by Leslie Glass
While a truck moved trees in and young men hurried around hanging baskets of flowers on the very first pews way down in the front, a nine o'clock Mass then a ten o'clock Mass played on the TV screen. At the end of each Mass the small congregation of celebrants who were close enough to each other offered the handshake of peace, and then they left. No one looked twice at the table by the doors where two people gossiped quietly, and a third clicked the beads of a rosary. No one noticed when the rosary went into a pocket, and the lone person got up to examine the chapels of each and every saint, the height of the railing, the darkness of the corners, pausing in front of even the confessionals as if considering whether or not to slip inside.
Whatever the weather, St. Patrick's attracted many different kinds of people. Except on high holidays or when the cardinal was present and politics raged over one issue or another, no one worried about them. On a rainy spring day with nothing political going on no one was fearful.
The rifle was in a carryall under the skirt that hid the legs of the table. No one had looked into it when it was brought inside. When the two women at the information table went out for a break, the rifle was assembled one-two-three. It had a short stock and barrel.
Once the barrel was raised there would be no way to hide it, as there had been in the Bronx. There was no enclosed space to slip into except one of the confessionals, or deep behind the railings in one of the saints' chapels. This was too far away and too uncertain to get off a good shot. Only the front pews way dowm in front were being used. Getting closer would be a problem. A shot from the side might hit others, especially if the guests rose for a better view of the bride, as they often did. More than likely someone else would get hit and the bride might be missed altogether.
Saturday morning on a second day of rain, St. Patrick's suddenly seemed all wrong. The side doors were locked. If Prudence were shot as she entered, the escape from one door would be blocked by her own body. Church people were keeping the public out of the other door. Without the public, there was no way to blend in with the crowd. There was no way to hide behind a column. All the signs were wrong; this was not the right place for killing even though Prudence was destined for a better place, like Tovah.
As the morning lengthened, it became clear that the cathedral would work only if all the pews were filled, if people were standing around the back. Many people. Now only a few people were there gawking at the trees and flowers, and they would have to leave before the wedding began. The killer's nerve faltered. The cathedral was too big, too empty. The rosary beads clicked, but no amount of prayers would fix this. Prudence could not be killed in St. Patrick's. She would have to live on a little while longer.
Thirty-five
E
xhausted from the stress of the long week and her boyfriend's ultimatum, April slept in on Saturday morning. She came downstairs at the impossibly late hour of ten-thirty and found Dim Sum waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs whining to go out. She opened the door, but when the diminutive poodle saw the sleeting rain she changed her mind. April had to nudge her out into the waterlogged backyard, then find a towel to pat her dry after she trotted back in shaking water everywhere and sneezing her disapproval.
No time to eat anything or even leave a note for the Dragon, April showered and dressed quickly. Her hair was still wet as she hurried into the city to meet Citing at the Formal Wear shop on Bowery. A thousand thoughts barraged her as her tires splashed through the rain. The primary one was relief that they had Tovah's killer. Yesterday afternoon they'd clocked two officers from the Five-oh slogging in the wet up the hill to Independence Avenue from Broadway. The time was tight, but there was no doubt that Ubu could have made it in time to slip in and shoot Tovah.
Primary thought two was that Ubu may have been up there. But proving he did it without a confession or a weapon would be another thing. April was glad that the killer wasn't Wendy or anyone involved with Tang, which would have made Ching nuts. She didn't dwell on Andrea Straka.
Her other primary thoughts centered on Ching: happiness for her, trepidation at having to perform at her wedding. Skinny Dragon's new defense maneuvers .. . The pouring rain and her thoughts didn't let up all the way across the BQE and the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan. April left the car in front of a fire hydrant on Bowery and dashed upstairs to the dress shop whose windows she'd been studying all her life.
Up on the second floor, above a huge lighting fixture store, Formal Wear was a veritable warehouse of bridal gowns, evening gowns, tuxedos, and traditional Chinese dresses, jackets, and pants. Every style and age was represented. Gray and heather and silver for the old, red and black and purple and green all shot with gold for the young. Ching was waiting for her.
