Authors: Edward Conlon
It nearly broke Nick’s heart not to laugh at him, but he gravely shook his head. “Not where I’m going.”
“What? You want a transfer? Where?”
“The French Foreign Legion. Where we go to forget.”
“C’mon, Nick.”
“Nobody’s got anything to worry about. Special Victims tried to dump a case on us. Now I want to steal it.”
“Nick!” Garelick yelled, nearly trembling with relief. “I knew you were just an asshole! That’s great! The best news! Still, I want a fresh cup. I might even take over the coffee club. It’s such a disgrace, the way things
have gone downhill. You know even the refrigerator is broken? The milk’s on the ledge to stay cold, like my father did on Orchard Street, when he peddled fish….”
“Your father was an accountant.”
“Don’t spoil the mood.”
Garelick was pouring the coffee when Lieutenant Ortiz came out of his office. He was smiling, too. He had lost the argument with the lieutenant from Special Victims, and the case was not a case—it was nothing, as far as the other squad was concerned. Lieutenant Ortiz was welcome to waste whatever time, whatever manpower, he had on it. Garelick poured the coffee, taking in what was said. He didn’t know exactly what was going on, but now he knew what wasn’t. When the cups were full, he stepped out of the office, probably to call Napolitano, Esposito, to let them know they had nothing to fear. When they didn’t return, Nick figured they didn’t trust Garelick, either. He didn’t care as much as he might have; he had Grace, someone to work for, the prospect of accomplishment, colossally simple, a snake he might catch without jumping into the snake pit.
Lieutenant Ortiz drove down with Nick to pick Grace up from her building, and they circled the school, noting exits and entrances, where the bus stop was, the possibilities of escape and approach, residential buildings and commercial ones, which had wide windows, where someone might watch, where someone might run. Grace was interested by the mechanics of the operation, excited that she was part of the plan. When she told the lieutenant that he should grow his hair longer, that it would make him look younger, both detectives flinched and didn’t answer. The lieutenant didn’t even turn around when they stopped, but Nick got out of the car and opened her door, an escort’s gesture, he knew. They were around the corner from where she lived, so neighbors and worse could not see.
Nick told her that she should go to school tomorrow, she would be safe, they would make sure that nothing went wrong. He thought about giving her his cellphone number, then decided against it. It could be taken the wrong way. The lieutenant drove back to the school and parked the car. He did not make a movement that indicated he might get up. Instead, he settled in his seat and looked over at Nick, lighting a cigarette.
“Nick, do what you gotta do. I’ve done too much police work for one day. This kid—I got daughters her age. My God! Do you believe her?”
Nick nodded.
“Yeah. Me, too. I can’t believe how she’s keeping together through this. I can almost see how you’d hold it against her. How somebody might. Stupid, but I can see it happen. God forbid … And you have to let the father know. You want me to take care of that, Nick? You want me to make the call? If he won’t let her go, he won’t. We can work it out without her, just cover the school.”
Nick knew at once that he had no intention of telling Ivan Lopez. Not telling him was what Esposito would have done; maybe they had rubbed off on each other more than he was willing to admit.
“Nah. I got it.”
“Plus, you let the sister know that we’ll set up here tomorrow. We’ll be outside. The school day should go on like normal for the kids, everyone else. Everything should seem like it usually does. Did I ever tell you, Nick, that nuns scare me?”
When Nick saw Sister Agnes in the hall, she regarded him sternly, then beckoned him to follow her to her office. En route, she stopped a group of girls as they jogged down the hall, in basketball uniforms. One of them was singled out, and the rest were sent on; Sister Agnes accomplished the separation with a wave of one hand, then a flick of the fingers. The outlier was culled from the herd with astonishing economy. The girl trembled, at first, then sulked.
“What is this you have around your neck?”
“A medal, Sister.”
“I see that. What of? I apologize. Let me rephrase. Of what saint is this a medal? Whose image is cast about your neck, in bronze?”
“Saint Barbara, Sister. And it’s gold.”
“Perhaps electroplate, but it is no concern, the surface. Did Saint Barbara have red eyes? Were they made of rubies, this saint who you believe to be your friend? Who is Saint Barbara?”
“I dunno, Sister.”
