved curves, crenellations, and curlicues, and the bank of gold pipes, a giant pan flute turned on end.
“Very ornate,” she said.
“All to glorify God, my dear. Glory to the Father.”
“Where’d Victor Rodriguez die?”
He folded his hands and closed his eyes. “A beautiful man, Victor. Such a pity. Frightening thing, really.”
“I heard it was up front. Near the altar.”
She set off down the wide main aisle, shoes slapping tile. He hustled to keep up, short legs making the bottom of his cassock dance. He pointed to the windows as he jogged.
“The stained glass, Ms. Feldman. Imported from Germany a hundred years ago. Back before the Germans got caught up in that World War business.” Hesitation. “No need to remind you about that, I imagine.”
She stole a glance at the overhead lights and adjusted the wheel on her camera.
“Invaluable art, Stations of the Cross we call them. Same as the windows in the cathedral at Cologne.”
She slung her behemoth of a pocketbook into a pew and it clunked heavily on the wood.
“First row, right?” she asked. “Which seat?”
He pointed at the seat near the aisle, the last seat Victor Rodriguez ever occupied. She raised the camera and the flash fired, bleaching the wood.
“We usually don’t allow cameras, Ms. Feldman, except for weddings. But I guess this is all right.”
She stood at different angles, shooting the seat in portrait and landscape orientations, near and far.
“Altar’s Italian marble, from the Carrara quarry in Tuscany. Same as St. Peter’s, you know. I’ve always wanted to go there. St. Peter’s I mean, not Tuscany, though I suppose I should visit both.”
She moved next to him, still hunting for the perfect angle to shoot Victor Rodriguez’s dying spot. He caught a whiff of stale coffee and stepped out of her way.
“The church is closing, you know. Heartbreaking for the parishioners, what’s left of them anyway. Cardinal’s trying to convince us to combine with St. Margaret’s over on the west side. Never happen.”
She turned to the altar, aimed quickly, and snapped a single picture.
“I heard.”
“We’re hoping the Archdiocese reconsiders, what with the history and beauty you’ve just seen. I hope you include that in your story. Subtly, of course. No quotes or anything.”
“Which one’s the Madonna?ˮ
He bowed his head, raised an arm weakly, and started toward the side altar. She passed him and stopped. He caught up.
“Would you like to light a candle, Ms. Feldman?”
She stared down at the bank of votive glasses, most of them empty, glass blackened, burnt wicks lying on the bottom. Two contained lit candles, one flickering, threatened by the liquid pool of wax it created. She drew a long taper from a holder, caught flame from the weak candle, and lit a fresh one.
He searched his pocket for change and found none. He placed his empty closed fist on the coin slot of the offertory can and shook the whole thing. The change inside rattled.
“Father, tell me about the miracle.”
“Pardon?”
She looked up at the statue. “When Victor Rodriguez’s body was found, the statue was crying.”
“Who told you that, Ms. Feldman?”
“I heard the tears were red, like blood.” She leaned over the candles to inspect the Madonna, stepped back, and refocused her camera. “I need a picture.”
“Of course.” He stepped in front of the candles and smoothed his robe. One hand on the rail, he lifted his chin the way Mrs. Blodgett had told him to, so neck and jowls were taut.
She lowered the camera. “I meant of the statue.”
He grunted and walked a half circle until he was standing behind her.
“Do you deny the miracle, Father?”
“I like to think miracles happen every day, Ms. Feldman.”
“Not like this one, I think. What action is the Archdiocese taking?”
“You’ll have to ask them, my dear.”
She nodded. “I plan to.”
She retrieved her heavy bag and slung it over the shoulder so it was bouncing on her back as she walked the main aisle. She fished keys and a pack of cigarettes out of it, and clutched them as she elbowed the door to the vestibule. He was close behind, breathing hard.
“Sorry my answers weren’t specific, Ms. Feldman,” he said as they burst through the front door into the sunlight.
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I’m just very discreet, that’s all. Nothing personal. My training, you see. Vows and all that.”
She lit a cigarette and turned to face the church.
“Exactly how long have you been here, Father—at St. Ambrose?”
“Couple of decades.”
She nodded, braced her bag, and skipped down the stairs to her car.
“Seat of the Archdiocese is in Southie now, my dear,” he called. “Be careful. Traffic around South Station is hellacious.”
She slammed her car door and started the ignition. White smoke plumed from the tailpipe. A rev made the pipe shimmy and the muffler blatted like a sour trumpet note. She shifted into gear and drove away.
“Nice girl,” he said to himself in spite of her impoliteness. She hadn’t thanked him for his time and never even bid a proper farewell. No matter. Everyone needed forgiveness for something.
“God bless,” he said to the loud little car that created clouds behind it. “God bless, Ms. Feldman.”
