Cathedral (31 page)

The detective climbed the stairs behind him. "No one home."

"No shit, Sherlock." Burke looked at the three lockcylinders in a vertical row, ranging in age from very old to very new, showing the progression of panic with each passing decade. He turned to the detective. "Want to put your shoulder to that?"

'Nope.

"Me neither." Burke moved to a narrow staircase behind a small door. "Stay here." He went up the stairs and came out onto the roof, then went down the rear fire escape and stopped at Stillway's window.

The apartment was dark except for the yellow glow of a clock radio. There was no grate on the window, and Burke drew his gun and brought it through the old brittle glass above the sash lock. He reached in, unlatched the catch, and threw the sash up, then dropped into the room and moved away from the window in a crouch, his gun held out in front of him with both hands.

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He steadied his breathing and listened. His eyes became accustomed to the dark, and he began to make out shadows and shapes. Nothing moved, nothing breathed, nothing smelled; there was nothing that wanted to kill him, and, he sensed, nothing that had been killed there. He rose, found a lamp, and turned it on.

The large studio apartment was in stark modern contrast to the world around it. Bone-white walls, track lighting, chromium furniture. The secret modern world of an old architect who specialized in Gothic restorations. Shame, shame, Gordon Stillway.

He walked toward the hall door, gun still drawn, looking into the dark corners as he moved. Everything was perfectly ordinary; nothing was out of place-no crimson on the white rug, no gore on the shiny chromium.

Burke holstered his revolver and opened the door. He motioned to the detective. "Back window broken. Cause to suspect a crime in progress.

Fill out a report."

The detective winked and moved toward the stairs.

Burke closed the door and looked around. He found a file cabinet beside a drafting table and opened the middle drawer alphabetized J to S. He was not too surprised to find that between St.-Mark's-in-the-Bouwerie and St.

Paul the Apostle there was nothing but a slightly larger space than there should have been.

Burke saw a telephone on the counter of the kitchenette and dialed the rectory, got a fast busy-signal on the trunk line, dialed the operator, got a recording telling him to dial again, and slammed down the receiver.

He found Gordon Stillway's bar in a shelf unit and chose a good bourbon.

The phone rang and Burke answered, "Hello."

Langley's voice came through the earpiece. "Figured you couldn't get an open line. What's the story? Body in the library?"

"No body. No Stillway. The Saint Patrick's file is missing, too."

Langley said, "Interesting He paused, then said,

"We're having no luck in our other inquiries either."

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Burke heard someone talking loudly in the background. "Is that Bellini?"

Langley said quietly, "Yeah. He's going into his act. Pay no attention."

Burke lit a cigarette. "I'm not having a good Saint Patrick's Day, Inspector."

"March eighteenth doesn't look real promising either." He drew a long breath. "There are blueprints in this city somewhere, and there are other architects, maybe engineers, who know this place. We could have them all by midmorning tomorrow-but we don't have that long. Flynn has thought this all out. Right down to snatching Stillway and the blueprints."

Burke said, "I wonder."

"Wonder what?"

"Hasn't it occurred to you that if Flynn had Stillway, then Stillway would be in the Cathedral where he'd do the most good?"

"Maybe he is in there."

Burke thought a moment. "I don't know. Flynn would tell us if he had the architect. He'd tell us he knows ways to blow the place by mining the hidden passages-if any. He's an intelligent man who knows how to get maximum mileage from everything he does. Think about it." Burke looked around the tidy room. A copy of the New York Post lay on the couch, and he pulled the telephone cord as he walked to it. A front-page picture showed a good fistflying scene of the disturbance in front of the Cathedral at noon. The headline ran: DEMONSTRATION MARS PARADE. A subline said: BUT THE IRISH MARCH. The special evening editions would have better stuff than that.

Langley's voice came into the earpiece. "Burke, you still there?"

Burke looked up. "Yeah. Look, Stillway was here. Brought home the evening paper and

"And?"

Burke walked around the room holding the phone and receiver. He opened a closet near the front door and spoke

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into the phone. "Wet topcoat. Wet hat. No raincoat. No umbrella. No briefcase. He came home in the sleet, changed, and went out again carrying his briefcase, which contained, I guess, the Saint Patrick's file."

