Enzo eyes the homeless guy perched outside on one of the wrought-iron chairs and asks, “He with you?”
“Yes he is Enzo. No problem right?”
“Oh, no, no problem signorina, no problem. Wait outside, Cate, I bring to you.”
He goes back to making food, glancing out the window at Bo and shaking his head. Italian compassion begins with food and Enzo is a compassionate guy. When he special-delivers my order I note with satisfaction that there's extra cheese, mushrooms, and sausage piled high on Bo's slices. He treats Bo the same as he treats all his customers, telling him to “Mangia! Mangia! Enjoy”.
We eat in companionable silence. Bo hunches over his food as if he’s protecting it. Life on the streets. It can happen to anyone; no one is immune from being destitute no matter how smug we might be about it never happening to us.
Enzo’s attracts a diverse clientele. Women and men in tailored suits from the upper echelons of business mingle freely and easily with construction workers, traffic cops, and mothers with kids in strollers. It’s getting crowded; there are no tables inside and people are scoping out the outdoor tables, grabbing free ones quickly. A man, dressed in a polo shirt and faded jeans, politely asks me if we need the extra chair at our table and I shake my head no. Bo suddenly looks up from his hunched position and says to the man,
“Hi Father Pat.”
“Bo! Hello, I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you. How are you? We miss seeing you at St. Mike’s. Come and visit when you can.”
He looks at me and extends a hand. “I’m Patrick Evans from St. Michael and All Angels Church.”
“Cate Harlow,” I say shaking his hand. “You’re a priest?”
“Yes.” Then seeing me look at his shirt he smiles. “With the work I do, I don’t dress the part. People are more willing to accept me if I blend in.”
“I have to agree with that. I’m a private investigator. Blending in is key in my business too.”
He doesn't look surprised, just says, “Then we both know about putting people at ease. I try to provide a comfortable place where people can come and have coffee, doughnuts, and just talk. Kind of like going to a friend’s house, no formalities involved. Sometimes, a place to go is all you need to get through the hard parts of life.”
Turning to Bo he says, “Let me know if you need anything, okay? And don’t be a stranger. I’m always there to talk with you and your friends.” Before he leaves to go sit at another table where someone is waiting for him, he shakes my hand again. “Nice to have met you Cate.”
Bo has finished his second slice and is eyeing half of my sub. I hand it over to him. He takes a piece of newspaper from his pants pocket, folds the half sandwich in it, and stuffs it inside his jacket. “For later,” he says. I get up, throw away the trash from our lunch, and tell Bo I’m heading back to my office. He grabs his windshield cleaner and spray bottle and follows me. After a few minutes he asks me out of the blue,
“Do you like priests?”
“I like good people, it doesn’t matter who or what they are.”
“My friend, he don’t like priests.”
“Oh? Why’s that?” I ask.
“Yeah, he don’t come to St. Mike's. Once, somebody cut him real bad on the arm with a box-cutter. I said, go see Father Pat at the church; he’ll fix it up! But he wouldn’t go. It got infected.”
“Why wouldn’t he go?”
“He don’t like priests, he says he hates them. Maybe some priest hit him once when he was a kid. Just smashed him hard in the mouth, maybe.”
I’m used to Bo’s mixed thinking processes. I know he likes to talk to me since most people try to avoid him so I just ask questions or make comments to keep the conversational ball rolling along.
“What happened to your friend?”
“Maybe he died. No, no. Or maybe he went to Mexico. I don’t see him much no more.”
I don’t ask when Bo last saw his friend; he gets confused with details and time sequence. Instead I ask, “Do you still go to St. Mike’s?”
“Naw, they got some lady from the health place there. I don’t want no blood test like she said I should get.”
“I think you should go back. A blood test is no big deal.”
He just shakes his head no, so I drop that part of our small conversation.
