“Why’d you threaten the priest?”
“I asked him to lighten up on Kevin, give me half a chance to win him back. But he kept blowin’ me off. Things got heated that day. I said what I felt at the time.”
“And a week later he’s found murdered,” I said, “doesn’t look good for you.”
“It was in the heat of anger,” he said. “I didn’t think it would go any further. But when I learned that Bloomhouse called you, I knew there might be a problem. I followed you, hoping I could talk to you, tell you the truth before things got out of hand. When I lost you in traffic, I knew it would be just a matter of time before you found me.”
“Father Conlon wasn’t keeping you from your son,” I said. “The courts are.”
“He was in the way.”
“And now he’s not,” I said.
“I don’t have to take this,” he said. “If you wanna charge me with something, do it.”
He leaned over and started the pickup. I reached in and grabbed him by his shirt collar and pulled his head through the window. “Listen you piece of crap,” I said. “I don’t like your attitude and I don’t like you. I’m gonna find out who killed Father Conlon. If you had anything to do with it, you’re gonna wish you never met me.” I pushed him back into his seat.
He put the truck in reverse and backed away from me in a cloud of dust. As I watched him drive away, I wasn’t sure whether to believe him. He had been caught up in a nasty divorce settlement that he had to live with. I was familiar with the scenario. My divorce from Marlene had been , but we’d settled amicably, and I could see my daughters almost anytime I chose, with Marlene’s permission. But this guy was no saint. Bloomhouse said when Arnie drank too much, he had hand trouble. Bloomhouse wasn’t specific in what he meant, but I could conjure up an ugly image. I couldn’t be sympathetic to that under any circumstance.
Kevin Regan lived with his mother in a small apartment above a tailor shop on Orchard Street in the Lower East Side. I found a parking space out front and walked to a red door with the number 14 hand-painted in black. I pushed the door back and found myself at the bottom of a long staircase. I climbed the stairs until I came to a single door in the darkened hallway at the top. I stood for a moment and listened, but heard nothing from the other side. I knocked. In less than a minute, the door opened about six inches and a woman’s face peered out at me. I held up my shield. “Detective Graham,” I said. “NYPD.”
“Has Kevin done something?”
“No,” I said. “I’d like to talk to you about your ex-husband.”
“I told the police I don’t know anything about Arnie’s business.”
“This is more of a personal nature,” I said. “May I come in?”
She thought for a moment, then opened the door and stepped back into a large living room.
“This is starting to become routine,” she said, closing the door quickly. “Talking to the police, I mean.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I won’t take much of your time.”
She was a slender woman with short red hair. Although I guessed her to be in her mid-forties, her complexion was smooth and flawless with just a sprinkle of freckles on her cheeks. Her lips were thin and her teeth straight and white. She was wearing black jeans, a gray sweatshirt, and a pair of gray bedroom slippers. She indicated for me to take a seat on the sofa as she sat opposite me and crossed her legs, almost routinely, as if she’d done this so many times before. From where I sat, the apartment looked clean and well furnished. I could see a small kitchen flooded in sunlight from the front windows and a couple of bedrooms behind me.
“I met Kevin the other day at the Youth Center,” I said. “He’s a fine boy.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I do my best.”
“I suppose it’s not easy,” I said, “without—”
“Without a husband,” she said, completing my sentence.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“What do you want to know about Arnie?”
“His name came up in an investigation I’m involved with. I was hoping you could give me some insight into his personality and background.”
“What kind of investigation?” she said.
I ignored her question and said, “I’ve discovered your husband has been doing everything he can to get Kevin back with him.”
“I have legal custody,” she said.
She uncrossed her legs and sat upright before she continued; as if she wanted to be sure I understood everything she was about to say.
“Arnie is his own worst enemy,” she said. “Our marriage was a good one until his drinking got out of hand. We loved each other and we both love Kevin,” and then she added, “I’m sure he still does.”