"What color are his eyes? Okay, I'll buy it. Where'd he go?"

"Probably went with somebody who had a good set of credentials and a plausible story. Somebody who talked his way into the apartment . . ."

Langley said, "A Fenian who got to him too late to get him into the Cathedral-"

"Maybe. But maybe somebody else doesn't want us to have the blueprints or Stillway.

"Strange business."

"Think about it, Inspector. Meanwhile, get a Crime Scene Unit over here, then get me an open line so I can call Ferguson."

"Okay. But hurry back. Schroeder's getting nervous."

Burke hung up and took his glass of bourbon on a tour around the apartment. Nothing else yielded any hard clues, but he was getting a sense of the old architect. Not the type of man to go out into the cold sleet, he thought, unless duty called. The phone rang. Burke picked it up and gave the operator Ferguson's number, then said, "Call back in ten minutes. I'll need to make another call."

After six rings the phone was answered, and Jack Ferguson came on the line, his voice sounding hesitant. "Hello?"

"Burke. Thought I'd get the coroner."

"You may well have. Where the hell have you been?"

"Busy. Well, it looks like you get the good-spy award this year."

"Keep it. Why haven't you called? I've been waiting for your call-"

"Didn't my office call you?"

"Yes. Very decent of them. Said I was a marked man. Who's on to me, then?"

"Well, Flynn for one. Probably the New York Irish Republican Army, Provisional Wing, for another. And I think

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you've outlived your usefulness to Major Martin-it was Martin you were playing around with, wasn't it?"

Ferguson stayed silent for a few seconds, then said, "He told me he could head off the Fenians with my help."

"Did he, now? Well, the only people he wanted to head off were the New York police."

Again, Ferguson didn't speak for a few seconds, then said, "Bastards.

They're all such bloody bastards. Why is everyone so committed to this senseless violence?"

"Makes good press. What is your status, Jack?"

"Status? My status is I'm scared. I'm packed and ready to leave town. My wife's sister came and took her to her place. God, I wouldn't have waited around for anyone else, Burke. I should have left an hour ago."

"Well, why did you wait around? Got something for me?"

"Does the name Terri O'Neal mean anything to you?"

"Man or woman?"

"Woman."

Burke thought a moment. "No."

"She's been kidnapped."

"Lot of that going around today."

"I think she has something to do with what's happening.,,

"In what way?"

Ferguson said, "Hold on a moment. I hear someone in the hall. Hold on."

Burke said quickly, "Wait. Just tell me- Jack- Shit." Burke held the line. He heard Ferguson's footsteps retreating. He waited for the crash, the shot, the scream, but there was nothing.

Ferguson's voice came back on the line, his breathing loud in the earpiece. "Damned Rivero brothers. Got some sefioritas pinned in the alcove, squeezing their tits. God, this used to be a nice Irish building.

Boys would go in the basement and get blind drunk. Never looked at a pair of tits until they were thirty. Where was IT'

"Terri O'Neal."

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"Right. I got this from a Boston Provo. He and some other lads were supposed to snatch this O'Neal woman last night if a man named Morgan couldn't pick her up in a disco. I assume Morgan picked her up-it's easy today, like going out for a pack of cigarettes. You know? Anyway, now these Boston lads think it was part of what happened today, and they're not happy about what the Fenians did."

"Neither are we."

"Of course," added Ferguson, "it could all be coincidence."

"Yeah." Burke thought. Terri O'Neal. It was a familiar name, but he couldn't place it. He was sure it wasn't in the files, because women in the files were still rare enough to remember every one of them. "Terri O'Neal."

"That's what the gentleman said. Now get me the hell out of here."

"Okay. Stay put. Don't open the door to strangers."

"How long will it take to get a car here?"

"I'm not sure. Hang on. You're covered."

"That's what Langley told Timmy O'Day last summer."

"Mistakes happen. Listen, we'll have a drink next week . . . lunch-"

"Fuck lunch-"

Burke hung up. He stared at the telephone for several minutes. He had a bad taste in his mouth, and he stubbed out his cigarette, then sipped on the bourbon. The telephone rang, and he picked it up. "Operator, get me Midtown North Precinct."