"Hey, sister," she whooped, giving April a hug. "Thank you for coming. One week to go, can you believe it?"
April grinned and hugged her back. She gazed at Ching fondly. April's lifetime competition—Ching— the big brain with the chunky body, the glasses, and blunt haircut, was wearing contacts and had slimmed down quite a bit. And her face was beaming with delight.
"You look so different! I wouldn't even have recognized you," April cried.
"I'm wearing makeup," Ching confessed.
"I can see you are." April happened to be a big fan of makeup. "It's done wonders for you. Really."
Ching looked a little sheepish. Growing up she'd always been brilliant in school but awkward around the paintbox. And April had the looks. Now they were even—both smart, both beautiful.
"You only marry once, right? I had a makeover." She giggled. "Wait till you see my gown. It's going to be so perfect." She kissed her fingers Italian style. "Tang is having an angel embroidered in it for me; isn't that sweet?"
April nodded absently.
"You're late," an aged saleswoman grumbled in Chinese. "Very busy day. I expected you at ten." She pointed at the clock.
April saw that it was nearly eleven-thirty now. "Oh, my God, I'm sorry"
Ching made a face. "Don't worry; I told her eleven."
The woman went away. Ching hugged April again and didn't say a thing about April's hair, straight and still damp. As usual Ching shuddered when she was bumped by the gun holstered at April's waist, and April was thankful that she didn't probe the specifics of the case.
"Here it is." The ancient padded back. "This one's yours." She held up a see-though garment bag as if it contained solid gold.
April recognized it right away and shivered. The cheongsam Ching had ordered for her was a replica of one she and Ching had seen at a community center concert they'd gone to twenty years ago. The Chinese opera star wearing it had changed her dress four times. The dress in the bag, a horror of mismatched colors and patterns, had been the number-one dress. She and Ching had adored it. The dress was purple. Purple like a pope's robe, purple like a spring hyacinth, the purplest purple on the color chart. Woven into the solid-colored silk was a lavish pattern of peonies, but the cheongsam's high neck, bodice, and short sleeves were of a different silk, one printed with red and pink and white peonies on a field of green leaves. Purple piping around the red and pink married the two clashing fabrics. It was louder than any dress April would dream of wearing, garish beyond belief.
"Isn't it absolutely fabulous?" Ching crowed.
"You bet," April said.
"I could never wear anything like that," Ching murmured.
Neither could I,
April thought as she obediently trotted into a dressing room to try it on.
How can I get out of this?
she thought.
"Can't see like this. Why didn't you bring your shoes?" the grandmother scolded in Chinese when April clunked back in her work shoes and climbed up on the fitting pedestal.
"I don't have them yet," April admitted. For sure she didn't have
any
shoes that would go with this! The dress was formfitting, very constricting, but now very much back in fashion. She hadn't worn a cheongsam in a long time
, and never for Mike. Critically, she examined herself in the mirror.
"Just right!" Ching squealed. "Look at her, perfect."
April took a deep breath and lifted her chin. She looked surprisingly good in their little-girl fantasy of ultimate elegance. It was like Cinderella, Chinese style. Ching's choosing this dress sent a strong message April couldn't ignore. Even on her special day, Ching wanted April as visible as she and in a starring role beside her. How many real sisters were that generous?
"Ching, you're too much. Thank you." April couldn't help grinning at herself as she twirled around on the pedestal, high off the ground for fitting long evening gowns. She looked tall and slender in the dress, almost like a movie star. Small waist, small but well-rounded bottom. Long neck. Good legs. She had to admit it. She looked good. She lifted her eyebrows at herself as she kicked the slit open. It was high; every step would show her whole leg. Everyone would look. Generous, generous Ching. How could she repay? April shook her head, tearing up just a little. It had been an emodonal week.
"Beautiful." Even the grumbling, overworked women in the shop admired her as she went to change.