“Love, Kevin?” I said.
She seemed embarrassed by my question and didn’t answer.
I said, “Does your husband have financial problems?”
“He keeps up with his child support,” she said, “if that’s what you’re asking?”
“Is Kevin his biological son?”
“Yes.”
“Arnie had a close relationship with Kevin, but his drinking came between them…and me. And four hundred dollars is a lot of money to have to give away every month, buys a lot of booze.”
I was beginning to dislike this guy more and more.
“Did he abuse Kevin, physically?”
“No,” she said. “But he was scary when he drank too much.”
“I know your husband’s been arrested more than once. Can you give me the details of the arrests?”
“He got into a bar fight with someone. Hit him over the head with a keg of beer. He thought he killed the guy. When he came home that night, he began packing, said the police were looking for him and he was running away. But before he could leave, the cops were at the door, and they took him. The next day the charges were dropped. I wished they’d have sent him away for a time.”
“I apologize,” I said. “But was your husband abusive to you?”
I had embarrassed her again, but she offered, “Not physically, at times, verbally.”
I stood, and she stood with me.
“Thank you, you’ve been a big help,” I said as we walked toward the door. “I won’t take up any more of your time.”
“I don’t mind,” she said. “Like I said, it’s getting to be routine.”
In the open doorway, I took out my card and wrote my cell phone number on the back and handed it to her.
“If there’s anything I can do for you or Kevin,” I said, “just call my number.” She glanced at the card, then put it in her pocket. “Thank you,” she said and closed the door.
I drove back to the precinct feeling empathy for Gwen, Regan and Kevin. Circumstances created through no fault of one person can destroy a marriage. I can attest to that. But in this instance, it was Arnie’s behavior that was eroding this marriage. It was obvious he had a bad temper, but could he be provoked enough to kill? No doubt, he’d built a solid dislike for Andy Conlon over time, which might be construed as a motive, but that doesn’t make him a murderer. I’d add him to my suspect list and continue digging.
Chapter 9
Danny Nolan was sitting on the edge of my desk, sipping a latte and going over my notes.
I was drinking a black coffee and working on a jelly donut while I waited for his input.
“Regan has a possible motive,” he said, “but I don’t see one for Crockett.”
When I bit into my doughnut, a gob of jelly oozed out from the small hole and fell onto my desktop. I grabbed a napkin and tried to wipe it up, but the paper tore and stuck to the gooey mess. “Damn,” I said. “Next time, bring me a bagel.” Danny tossed me a handful of napkins. I tried cleaning up the goo by moving the napkins in a circular motion, but it left a sticky film just the same.
“Don’t wipe it,” Danny said. “Dab it up.”
I could tell by the smile on his face, he was enjoying the show.
“Don’t tell me
how to clean up my own mess,” I said. “I’ve been living alone longer than you have.” I dipped a corner of a napkin into my coffee and cleaned up the stickiness as best I could. Then I dried the wet spot with a fresh napkin.
“What did you get from your interviews with Sidletski and Romano?” I said.
“Sidletski is an elderly man,” Danny said, “more afraid of the sin that was committed than the crime. He didn’t offer much other than a succession of quotes from the New Testament. He claimed he was in his room asleep until he was awakened by the commotion.”
I wiped my hands and tossed the used napkin and the rest of my doughnut in the trash basket. I put the top on my coffee cup and dropped that in.
“Did he give you his opinion on Crockett?” I said.
“Indifference, he said he doesn’t know him well and hasn’t had much contact with him. He suggested I ask Father Faynor. Said he felt Faynor was a close friend to Father Conlon and might know a bit more about Crockett since Conlon helped Crockett get the custodian job at the church.”
“Crockett also told me, he and Conlon were close,” I said. “And that Father Conlon had gotten him the job at the rectory. At least those two statements agree.”
“Father Romano is middle-aged and speaks with a heavy Italian accent. It was tough for me to understand him at times. You would’ve had an easier time interviewing him than me.”