After a short wait the phone rang, and a deep voice said, "Sergeant Gonzalez, Midtown North."

"This is Lieutenant Burke, Intelligence." He gave his badge number. "Do you have clear radio commo with your cars?"

The harried desk sergeant answered, "Yeah, the jamming isn't affecting us here."

Burke heard the recorder go on and heard the beep at four-second intervals. "You check me out after you hang up. Okay?"

"Right."

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"Can you get a car over to 560 West Fifty-fifth Street? Apartment 5D.

Pick up and place in protective custodyname of Jack Ferguson."

"What for?"

"His life is in danger."

"So is every citizen's life in this city. Comes with the territory. West Fifty-fifth? I'm surprised he's not dead yet.,,

"He's an informant. Real important."

"I ~don't have many cars available. Things are a mess---

"Yeah, I heard. Listen, he'll want to go to the Port Authority building, but keep him in the station house."

"Sounds fucked up."

"He's involved with this Cathedral thing. Just do it, okay? I'll take care of you. Erin go bragh, Gonzalez."

"Yeah, hasta la vista."

Burke hung up and left the apartment. He went out into the street and walked back toward the park, where a crowd had gathered outside the fence. As he walked he thought about Ferguson. He knew he owed Ferguson a better shot at staying alive. He knew he should pick him up in the helicopter. But the priorities were shifting again. Gordon Stillway was important. Brian Flynn was important, and Major Martin was important.

Jack Ferguson was not so important any longer. Unless . . . Terri O'Neal.

What in the name of God was that all about? Why was that name so familiar?

269

John Hickey sat alone at the chancel organ. He raised his field glasses to the southeast triforium. Frank Gallagher sat precariously on the parapet, reading a Bible; his back was to a supporting column, his sniper rifle was across his knees, and he looked very serene. Hickey marveled at a man who could hold two opposing philosophies in his head at the same time. He shouted to Gallagher, "Look lively."

Hickey focused the glasses on George Sullivan in the long southwest triforium, who was also sitting on the parapet. He was playing a small mouth organ too softly to be heard, except by Abby Boland across the nave. Hickey focused on her as she leaned out across the parapet, looking at Sullivan like a moonstruck girl hanging from a balcony in some cheap melodrama.

Hickey shifted the glasses to the choir loft. Megan was talking to Leary again, and Leary appeared to be actually listening this time. Hickey sensed that they were discovering a common inhumanity. He thought of two vampires on a castle wall in the moonlight, bloodless and lifeless, not able to consummate their meeting in a normal way but agreeing to hunt together.

He raised the glasses and focused on Flynn, who was sitting alone in the choir benches that rose up toward the towering brass organ pipes. Beyond the pipes the great rose window sat above his head like an alien moon, suffused with the night-lights of the Avenue. The effect was ~dramatic, striking, thought Hickey, and unintentionally so, like most of the memorable tableaux, he had seen in his life.

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Flynn seemed uninterested in Megan or Leary, or in the blueprints spread across his knees. He was staring out into space, and Hickey saw that he was toying with his ring.

Hickey put down the glasses. He had the impression that the troops were getting bored, even claustrophobic, if that were possible in this space.

Cabin fever-Cathedral fever, whatever; it was taking its toll, and the night was yet young. Why was it, he thought, that the old, with so little time left, had the most patience? Well, he smiled, age was not so important in here. Everyone had almost the same lifespan left . . . give or take a few heartbeats.

Hickey looked at the hostages on the sanctuary. The four of them were speaking intently. No boredom there. Hickey cranked the field phone beside him. "Attic? Status report."

Jean Kearney's voice came back with a breathy stutter. "Cold as hell up here."

Hickey smiled. "You and Arthur should do what we used to do when I was a lad to keep warm in winter." He waited for a response, but there was none, so he said, "We used to chop wood." He laughed, then cranked the phone again. "South tower. See anything interesting?"

Rory Devane answered, "Snipers with flak jackets on every roof. The area as far south as Forty-eighth Street is cleared. Across the way there are hundreds of people at the windows." He added, "I feel as though I'm in a goldfish bowl."