Speak of the Devil (31 page)

“If this were that tall policeman. The black one?”

“Patrick Noon.”

“If this was him, I’d let the scales tip toward believing him. But this guy?” She raised both hands, palms flat, then let one rise higher while the other dropped all the way to the bed. She lowered her voice. “That’s a murderer in there, Fritz. That’s all I’m saying. Heepy-creepy.”

I looked at the three items I was holding. Margo was right, of course. My line of business is about doubt, not about trust. I’ve had more than a few meaty discussions with super-shrink Phyllis Scott on
that
topic in my day. I ran back Cox’s story in my head. Simple. Clean. Believable. Still, Margo was right. From someone like Patrick Noon, it would be easy to believe. But with Leonard Cox?

I handed one of the items to Margo. “Put this away, will you?” Then I leaned forward and gave her a peck on the top of the head.

“Down here, stupid,” she said, and I gave her a peck on the lips. “That’s better.”

I indicated her book. “Find us a sexy poem. I’ll go ditch the cop and be right back.”

I returned to the living room. Cox was standing in front of the bookcases. His water glass was on the coffee table. I noticed he hadn’t touched it. He turned sharply as I came into the room.

“Everything okay?”

“Fine,” I said. He didn’t look convinced. “Just wiping up a domestic puddle.” I handed him Donna Bia’s lipstick and her vial of powder.

“That’s it?”

“That’s all I found.”

“Those two things?”

“Right.”

“Well . . . okay.” He sounded doubtful. He pocketed the two items. At the door, he started to say something, then changed his mind and left without a further word.

Margo had the sexy poem all ready when I returned to the bedroom. It wasn’t from the book she was reading. She made it up herself.

“You’re a talented chick, aren’t you?” I said, turning off the light.

A warm foot touched my knee. “So I’m told.”

I SHOWERED AT MARGO’S IN THE MORNING—EARLY, BEFORE SHE’D gotten up—but had nothing clean to put on, so I took the subway downtown and worked my way into fresh skins at my place. I brewed up some coffee. I would’ve as soon flipped open my skull and poured it directly onto my brain, but the hinges were too rusty.

There were two messages on my machine, both from Captain John Kersauson of the Ninety-fifth Precinct. Apparently I hadn’t given him my card, which has my cell phone number, so he’d found me in the book. He said he had called my office number as well. The first message was a request that I come into the station at my earliest convenience to give a statement to the detective in charge of the Donna Bia murder concerning my activities the night before from the time I left the police station, specifically those activities concerning the deceased. The second message had come forty minutes later and told me to skip it “for now.” He went on, “I spoke with the commissioner. He says you’re busy. Must be nice having a fairy godfather like that.”

I had already determined that my first stop of the morning would be to see the fairy godfather himself. I recalled last night’s encounter with the brooding thundercloud that was Tommy Carroll. No one would ever accuse him of being a happy man; that was never the cut of his suit. But I knew he was a proud man, hardworking and accomplished well beyond the crowd he’d grown up with. Unlike Martin Leavitt, whose aspirations—I believed Carroll was right on this—were aimed for even bigger and glossier brass rings than what he had already achieved, Tommy Carroll’s boyhood dreams had been realized when he became police commissioner for the city of New York. Carroll had reached his Everest. When my father had gotten
his
nod to head the NYC Police Department, Captain Tommy Carroll had cornered me at one of the congratulatory bashes thrown for the old man and told me that my father was now the most important man in New York City. “Day to day?” he had said. “On the streets? It’s all about the cops. They grease the wheels in this city. All the other crap that’s New York, it doesn’t happen unless you’ve got the cops. It’s your father now who’s going to make this city run. No one else. The man in that office? He’s the king.”

After my father’s disappearance—once it became clear that the disappearance was, in all likelihood, permanent—and after the two subsequent police commissioners had shown the chinks in their armor, Tommy Carroll ascended to the throne and proved himself completely up to the task. I suppose you could say he was a happy man at that point. Or maybe “satisfied” would be the better word. King Tommy. The most important man in New York City, at least by his own calculus.