“I don’t speak Italian,” I said.
“No, but coming from an Italian family, your ear is more in tune with deciphering the words.”
“No one in my family speaks Italian much anymore,” I said. “My mother and Aunt Theresa used to, but they communicate mostly in English now. If you don’t use it, you lose it,” I said.
“I still believe you would have had an easier time with him,” Danny said.
“Just think of it as a lesson in ethnic vernacular, I said. “I’ll round you out as a good investigator.”
Danny didn’t buy that, and said, “Romano has a strong negative opinion about Crockett. He doesn’t trust him.”
“Why not?”
“He gave no specific reason but was quick enough to condemn Crockett, which I felt was out of demeanor for a priest. I think he holds an unwarranted dislike for the guy. But there might be more to it.”
I remembered Faynor having a similar opinion of Crockett and having nothing to corroborate his feelings, as well. Was this guy inherently unlikable? Or did they know more than they were willing to say?
“How did things go at the Conlon’s?” Danny said.
“Her father’s been hospitalized, but Eileen Conlon is hell-bent on finding her brother’s killer. She seemed cooperative and eager to help, but didn’t like it when I asked her some questions about Andy that she felt disparaged his stature. I wanna dig deeper into her recent background. Find out as much as you can about what she’s been up to the past five years.”
“Right on,” Danny said.
“Right on?” I said.
Danny gave me a confused look. “What?”
“That saying went out with the seventies,” I said.
Danny shrugged, and said, “Guess I heard it on TV.”
He started to walk back to his desk, but then turned quickly, set up his shot and tossed his empty coffee cup in a wide arc into my trash basket. It went in without touching the rim. He looked at me with a big smile.
“Right on,” I said.
***
I wanted to search Father Faynor’s room at the rectory without his knowledge. Of course, it wasn’t the right thing to do without having probable cause to obtain a search warrant. I hoped to get Monsignor Belducci’s consent to the search. I’d have to rely on his sense of righteousness and make him understand we were not committing a sin but serving the cause of justice. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for or what I would find, but Faynor had gone out of his way to make Crockett look suspicious to me, and I wanted to know why.
When I called Monsignor Belducci, he wasn’t receptive to the idea, until I was able to convince him it was an imperative part of the ongoing investigation into Father Conlon’s death. Father Faynor would be hearing confessions that afternoon at two o’clock, Belducci said, and suggested I come to the rectory then. When I arrived at the Monsignor’s office, I could see he wasn’t comfortable with my course of action, but gave me the key to Faynor’s room just the same. After giving me directions to the room, he went into the church and stood guard, in case Faynor finished confessions earlier than scheduled. Working with a partner of such divine stature assuaged some of my guilt.
Father Faynor’s room was nearly identical to Andy Conlon’s in size and shape. A chest of drawers, a twin bed and night table, and a single desk made up all the furnishings. The windows looked out to the side of the rectory where I could see part of the cemetery. I knew I didn’t have much time and began opening drawers from the chest beneath the windows. The drawers held the usual amount of clothing folded neatly in piles. In the closet, a typical priest’s wardrobe hung from plastic hangers: several robes and one black suit. A shoe rack on the floor held a pair of black leather dress shoes and a pair of Adidas running shoes. The desk was uncluttered, with a blotter, pencil cup, and several books, but no computer. There was a cellphone on the bedside table. I picked it up and punched up the phone information. I copied the phone’s number down on my notepad and put the phone back as I’d found it. There were two drawers in the table. The top drawer held a couple of paperbacks, a package of Band-Aids and an address book. I wished I could read the contents of that book, but knew I didn’t have time. The larger bottom drawer was stuffed full of folders and stacks of writing paper. I rummaged through them quickly and lifted the pile of paper away from the bottom of the drawer. When I did, a red and white lettered box the size of a pack of cigarettes caught my eye. When I read the wording on the box, I nearly lost my breath. I replaced the papers and returned the box as I had found it and closed the drawer. Bewildered by my discovery, I left the room asking myself the obvious question: Why would a priest need a box of condoms?