"Ching, thank you for the dress, thank you so much. Got to go to work." In seconds April reappeared in her slacks and jacket, her red blouse for luck. She grabbed the precious package that was all ready to go.
"Same old, same old. No time for lunch," Ching complained, but for once her reproach had no bite.
Thirty-six
A
t noon, the rain still hammered down. The wind had kicked up several notches in the last several hours, driving hard from the north. It slammed water sideways at the long red canopy that covered a slash of sidewalk from Fifth Avenue and traveled all the way up the steps to the very doors of St. Patrick's. The canopy did not fully protect Prudence Hay's party-dressed guests as a steady stream of them emerged from limos starting at eleven-thirty.
Under a poncho that was gray as the stone of the cathedral, Tovah's killer saw a mess. Umbrellas moving this way and that, like in a movie, tilted against the wind. Across the street a sparse crowd huddled out of the rain under the awning at Saks Fifth Avenue. The disparate group, unsettled by the weather, had stopped to watch the parade of fancy people fighting their unruly umbrellas as they scurried to get out of the wet. It was a mess. In a big black slicker a uniformed cop stood on the corner of Fifty-first Street and Fifth. Just stood there doing nothing. Another was on the corner of Fiftieth Street. Both like statues getting pissed on.
The rain was bad luck for Prudence. She would get wet when she got out of her limousine. Her expensive veil would blow off her head. Her white-beaded pumps would get spattered. Nothing could stop it. The rain was bad luck for Prudence, but why not good luck for a killer? The picture was already spoiled; why wait for later?
The killer thought of how perfect Tovah had been for her march down the aisle straight to heaven. Tovah was an angel in heaven now, not a slave in a bad marriage. Why wait? The gun was under the poncho. The poncho hidden by an umbrella. Umbrellas were everywhere. Channel Thirteen umbrellas. Museum of Natural History umbrellas. Chase Bank umbrellas. Black ones, red ones, even American flag ones, touting patriotism.
Ha.
The killer didn't return to the church, and didn't walk away, either.
Prudence hadn't arrived yet. Every second felt like an hour. On Fifth Avenue, the line of limos was a lot longer. The cars were queued up along the block two deep with the windows closed and all fogged up. The killer watched even more cars arrive. The groom arrived. But no Prudence. Things must have gotten stalled by the weather.
Finally!
The family and the bridesmaids arrived. The drivers got out to help the old people and the twelve girls in their colorful gowns and feathered headdresses. So gaudy and tasteless.
Suddenly chaos. The girls were running. They were running to the church, everybody was running. Tovah's killer emerged from the side of the cathedral as Prudence got out of the car.
All in white, no raincoat or anything, Prudence was supported by her portly father and the driver, both wearing tails. One was on each side. They were trying to hurry her along. But Prudence was being careful of her beaded shoes, of the train secured around her wrist by a satin-covered elastic band. She was holding back for her mother and the flurry of squeaking girls in their fluffy chiffon parrot dresses to all get inside first. She had a serene expression on her face despite the rain, as if she knew she was going to a better place. The killer's umbrella went down to hide the gun. Then went up when the shot was fired. It happened in seconds. The first shot grazed Prudence's neck, but it hit an artery and blood bubbled out.
She looked surprised. She stumbled, but was held aloft by the two men on either side of her. Still a good target. The next two shots hit her in the eye and chest. One of the men went down with her. Thunder rumbled in the distance as the screaming started. Prudence's killer had slipped away and war was back.
Thirty-seven
T
he phone on Bellaqua's desk rang. The task force was busy so she let it ring. Seconds later a detective from the Hate Squad hurried in.
"Inspector?"
"Yeah, Rudy, what you got?"
"There's been a shoodng at St. Patrick's. Another bride is likely."
Likely
in police jargon meant likely to die.
"Oh, no." April put her hand to her heart, couldn't help herself.
Oh, shit.
They'd missed something.