But now there was disease—rot—that couldn’t care less how important he was. As far as cancer is concerned, we’re wood and it’s termites. Cancer doesn’t give a damn. It’s equal-opportunity, it’ll hollow out anyone and everyone if given half the chance. I thought of Tommy Carroll standing at his desk the night before, raging impotently. He was an idiot, of course. As long as I’d known him, he’d been a heavy smoker. So this particular time bomb was of his own making. It was the consequence of his own choice. I suppose that’s partly why his feelings about the mayor were so venomous. Leavitt was outside of Carroll’s control. If Martin Leavitt concluded that he needed to knock his police commissioner off the top of Everest in order to keep his own ass clean, that was what he’d do. Carroll had no control over the matter. No wonder he was furious. He was being destroyed from the inside and the outside and there wasn’t a whole hell of a lot he could do about it.

My cell phone went off as I was coming out of my building. That was when I remembered that I’d left Donna Bia’s phone back at Margo’s. It was garbage day, and the green monster was at the curb, roaring as its uniformed handlers tossed black bags of gruel into its maw.

“Hold on!” I yelled into the phone. “I can’t hear you!” I stepped quickly to the corner, where I took the call in front of Rossetti’s bakery.

The caller was Sister Mary Ryan.

“I’m sorry to call you so early, but I have something here I think you should see,” she said.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I don’t know exactly what it means.”

“Does it have to do with Angel Ramos? Did one of the sisters recognize his picture?”

“Not exactly that. But I think it’s important. No, it
is
important.”

The garbage truck was lumbering my way, black smoke belching from its vertical exhausts, the tin lid flapping. The roar grew.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can!” I yelled into the phone, probably louder than I needed to. But then, my heart seemed to be running faster than necessary, too. I flipped the phone closed as the truck shuddered to a halt.

IT WAS SISTER MARGARET’S SUICIDE NOTE.

God should not test His weakest lambs. I am in too much pain. I’m sorry. I am not purity. I’m filth. I’m dirt. I can’t endanger my sisters any longer. I won’t endanger them. If God won’t slaughter this filthy lamb for the sake of purity then this will be my final gift. Maybe there can be some speck of grace from this. I’ve failed. I hurt. God will spit on me for this. He will shed no tears. I lost Happiness and I’ll never know Her. Who is She? She must hate me as much as I do. I forgive everyone who has hurt me and I ask forgiveness from everyone I hurt. I hurt so much. I have failed. I am so so so sick. Oh Lord, what a useless filthy waste. Forgive me.

I looked up from the paper. I was seated once again in the Great Room. Sister Mary Ryan stood in front of me, picking nervously at her lower lip.

“You see?” she said.

I picked up the second piece of paper, the copy of the note that the nuns had received on Saturday.

Sisters—
In love, respect and reverence, a Gift awaits you. It is yours. This is my wish and decree. You must not allow anyone to talk you out of accepting it. Do not let them. You are pure lambs. They are filthy. I want this for you. You are deserving. You are purity. You are endangered. I love you so much. Your Gift awaits you at the Cloisters. You will claim it with the enclosed claim check. Today. After three o’clock. Please be trusting. Please be swift. I am your lamb. From slaughter comes Grace. I am in tears with happiness over your Gift.
A Friend.

“You see?” the nun said again. “There’s no question in my mind. The lamb? The gift?” She stepped to my side. “You see? ‘I can’t endanger my sisters any longer.’ And then in the other one. ‘You are endangered.’ This note we received is obviously related somehow to Sister Margaret. That’s not coincidence.”

I studied the two notes again. She was right. If this was coincidence, then my skin was green and feathery and so were my eighteen toes. I indicated Sister Margaret’s suicide note. “Is this the original?”

She shook her head. “It’s not. As far as I know, the police still have the original. It was Sister Natividad who requested at the time that we procure a copy. I told you how close she and Margaret were. Natividad wanted to have a copy of Margaret’s final words. The note was read to us over the telephone, and we copied it down and then typed it up. Sister Anne has some ambivalence about Natividad’s . . . I don’t want to call it
obsession
. . . with her desire to keep Margaret’s memory vivid. Natividad refers to ‘Margaret’s final words’ quite often. That’s why when she had a look this morning at the note we received on Saturday, she burst into tears. She brought out Sister Margaret’s note and . . . well, as you can see.”

