“Why did he kill himself?”
“It had nothing to do with me, Dad.”
“How do you know?”
“Because we weren’t lovers. The story going around was, he met someone else and they
were
lovers. I mean a real love affair. Sex, passion, obsession. It went sour and he never pulled out of the depression.”
“Who was he in love with?”
“It was only a rumor.”
“What was the rumor?”
She sighed. “The rumor was, Wright’s parents found a lot of love letters from the rector at St. Andrew’s. The church had to buy them back.”
“I understand,” Cardozo said, “that Mr. and Mrs. Baxter Vanderbrook sued the Episcopal Church a year and a half ago?”
Bishop Griswold Hancock’s keen blue eyes fixed on him over the gold rims of half-moon reading spectacles. “They brought suit against the New York diocese.”
“I can’t find any record of the suit.”
“Because it was never tried.”
“And why was that?”
“Because it was utterly without merit.”
They were sitting in the bishop’s office in the parish house of the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. The bishop’s desk stood between them, a grand piano-size island of paperwork, reference books, and blinking telephone buttons.
“From what I’ve been able to piece together,” Cardozo said, “the Vanderbrooks sued on the grounds that their son received counseling from St. Andrew’s and then committed suicide.”
“Those are the bare bones of fact in the matter.” The bishop removed his glasses and began tapping them against the blotter. “No one disputed them. What we did dispute was the way the Vanderbrooks dressed those bones up. They claimed that the counseling caused the suicide.”
“And did they produce any evidence?”
“Purported evidence. Love letters supposedly exchanged by their son and a minister of the church.”
“You say
supposedly
.”
“Examination showed that the letters were a fiction.”
“Forgeries?”
“The court never went into the question of forgery.”
“Then how were the letters a fiction?”
Shafts of light slanted through the barred window, dappling the oriental rug.
“They were a fiction in the sense of something that never occurred in actual life.” The bishop turned in his brass-studded leather swivel chair. Now he was speaking to the grandfather clock. “Furthermore, these letters were offered by a parishioner of St. Andrew’s—a former parishioner—who was suing the church on another matter.”
“Who was the ex-parishioner?”
“The settlement of the Vanderbrooks’ suit forbids me to discuss the matter.”
“What was the unrelated suit?”
“It wouldn’t be ethical to tell you. The important point is that the Vanderbrooks withdrew their suit. Which is proof presumptive of the falsity of their claims.”
“You don’t seem to want to come out and say the Vanderbrooks’ claims were false.”
“There was no trial. Nothing was proved. Nothing was disproved.”
There you go again. Saying it without exactly saying it.
“Why do I get the impression you’re picking your words very, very carefully?”
“Because we’re discussing a court matter and I’m using the court’s words. If you’d prefer me to answer in plain words, then put your question plainly.”
Ouch
, Cardozo realized:
I’ve just been dressed down by my elementary school principal.
“If…” the bishop said, “
If
you’re asking me about the character of the rector of St. Andrew’s and of his assistant—and it’s obvious to me you are—then I can only tell you that I have the highest personal and professional regard for Joe Montgomery. As I do for Bonnie Ruskay. She’s a world-class scholar in Aramaic and ancient Hebrew. She’s done fantastic work on the Dead Sea scrolls. He lectures at Columbia on social work and social justice in the light of the Gospels. Their ministry is Christian in the core sense of the word and ethically impeccable. In the entire city of New York, you couldn’t find two more dedicated or decent individuals.”
FORTY-SIX
I
T WAS PARENTS’ DAY
at St. Anne’s school, and Cardozo and Ellie and Terri were careful to arrive after the speeches. Students and parents and faculty swarmed the school auditorium. It looked as though it was also the gym, and possibly the cafeteria too. A student band was providing soft rock from the stage.
“Smile,” Cardozo said. “We’re in deep cover.”
“As what,” Ellie said, “a family?”
“Something like that.”
“I feel like such a fraud,” Terri said. “I
never
went to these things at my school.”
“Just keep smiling. No one’s going to arrest us. No one’s even going to spot us.” In the entire crowd, Cardozo counted three nuns’ habits. Secularization had clearly hit the Catholic school system.
“I see him.” Cardozo nodded unobtrusively toward the small refreshment bar that had been set up on the free-throw line of the basketball court. A heavyset man with brush-cut blond hair was ladling himself a cup of punch. Cardozo recognized the face from the photo on Bonnie Ruskay’s desk. “Excuse me, guys. I have to go be a part of the community.”
Cardozo crossed to the bar and took a plastic cup from the top of the stack.
“I’ll fill you,” Bonnie’s ex said.
“Thanks.” Cardozo held out the cup.
Bonnie’s ex tipped a ladleful of green something into it. “Madhouse.”
“This is the first year I’ve been here.”
“This year it’s the worst I’ve ever seen.” Bonnie’s ex had hair so fair that his eyebrows looked like skin grafts. “Your kid’s in first form?”
“I’m ashamed to say she’s a lot older than that. But I’ve never been able to make it to one of these before. I’m a cop.”