“No, you do not. And since you do not, and cannot, please do not wear this jewelry. A crucifix, the Miraculous Medal, Our Lady, many things mean something. Saint Barbara does not.”
“Yes, Sister. But my moms gave it to me.”
“Tell her, then, to look up Saint Barbara, and your mother will find she does not exist. Saints are to help us find God. God does not find us—even
—especially
, when we try to look pretty, in a foolish, unladylike way.
Such as with makeup, as you wear. Go to the bathroom and wash your face, please. Right now, so I will not ask you to stay after school tomorrow, to write an essay about modesty.”
When the girl had been dismissed, Sister Agnes explained that the legend of Barbara was from the time of the early Christians, during the persecution of the Romans. Her cruel pagan father had her killed for her faith, after which he was struck down by lightning. Sister Agnes continued the lesson as she led Nick to her office. “The Orthodox Church still allows her cult, but we do not. So you see, if a Greek girl wore the necklace, or a Russian, it would be merely silly. But for many Spanish people, from the islands, Barbara is a disguised saint. They use her as the Christian face of one of the pagan gods, from slavery. The war god, of all things—because of the lightning! Can you think of a deception that is quite so repellent? Can you, Detective?”
“Not offhand, Sister.”
“If I wanted a thousand gods, I could have stayed in India.”
They sat there in silence for a moment, each distracted by private reverie. Sister Agnes seemed mournful. Did she miss her childhood, its crowded heavens? Nick looked away, in furtive deference, unwilling to intrude, reluctant to be caught staring. He felt terrible for poor Barbara, cast out from the communion of saints. What a harsh accusation, the worst possible insult: not unimportance but nonexistence. Nick sympathized. Then, he remembered.
“Actually, there is something worse, Sister. That’s what I came to see you about.”
“Yes, forgive me. Please.”
And Nick told her what had happened, what he wanted to do. He did not tell her that Grace had been raped, only that she had been followed by a man Nick believed to be the rapist. He assured her that he did not mean to interrupt the routine of the school; in fact, he needed it to continue without interruption. Sister Agnes considered what was said, flexing her fingers.
“I might suggest the tower, on the southwest, as convenient. Quite a bit of the surroundings are visible, and it is rarely used.”
“Convenient for what, Sister?”
“If you need to shoot him, of course. From a distance. With a rifle.”
“Thank you for offering. I think other plans … are, um, being planned.”
“Very well. We are at your disposal.”
Sister Agnes rose from her seat, indicating Nick should do the same, and led him down the hall. She stopped for a second, then continued walking, as if something had occurred to her, but she did not want to reveal her sudden thought. “We have a very fine lady here, a counselor. Do you think that Grace would benefit from speaking to her, in the event that she has experienced any … difficulty or confusion?”
“It’s always good to have someone to talk to…. I don’t know if Grace is more confused than anyone else her age. Less, in lots of ways.”
“I see…. Ladies!”
Sister Agnes had spotted the basketball team again, as they clustered in a hallway corner. One of them had seen her, and she had spurred the girls into jogging again with a desperate elbow, amid fits of giggles. Sister knew there was some clandestine activity afoot, likely innocent, but nonetheless worthy of her notice. “They must be watched, always. Otherwise, it would be bedlam.”
“Bethlehem.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The word comes from ‘Bethlehem,’ Sister. From a mental hospital in England, called Bethlehem. It was the way the local people said it.”
Sister Agnes stopped abruptly. “That may be true, Detective, but it is nonetheless impertinent. I shall see you tomorrow, of course, if necessary. But I hope it is not.”
Back at the squad, the plans were laid early in the evening, for the next day. Grace would be watched as she walked from her apartment to the bus stop; one of the detectives would be on the bus when she boarded. The rest of the roles required costumes, or at least props, and Nick was impressed by how they were fought over. They could use a groundskeeper, a phone company man on the pole, maybe a derelict. Could there be a hot dog vendor? No, not in this cold. And snow, heavy snow, was forecast for tomorrow. Esposito had hung back from the meeting, and Nick thought he seemed sullen. He usually wanted the lead, and usually he got it; now he said nothing. Garelick wanted to be a priest, but Lieutenant Ortiz had vetoed the request.
“That’s just prejudice, plain and simple,” Garelick muttered, his affront unfeigned.