Chapter 15
Conley sat next to William O’Neil’s desk. Outside the office, Morgan’s Tap was alive with customers on a busy Thursday, exhaling smoke tinged with the sweet smell of alcohol.
Drawings lined the walls, large sketches taped to the wood paneling. Conley and Kendricks studied the gallery. Sage and O’Neil studied the detectives.
William pointed at a drawing of a building, a stark, windowless gray box with steps attached. He touched its middle with bent knuckles.
“That’s it, Matt. The Paladin.”
Sage stood, placed her hand on O’Neil’s shoulder, and drew it lovingly across as she passed.
That touch is more than just friendship, Conley thought.
She tapped the top of the portraits. “And these are its members.”
The faces shared the same pose, as if they were staring straight into a photographer’s lens. Names were drawn under each one, beautiful curling titles done in calligraphy. They made the subjects look regal.
“I drew them from memory,” she said. “Thought they might help.ˮ
She continued around the room, palms smoothing some, fingers flicking others, a checkmark of approval.
“Some of these people will help us find out who threatened Victor. Carrie’s one who’ll talk for sure. Others won’t. Some will want to stop us fr
om learning anything.”
“The pictures will definitely help,” Conley said. “So where is the Paladin?”
Sage and O’Neil exchanged glances, as if deciding who would answer.
“We have no idea,” O’Neil said.
“I don’t understand.”
“Victor drove,” she said. “I went only twice, never paid attention to its location.”
“Just ask one of them,” Conley said. He swung his arm at the portraits.
“Victor knew them. I don’t know how to contact any of these people,” Sage said.
“I can find their club,” O’Neil said.
“No, William,” Conley said. “That’s my job.”
Sage sat, crossed her legs, folded her arms, and eyed Conley.
“May I make a suggestion?” O’Neil asked.
“No need,” Conley said. “You’ve been a great help already. Thank you both.”
Amateur hour’s over.
He stood and motioned Kendricks to leave.
“Matt—ˮ
“Forget it, William. We’ll let you know what happens,” Conley said as he and Kendricks shrugged into their jackets and turned to leave.
Sage shook her head and folded her arms.
Chapter 16
That same afternoon, the bell rang outside Conley’s cabin cruiser, and he unzipped the tarp. Sage stood on the dock.
“Sage. Didn’t expect to see you.ˮ He offered a hand to help her aboard. “Come in.”
She stepped onto the deck tentatively, carrying a large sketchpad under her arm, and followed him into the cabin. He checked the thermostat and turned up the propane heater.
“You live on a boat in Seaport Marina in the winter?” she said. “Interesting.”
“Not by choice. My wife and I are separated, but not by much. She got the better end, the condo at the other end of the marina.”
“I made more sketches of the people at the parties. Despite your unwillingness to let him help, William thought I should show them to you.”
Conley let that sleeping dog lie. There was a history there he didn’t care to go into. “What have you got?ˮ
She sat on the bench across from him and opened the pad. The pages were so big they created a breeze when turned. She stopped at a full-faced woman with a tangle of wavy hair, broad nose, and thin lips.
Sage pinched a charcoal pencil between thumb and fingertips, and ran it under the picture’s chin in a U, barely touching the page. Satisfied, she lifted her hand and spoke.
“Carrie’s her name. She knew Victor.”
“She looks sad.”
Sage smiled. “Then I’ve succeeded. That’s the hard part, you know. Making the picture come alive.”
The bubbler hummed under the hull, its prop turning constantly to prevent the bilge from freezing. The propane heater hissed. She turned the page.
A thin-faced man with a devil’s goatee was next. His hair receded on both sides of his forehead, as if making way for horns.
“That’s Liam. Everyone’s scared of him, and they should be. He gets what he wants, doesn’t tolerate bullshit. Gets rough with the girls sometimes. The willing and the unwilling.”
“Is he the one who threatened Victor Rodriguez?”
“I think so.”
She ran the charcoal around Liam’s oval eyes, then looked at Conley’s as if comparing. “Sit down. I need to take your stitches out or they’ll leave scars.ˮ
He sat on the bed. She turned her chair, searched her bag, pulled out scissors and tweezers. She touched his eyebrows, worried the ends of the black stitches, cut them carefully, and pulled them through.
“How long have you and William known each other?” she asked.
“Forever.”
A long pull on the middle stitch. He winced.
“We were pretty close at one time,” he said.
She concentrated on a cut near his eye and rubbed her thumb against a spot as if trying to erase it.
“When we’re young, our heart is like clay. It gets molded from experiences, good and bad. Did you and William have a good relationship?”
“Yes.”
“He seeks your approval.”
He shrugged. “I like William.”
“Then why do you treat him like shit?”
He smiled, eyes shut, lips closed.
“He’s a good man,” she said. “God-fearing, and wise beyond his years. He saved me, rescued me from an empty life.”