Chapter 10
“I’ve decided to hire a private investigator,” Eileen Conlon said.
We were standing in her living room in front of the grand piano. She looked more at ease than the last time I had seen her. She wasn’t wearing any makeup and looked surprisingly attractive without it. She wore jeans and a flowered blouse, and her hair hung loosely to her shoulders.
“Your prerogative, your money,” I said.
“I know you’re doing everything you can,” she said, “but I’ve been tormented by Andy’s death and need to find closure. My father is hospitalized in ICU,” she said. “He may not survive this ordeal.”
“Of course,” I said, trying to show some empathy.
She had phoned me earlier and asked me to stop by to give me this information firsthand. I wasn’t surprised. Most people in similar situations do the same thing, some out of frustration and some out of desperation.
“This is his name and info,” she said. She handed me a piece of paper with the name, “Martin Denman” written on it. “He came highly recommended. Perhaps you know him.”
The name Martin Denman didn’t ring a bell.
“He used to work with an agency,” she continued, “but now he works alone. He might be of some help to you.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But if he turns up anything I’d expect him to give it to the police.”
“Of course,” she said. “I’ve informed him of your friendship with Andy and your efforts to find Andy’s—” She hesitated and then continued. “He’s quite willing to work with you in any way.”
I didn’t feel comfortable with that. I had all the partners I needed back at headquarters, and other than assistance from Danny Nolan, whom I trusted implicitly, I preferred to find Andy’s killer on my own. It wasn’t ego or arrogance, I just felt I owed it to Andy and his family.
As I slid the piece of paper into my wallet, my eye picked up movement coming from the
hallway to my right. When I looked, I saw a guy walking toward us and into the living room. He looked like he’d slept in his clothes. He wore wrinkled jeans and a long sleeve shirt, unbuttoned at the front and hanging out of his waist. He looked to be in his forties with a slender built but with broad shoulders. His dark hair was pulled back tight on his scalp and secured behind his head into a ponytail. As he walked, he drew on a cigarette several times and flicked his ashes into an ashtray that he carried precariously in his left hand. I could see an expression of surprise as Eileen Conlon looked suddenly in that direction and waited for him to enter the living room.
“Oh, Troy,” she said, “I didn’t know you were up.”
As he approached us, he smothered his cigarette in the ashtray and set it on the piano. He reeked of stale smoke and booze and hadn’t been close to a razor in days.
“This is Detective, Graham,” Eileen Conlon said. “The one I told you about.”
“Andy’s friend,” Troy said.
“I like to think so,” I said.
“This is my brother, Troy,” Eileen Conlon said.
I had to tighten my jaw muscles, or my jaw would have dropped to the floor. In all the years I’d known Andy Conlon, he had never mentioned to me that he had a brother. It was a revelation that nearly staggered me. I took a deep breath. Troy half-heartily extended his hand. I shook it and said, “Glad to meet you.” Troy said nothing.
“Troy flew in yesterday from L. A.,” Eileen Conlon said. “He didn’t attend the funeral but will be here for the rest of the business. Naturally, Troy and I are beneficiaries of Andy’s will.”
“Naturally,” I said.
She pulled a tissue from the box on the piano and began to dab her moist eyes. “Although a sum of money was left to the youth organizations my brother supported and loved, Andy was more than generous to Troy and me.”
How much money could Andy possibly have, I thought, a priest living in a rectory with a modest lifestyle? Besides, Eileen and her father were more than comfortable, and whatever inheritance Andy might have left his sister wouldn’t have added much to her coffer. Although, Andy’s brother looked like he could use a few bucks, if he, indeed, was Andy’s brother. There was something about his sudden appearance I didn’t like. I made a mental note to check him out.
Other Men's Sins Page 6