I think about his friend who doesn’t like priests. It is possible that he was smacked by a priest as a kid.. Will once told me that a priest hit him hard in the back of the head because he talked during Mass. His mother Francesca was incensed. Besides reaming the priest out in front of a Rosary Society luncheon, she had her prominent name and her generous donations, removed from the rectory’s lists and began attending an Episcopal church two blocks away. No one, Will said laughingly, messed with Francesca, the mother lion.
Maybe some priest did clock Bo’s friend. But then again, I think, it’s equally possible that this friend has other reasons for hating priests. It might be a good idea to speak with him. I never discount anyone in an investigation.
“Bo, if you ever see your friend again, can you let me know? I’d like to talk to him.”
“Okay, but I don’t see him never.”
“If you do see him, let me know.” I give him a ten-dollar bill and he nods.
“Can he get pizza too?” Bo asks me. “Me and him?”
“Sure.”
“Yeah, I think he likes pizza. I hope he’s not in Mexico or someplace.”
We continue walking until we come to Bo's spot where he cleans windshields. This is where we part company. He takes up his position waiting for the light to change and cars to slow down so he can walk over to spray the windshields and hope for some money. Just before he rushes over to a stopped car he says to me, “Me, I like priests. I was an altar boy.”
Chapter 14
Marie isn’t in my office when I return. Myrtle tells me that she wanted to go home just in case.
“She feels that maybe if she’s at home her brother might miraculously come to the front door. Since I don’t believe in miracles, I don’t think that's a possibility.” Myrtle looks at me and shakes her head. “You have to feel sorry for her, poor child. I sat with her until she was calm and we talked for a while. She’s an intelligent girl who has seen her life come to an abrupt stand still ten years ago through no fault of her own. I was glad that someone was coming to pick her up here so at least she’s not alone.”
“Someone picked her up here?”
“Yes. I’m assuming it’s the same person who dropped her off.”
“Did you meet the person who came for her?”
“No, she was looking out the window and when she saw the car pull up, she left. She must have texted him. I believe he had business elsewhere in the city.”
“Him?”
“Yes, him, thank goodness. A man she met at a community center barbecue. I think she said his name was David. I hope he can take her mind off of her problems, at least for a while. Right now she needs distraction.”
“Distraction and a good private detective.”
“You are a good private detective, you always tell your clients that you’re very good at what you do, and you are. I believe in you. You’ll be able to help her.”
“Fingers crossed, Myrtle, I certainly hope so. This guy David must be the one for whom she was defrosting the roast.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“She’s got a date, Myrtle. Probably the first guy she’s entertained in years. She’s making him dinner tomorrow night.”
“Yes, well, I hope he appreciates it.”
“Me too. It looked like a good roast.”
“I meant,” says Myrtle, peering over the top of her glasses at me, “that I hope he appreciates the fact that she’s making dinner for him.”
“Right, that too.” I sigh.
Thinking about Marie’s date tomorrow night makes me remember my own dinner date with Will and his mother Francesca. I still have no idea what I’ll be wearing. The double duty
of my cold case and my unofficial involvement in Will’s murder cases have left me little time to actually plan for Saturday night. I need to look really good and to be on guard for Francesca’s little innuendoes and hints about reuniting with Will. I need to give Melissa a call later. Right now I'm on my way to Marie’s house to check the area around her mailbox.
****
Having found no evidence that was of any use at Marie’s house and frustrated by leads going nowhere and traffic snarls, I decide to take a break and clear my head. I call Melissa from my car and ask if she was busy. It’s just after three and I need some retail therapy. She immediately agrees, tells me we can have a late dinner back at her brownstone, and asks me to pick her up when I get back to the city. Just for a few hours I need to be a woman with no thoughts other than finding the right outfit and getting some much needed girl-friendship.
On the drive to the boutique, without giving her any specifics, I mentioned the third murdered priest.