"Jesus Christ!" Bellaqua swore. She reached for her purse. Mike said nothing. He was already on his feet. They were out the door.
Down in the garage, Inspector Bellaqua and her driver headed for her four-by-four. Mike wiggled his finger at April. She got into a shiny Crown Vic with him, and they followed the inspector out. Bellaqua's driver, a former helicopter pilot, drove like a maniac, occasionally popping the siren for a few seconds to get through a clot of stalled traffic.
April was quiet as Mike turned on the police radio. It crackled with other matters, the airwaves already shut down tight. As Mike wove the unit through traffic, she studied his tense profile.
"Spooky," she murmured.
"More than spooky." He didn't look over at her.
"Connected?"
Tovah's murder was supposed to be like every homicide, a tornado they couldn't have predicted. A second one was a disaster. April's stomach knotted as if it were all her fault. She shouldn't have slept in, shouldn't have gone shopping this morning, shouldn't have been thinking about herself.
Mike's voice came as a surprise. "Don't be so hard on yourself. Could be a copycat. Could have nothing to do with it."
"Hmmm." She could tell by the furrows in his forehead that he didn't think so, and the instant call to Inspector Bellaqua meant no one else thought so, either.
Ordinarily, no connection would be made between a homicide at a synagogue in the Bronx and a homicide at a church in Manhattan a week later. The fact that the victim was another bride on her wedding day yanked them and Bias right back in. It was a bride case, a certainty now that someone was killing brides. It wasn't religious. It wasn't personal. The trigger was the bride herself. Sick.
Mike got off the drive and headed across town to Fifth, where traffic was already showing the strain. Fifth Avenue was closed between Fifty-third and Forty-eighth streets. Fiftieth and Fifty-first Streets were closed between Fifth and Madison. Cars and buses were all snarled up on Madison. News vans with their satellite dishes had already begun to assemble, trying to get as close to the action as possible. Mike hit his siren to get through, then clipped his shield onto his jacket pocket for the two uniforms at the barricade on Fifty-third. April did the same.
The uniforms waved them through, and they drove down the three cleared blocks to Fiftieth. There, the entire front section of St. Patrick's had been cordoned off with yellow tape. At least two dozen officers and brass had assembled to view the first homicide in the Seventeenth Precinct in two years.
<
br /> Mike parked the car on the west side of the avenue and they got out. The rain had finally stopped, and the sun was just beginning to stab through deep banks of clouds as April looked across the street and saw a body lying there on the red carpet. Mike crossed himself, and April's eyes instantly became a camera.
Click, at the line of limos on Fifth Avenue, their windows all steamed up. Click, at the drivers out of their cars talking to officers in front of Saks. Click, at the two ambulances, doors open. Click, at the two men in tails, one of them large, beefy, stunned-looking with his head cocked to one side as he listened to talking brass. The bride's father? The other man, tall, thin, was talking rapidly, gesticulating while a detective wrote down what he said.
They were earlier on the scene here, and organization happened faster than it had in the Bronx a week ago. The body had been isolated to prevent further contamination. All individuals present at the time of the incident had been separated to prevent them from talking to each other and influencing one another's memories. Also to keep them as far as possible from specialists arriving on the scene. There were always complaints about the callous-sounding greetings and gallows humor of police arriving on grisly scenes. April heard there had been complaints about it from Tovah's family.
Click. No wedding guests were milling around outside. They couldn't be gone already, so the officers must have closed the front doors of the cathedral to keep the entire wedding party contained inside. April's first thought pertained to meaning. Tovah had died surrounded by family and friends. This girl hadn't made it inside. Different message, different shooter?
Click. The girl's body lying there in plain view, right between St. Patrick's and Rockefeller Center. Sometimes victims were left in the open like that while family members stood by, helpless and numb. No matter how mutilated or disturbing the dead looked, they could not be moved until the obligatory forensic work was done. Loved ones—children, mothers, wives, husbands—were left just the way they'd been in the last seconds of their lives, after all hope of sustaining them was gone.