“William needs to know there are boundaries, that’s all. He can’t show up in Ocean Park after a decade and think he’s going to be a hero.”
“Right. I see. Because that’s you. You’re the one who’s going to fix things, and he’s getting in your way.”
“That’s not true.”
She broke a capsule and rubbed fluid on the cuts.
“You know what my mother used to say, Conley? Love is not about sex or beauty or tenderness. It’s about being one. Momma said she and my daddy were so in love they could speak without words to each other and see without sight. William and I used to do that.”
“What happened?”
“You showed up. Now all William cares about is helping you. It’s like he owes you a debt, and it’s affecting him and me. We’re distant now.”
A debt? That wasn’t it. Truth was the young William was a runt, often bullied, always teased. Was he ever cowardly? Not that Conley could remember, but that didn’t matter because the seed of mistrust, a lack of confidence, was planted way back—when we were clay—and no amount of war stories could blunt that feeling.
Or is Sage right? Is he getting in my selfish way?
“I’m sorry,” he said. “But I can’t deal with William right now. I know he wants to help. I’ll keep that in mind.”
She tilted her head.
“That’s one of God’s little jokes on us, you know. We’re links in a long, hanging chain. We cling to the loop above us, desperate to be one with them, but the link below hangs on us the same way, and we don’t even notice.”
She smoothed his eyebrow over the red skin.
“Sometimes letting friends help is the hardest thing we do,” she said. “It takes all of our courage.”
A voice called from the dock.
“Everything all right in there, Mister Conley?” Buddy, the busybody marina manager, asked clear and slow.
“Yeah, Buddy. Everything’s okay.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, Buddy. Sage was just leaving.ˮ
Sage stood, tucked the portfolio under her arm, and buttoned her coat. “If you really want to save this city,” she said, “and from what I can see, it needs a lot of help—you’ll need William.”
Conley reached, held her hand still, and spoke.
“I can’t promise that, Sage.”
She sighed.
“That’s God’s other joke, you know. He puts fantasies in our head, windmills. Then He makes us want them so bad we’ll do anything. When we succeed, we wonder why we ever wanted the silly thing, and God laughs so hard even we can hear. Momma used to say that’s called thunder.”
She stepped out onto the deck, and with his help climbed the transom to the dock. She turned.
“Better keep an eye on those cuts, Conley. Your blood seems thin. You’ll probably bleed again.”
Chapter 17
Kendricks shouted Conley’s name from the dock the next morning. Conley lifted the boat cover and peered out. The day was coming hard, the top part of the sun already sitting on the Atlantic horizon like a half-eaten peach. Ice caked the pier and packed the spaces between the deck boards. Spring was only weeks away—hard to believe when Ocean Park was still frozen as the Arctic.
Kendricks whistled. “Your boat?”
Conley grabbed his coat and they headed for Lisa’s condo. “Like it? My wife and I bought it on our anniversary.”
“Not bad. I got a boat too.”
“Stinkpot?”
Kendricks stepped back. “It ain’t no f
ucking albino martini boat like this ark, and I don’t wear alligator golf shirts when I drive it.”
“Don’t take it personal. Stinkpot means power boat. Sailboats are called rag merchants.”
“Oh. Yeah. Well, I got a power boat. My wife and kids say it smells awful bad, so maybe it is a stinkpot after all.”
The steel beams and angled glass of the condo building gleamed in the new sun, which had climbed and cleared the water line by the time they reached the lobby. The walls were decorated with nautical artifacts—brass diving helmet, paintings of sea battles, conch shells in glass cases. They crossed the lobby and stepped into the empty elevator. Floor numbers flashed overhead.
“Martini boat,” Conley said, smiling.
“Seemed to fit the situation.”
The elevator stopped and they stepped into the hallway. Flowers decorated accent tables and fake portholes hung on every door.
Conley fit his key into the lock of his condo, twisted the key, and turned the knob.
Lisa sat at the breakfast table in the silk robe he’d bought her for Christmas, the one she’d been wearing the last time heʼd seen her—the last time theyʼd made love. The French doors behind her framed the harbor.
“Matt, what are you doing here?” She set her coffee cup in its saucer.
“Any coffee left, honey? This is Lloyd Kendricks. We’re working the Rodriguez murder.”
A drawer closed in the bathroom. The toilet flushed.
Conley paused. “Who’s here?”
Before she could answer, Bill McNulty strolled into the living room. He wore Conley’s bathrobe, the white one with the red anchor over the heart.
“Lisa?”
Why?
Didn’t they have a great life together? Why flush all that down a noisy toilet? Why turn your back on someone who loves you so very, very much? The dull ache he felt when he thought about losing her grew into white-hot pain.
Why?
“You’d better go,” McNulty said. He set his skinny shoulders back and spread his hands on the granite kitchen counter.
Kendricks stepped closer. “Talking might be a bad idea right now, Romeo.”
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