“I know all about it and so does the whole tri-state area. Darling, it was all over the news! It’s a hot topic. A Catholic priest not only murdered but mutilated. How medieval can you get? This clergy murder is trending on the Internet. If Will doesn’t have some answers soon he’ll be on the slippery slope to hell.” Melissa’s laugh is soft and tinkling.
“Great. Poor Will. The archbishop doesn’t like him as it is. He’d send him to hell in an instant if he had the power.”
That prompted a discussion about a course she took on world religions.
“Ah, yes, the mental power of the clergy over the faithful hasn’t really changed for all our modern society. The rules and laws of any religion were created by humanity, after all, and they were definitely used to keep the populace in line. Fear of God’s wrath is a big motivator in being good, Cate. Obey the rules or you’ll go to hell. For many people, that was a terrifying thought and, to some extent, it still is. That’s why I don’t believe in organized religion. I don’t want to believe in a punishing God. In my line of work I can’t afford to believe in one.”
Neither can I, I think. No punishing God for me. I don’t always do things legally, I have no problem in lying to get what I need in a case, and I am not above breaking and entering to find something or someone. I’ll break the law to get what I want; I have my own rules.
“When you get to hell, look for me, I’ll be sitting in the hot tub,” I tell Melissa making her laugh again.
Inside the shop we continue our conversation.
“Seriously, religion is simply mind control, subtle brainwashing” says Melissa looking through the racks of dresses in the upscale boutique where she’s helping me pick an outfit for Saturday night. “It starts when you’re a vulnerable child and continues for years. It’s the ultimate guilt trip, too.”
****
She holds up a beautiful, indigo blue strapless dress in my size. A short, full skirt flows nicely from a tight bustier. Both the skirt and the bustier have just the slightest hint of sparkling lighter blue sequins. It’s gorgeous but the price is outrageous. Melissa insists that I try it on anyway and she asks the clerk who is standing discreetly nearby to get a pair of blue rhinestone heels that are on display.
"The size, madame?" asks the clerk. Melissa turns to me questioningly. She has elegant size six feet; I can never borrow shoes from her.
"Eight and a half," I say firmly. My tennis feet are not tiny but they're strong and they look good in heels.
With the dress and the four-inch heels on, I am transformed. Even the exhaustion of the day doesn’t diminish what I see in the mirror. The heels make my legs look long and sexy. The bustier top allows a perfect amount of cleavage and the indigo blue is a nice complement to my skin tone. Melissa makes for a wonderful personal shopper. She smiles and nods at me in satisfaction. She fusses with my hair, first holding it up then letting it cascade over my shoulders, trying to decide the best way to wear it.
“What time are you meeting Will and his mother on Saturday?”
“Dinner is set for eight.”
“Good. I’ll be at your place early to help you get ready. I don’t have an engagement until ten.”
“Wait a minute. I don’t even know if I can afford this dress and I haven’t even looked at the price of the shoes. Maybe I should try something else on, something less expensive.”
But even as I say it, I can’t stop looking at myself in the mirror. This entire outfit is perfect and I know it.
“I’ll put it on my tab,” says Melissa without blinking, “Seriously, it doesn’t matter. I have an account here.”
An account, I have to figure, which is paid for by one of her clients. I don’t judge Melissa and God knows my own morals are definitely suspect, but somehow having one of her clients pay for my purchases feels a little bit weird.
I’m so tempted to put the dress back on the rack but I hesitate. Damn! Mostly I live in jeans and sneakers; I deserve to get dressed like this once in awhile I reason. Regina Margherita is a fashionable restaurant, after all. I’ll tell her I’ll pay her back. But before I can say anything to her, Melissa has walked over to the salesclerk. She is already telling the clerk to put the dress, shoes, and a gorgeous crystal evening bag she selects from a glass case, on her tab.
“I’ll pay you back next week. How much is everything?”
“Don’t be silly, Cate. Think of these as an early birthday present.”
“My birthday is two months away. Seriously Melissa, I want to pay for all of them. It’s a pride thing. Come on, a girl’s got to have her pride, right?”