“I can.”

“What do you think it means, Mr. Malone?”

I lowered the two notes and gazed up at the crucified figure on the far wall. Then I stood and turned to Sister Mary.

“It means I want to talk to your youngest nun.”

WHILE I WAITED FOR SISTER NATIVIDAD TO BE SUMMONED, I PHONED Tommy Carroll’s office. The commissioner wasn’t in. I was put through to his faithful assistant.

“Commissioner Carroll is with the mayor,” Stacy said.

“How does he look today?” I asked.

“Excuse me?”

“How does the commissioner look today? He went home sick yesterday. I was just curious how he looked to you this morning.”

“He. Looked. Fine.” It took nearly six seconds for her to say the sentence.

“Choosing your words carefully there, Stacy?”

“Excuse me?”

“I. Think. You. Should. Relax.”

She asked sharply, “Do you enjoy giving everyone a hard time or just me?” No problem spitting that sentence out.

“Only the lucky few,” I said.

“I will tell the commissioner that you called,” she said officiously.

“Atta girl.”

I heard what might have been a large sigh. “What is it? Is it something particular that I’ve said? I don’t understand you.”

“You do your job well,” I said.

“Thank you.”

“I’m just looking for the entry point to the rest of you.”

“Well, I wish you would stop. It’s rude. I’ll have Commissioner Carroll call you.”

“Tell him to have the Cloisters note handy, as well as the other notes from Nightmare.”

“Cloisters note. Nightmare. I’ll tell him.”

“Listen. Now that we’ve had this brief moment of air-clearing frankness, could you tell me now how he looked this morning? How does the old man seem to you?”

“I don’t believe that is in the purview of my job.”

“ ‘Purview’? Aw, Stace, do we have to go back there?”

“Make all the fun you want, Mr. Malone. Go right ahead. It’s fucking kick-Stacy week anyway.” She hung up.

Very interesting. Layer upon layer.

Sister Natividad was brought before me. That was how it felt. The young nun’s head was bowed, and she moved almost as if her ankles were chained together. Sister Mary was slightly behind her, seeming to push her forward by the elbow.

“I would like to speak with the sister alone,” I said. “If that’s all right.”

“Of course.”

I addressed the young nun. “Is there, um, someplace less great we could talk? Where would you be more comfortable?”

She answered immediately. “The fountain.” I cocked an eyebrow at Sister Mary.

“Natividad can show you,” she said. “I’ll be in the office if you need me.”

She left the room. Sister Natividad led me through the large dining room, then took a left before reaching the kitchen. We followed a clammy corridor down to a large oak door that led out onto a small garden arbor. A gravel pathway defined the square space, as did a framework of weathered trellises bearing the empty gray limbs of what I figured were grapevines. Precisely defined strips of turned earth indicated dormant flower beds. In the center of the square was a small fountain, not much more than a glorified birdbath in which a silver burble of water rolled over itself. A pair of finches perched on the rim of the fountain.

Beneath one of the trellises was a wooden bench. The nun moved directly to the bench and sat down, and I took a seat at the other end. It felt absurdly like a courting dance. The nun spoke first.

“Margaret had a rule. She was not allowed to be sad here.”

“Here. You mean out here in the garden?”

She nodded. “Sometimes it was only for a minute. Sometimes she could be here for almost an hour. Not often, though.”

“What happened to Sister Margaret?”

She looked over at me. “What do you mean?”

“Why was she so miserable? Why did she kill herself?”

The nun answered without hesitation. “God was angry with her.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“Yes.”

“And why was God angry with her?”

“Because she drank, and because she could not keep herself from drinking. Even here. In God’s holy house, she could not keep her sins away. Sometimes she was found on the floor. Passed out. Sometimes when she was drinking, she would say horrible things.”

“Did she seek help? Did she try to go it alone, or did she look for help? Counseling? A.A.?”

“Yes. Sometimes. The meetings. She went to them. There were times when she was better, but they didn’t last.”