The lieutenant was unmoved. “I’m the priest, and what I say goes. Whoever doesn’t have a bit now, they’re in cars, two in a car, on side
streets, ready to move in. Nobody gets to be the milkman, nobody gets to be the chimney sweep, whatever. This is not a goddamn high school musical!”
In the end, the assignments were made, and Esposito and Napolitano took one of the catch cars, staying off to the side. The lieutenant was wrong. This was a play, and it was high school. Grace alone had undertaken her role without fear or fuss. The men had argued in the office about what her signal should be if she saw him, whether it should be to blow her nose or take off her glasses, and Nick tried to remember if she was in the habit of doing either. It had to be subtle enough for the detectives to recognize, at a distance, without the rapist noticing, up close. Less than doing jumping jacks, more than yawning or blinking, touching her nose. Nick told the lieutenant he’d work it out, and tell them later.
“And you told the father, Nick? What did he say?”
“A lotta cursing in Spanish, a lotta crying. He’s the father. You know how it is, Lou. But he knows this is the best chance to get the guy, so he’s on board.”
Nick thought he had lied beautifully, but he caught a flicker of wariness in the lieutenant’s eyes, so he went on. “The one thing he says? He says, ‘Make sure there’s not a trial. The animal, he doesn’t deserve it.’ I told him we’d do what we had to do.”
The lieutenant was satisfied with the answer, and went home soon after. When Nick called Grace again, it was from the lieutenant’s office, with the door closed. He hoped her father wouldn’t pick up the phone.
“What kind of shoes do you wear, Grace?”
“Regular shoes. Ugly. Uniform shoes. But tomorrow it’s supposed to snow, so I’ll wear my new boots. They’re really nice, and—”
“You’ll have boots on, in the morning?”
“Yeah. It’s supposed to snow. My father got ’em. I can’t believe it, but they’re really nice.”
“Okay. Wear them tomorrow, even if it’s sunny. And if you see the guy, I want you to drop down, pretend to tie your shoe.”
“But there’s no laces.”
“I know. It’s so if you drop down to check, it’s not for that. It’s so we’ll know he’s there.”
“Won’t he know, too?”
“No. I don’t think so. Most guys don’t pay much attention to shoes. He’s smart, but I don’t think he’s that smart. Were, um, you wearing
shoes when he was there before? Was he really interested in them? Did he touch them, or did he say anything about them?”
“Nah.”
“Okay. Just check something in your shoe. Pretend something’s stuck, there’s a rock in it, whatever.”
“Okay.”
“All right. Good. Also, since they’re new shoes, would you walk around in them tonight for a little bit? I don’t want you to stub your toe, and everybody jumps in, scaring him away. Tell you what—Never mind, let’s think of something else, another signal—”
“No, Nick. It’s okay. I get it. They fit fine. My father has a shoe store. He doesn’t know much, but my shoes fit. Anyway, I’m gonna march around my room, just to be safe, so it feels right, for tomorrow. It’s gonna be hard to go to sleep tonight…. And I can’t tell my father, right?”
“Right.”
All of these melodramatic secrecies were awful, maybe illegal, but the alternatives were worse. Lopez could only get in the way. Grace called one last time, later that night, just before Nick was going home.
“Detective Nick?”
“Yes?”
“Do you promise to get him?”
The temptation tore at Nick, but he could not say the one word she wanted. He grasped for an answer that would give neither of them frostbite.
“I can’t make guarantees like that, Grace. But I promise you, if he shows up, I’ll do what needs to be done.”
“Okay. Mostly, I just wanted to say thanks. Also, that I feel sorry for him. That guy. He must be so … I don’t know. But can you imagine what it’s like to be him? I feel bad…. Is that weird?”
Nick was speechless again, as he had been when she had first called that day. Then, he had feared she had seen through him; now he was afraid he would never see her, never begin to comprehend her wild gift. She hadn’t forgiven the rapist, but she felt for him, tried to understand. There was something devastating in how she did that, even now—especially now, on the eve of another ordeal—that there was a place in her mind for compassion, a thought for someone else. It was almost offensive in its generosity. She was the true mystery, not the degenerate
who pursued her. Brutality and need were natural, not this. Nick was humbled, grateful that he had the chance to work for her.