She sees that I mean it but insists that the shoes and the bag are her gift. I can pay her for the dress only she says. And with that financial arrangement I have to be satisfied.
Truthfully, when I glance at the price of the shoes and the bag, which come to over eight hundred dollars, I’m glad she insisted. Pride, this one time, be damned.
Chapter 15
As reported earlier this week, the body of a mutilated, nude male in his seventies, wearing a clerical collar was discovered by a jogger in Central Park early Wednesday morning … there are no new leads or breaks in the homicide… police are investigating … reports indicate that this murder is similar to another body discovered almost three weeks ago… no statements from police authorities have been given and no news conference has been scheduled… we will keep you updated on this story … and now on to breaking news. A four-alarm fire in…
I’ve got the TV on as I’m waiting for Melissa to come over for brunch. She’s spending the day with me and going to help me get ready for my big night. Tonight’s the night I’m meeting Will and his mother, Francesca, for dinner.
On the screen, there’s a video of the crime scene that was taken by someone’s iPhone, the same video that has been showing for three days. Though it’s a bit choppy I can see Will walking over to the body where Giles is kneeling, then a pan around the crowd to where I’m being let through the yellow police tape, ending with a zoom in on the covered body. After that nothing; I’m guessing that one of the cops either told the person to put the phone away or confiscated it.
What a mess this is becoming now that the NYC media has gotten hold of it! It’s been two days since the body was found and, like a dog chewing on a meaty bone, the news media won’t let go of it. Unlike the small town in upstate New York where the first body was found last year, this one couldn’t be hidden from the news. The discovery of the body found on I 95 three weeks ago had been kept quiet until the similar discovery in Central Park, and then that info had leaked out too.
Central Park is an open area and, though the police did an excellent job of keeping curiosity-seekers away from the scene, news leaked out. This has been simplified with today’s technology. Taking zoom pictures with an iPhone from a distance is easy. Sending information is fast. Nothing is kept under wraps for long.
Melissa was on-target; this news has become a hot topic. As she said, it’s even been on the top of the social media trending
lists. Giles texted me yesterday evening to let me know that he had to walk past a cadre of news people and cameras when he left the morgue that afternoon.
Will called me and said pretty much the same thing. His abrupt, No comment at this time. Let us do our job, didn't go over well with the reporters in front of the station. He wasn’t happy when I said that maybe all they wanted was one short statement that might keep them satisfied for the time being.
“I don’t give a damn what they want. All they’re doing is impeding the investigation. We don’t give out detailed information for a reason and we don’t let anyone know every damned step we’re taking. It’s bad enough that every idiot with a cell phone thinks he or she is a reporter; there are things that can’t be released to the press during an investigation.”
He’s right. Too much public knowledge and you are tipping your hand to the perpetrators. People who commit crimes are avid news watchers. If you want to solve a crime you can’t let them know exactly what you’re doing. You need to psych them out and let them think you have no substantial clues. They need to feel comfortable enough to make mistakes that will get them caught.
While waiting for Melissa I call Marie to see how she’s doing. To my surprise a male voice answers.
“Hello, this is the McElroy residence.”
I hide my surprise and say, “Good morning. I’d like to speak to Marie,” making my voice sound professional and cool.
“She’s outside talking with a neighbor. May I ask who’s calling?” Polite male voice; sounds as if he’s in his late twenties and not a native of any New York boroughs.
I don’t give him any particulars, just tell him my name. But Marie must have told him who I was because he says, “Oh, yes, you’re that private detective.”
I'm silent for a moment then I ask, “Since you know who I am, may I ask who you are?”
“A real detective question. I’m flattered,” he says smoothly. “My name is David; I’m a friend of Marie’s.” There’s a pause and I hear the squeak of a screen door open, then he says, “Here’s Marie now.”
For I Have Sinned a Cate Harlow Private Investigation Page 13