“Is that so?” As if by agreement, they fell into step and strolled under the backstop, over to the sideline.
“I’m in construction and roofing.” Bonnie’s ex offered his hand. “The name’s Ernie Stevens.”
“Vince Cardozo. Good to meet you. Have you built any interesting roofs lately?”
Ernie pointed to the ceiling. “That roof’s mine. And I’m reroofing a shopping center over in Astoria. What about you? Any interesting cases lately?”
There was an unoccupied table between the parallel bars and the punching bag. They sat on folding chairs.
“You might have read about one of mine,” Cardozo said. “A homicide up at St. Andrew’s rectory?”
Ernie’s forehead wrinkled. “You…me…meeting like this—it’s not an accident.”
Cardozo shook his head. “Not exactly.”
“She didn’t send you to me, did she?”
“No, but she showed me your picture.”
“She’s got my picture?”
“On her desk—with the kids.”
“Right.” Ernie nodded. “With the kids.” He turned in his chair to look around the gym. “They’re here somewhere. I’ll introduce you.” He drained his plastic cup. “They’d love to meet a cop.”
“A housebreaker was killed,” Cardozo said. “Father Joe rigged a booby trap.”
“So Father Joe finally got a dose of the real world—and turned out to be as much of a redneck as the rest of us.”
“Why do you say that?”
“My wife left me to become an Episcopal priest. I guess I view Father Joe as the other man.”
“Your ex-wife doesn’t seem to think he could kill.”
Ernie toyed with a tiny American flag on a toothpick that someone had left on the table.
“Bonnie couldn’t see evil in Jack the Ripper even if you showed her the six dead hookers. Seriously, I’ve known Bonnie since we were kids. Nothing’s changed. Even then she was the neighborhood saint. And her playmates.” He smiled, remembering. “Words can’t really describe her brother Ben and their friend Collie. You’d have to meet them.”
“I’ve met them.”
“You get around.”
“They seemed decent guys.”
“Which nobody can deny. I guess you’d have to have known them when they were kids. They were religious groupies. Bonnie and Ben and Collie played church the way other children played house. When they were six years old they were putting on bathrobes and giving communion and last rites. I was the neighborhood roughneck—I’d lead gangs and break up their Masses. Bonnie and Ben and Collie loved it. Martyrdom. It was all make-believe.”
“I understand.”
“Except one thing wasn’t make-believe. They all three wanted to be Catholic priests. Ben applied to the seminary. They told him to go into the world for three years and test his vocation. He went to work for the biggest church provisions company in the state—and in three years he was running it. Never reapplied to seminary.” Ernie stopped. “Why am I telling you all this?”
“Because I asked and you’re a good citizen.”
Ernie shrugged. “Which brings us to Collie. He was a different story. Collie was accepted at the seminary—and then he decided he wasn’t a priest.”
“Why’d he decide that?”
“He was in Panama with the U.S. forces during the invasion. Something changed his mind. He’s never told me what.” Ernie twisted in his seat. “My kids better show up soon, or you’re going to know the life story of everyone I know. I must be boring you to death.”
“Not at all.”
“Okay. Which brings us to Bonnie. Say when. Bonnie had great hopes the church would open up to women. She applied to the seminary and they laughed at her—said no woman could ever be a priest. So she did the next best thing—married me. I should have realized it was a rebound.” Ernie chuckled with sad self-mockery. “Around that time, the Episcopal Church very quietly began ordaining women. One day she told me she wanted to take classes at the Episcopal seminary. I should have seen the handwriting on the wall—but no, not me. Next thing I knew, she converted. Which I couldn’t square with my conscience. I’m what you might call an obedient Catholic. Endangered species, right? I expected my kids to have a Catholic home. So we annulled the marriage.”
“But doesn’t an annulment leave them kind of…” Cardozo didn’t want to say the word
illegitimate.
“If the curia had decreed an annulment
de principio
, the marriage would never have existed, and the kids would be out-of-wedlock. I’d never have done that to my own flesh and blood. We asked for an annulment
per causa.
That leaves the kids in the clear. The marriage only ceased to exist when Bonnie ceased being a Catholic. The way canon law sees it, she died.”
Curious doctrine
, Cardozo thought. “And what does canon law say now that she’s ordained?”
“Probably says she went to hell.”
“Do you agree?”
“She’s a decent person. She’s doing what she thinks is right. I can’t see God punishing you for that.”
“Her family’s reaction must have been…mixed.”
“Hard to say. They’re troubled people. Her father died of alcoholism. Ben used to have the same problem. He used to go on benders. Almost killed himself.”
“Has your ex-wife ever had any alcohol or substance abuse problem?”
Ernie shook his head. “Definitely not her style. She’d never do anything to disgrace the kids.”
“Even though the church says the kids are motherless.”
“The church and the children don’t agree on that. Frankly, neither do I.”
“But you’re free to remarry.”
Ernie looked pained at the suggestion. He lifted a hand to massage around his eyes. He was still wearing a wedding ring. Cardozo had to wonder if the ring was a masquerade for Parents’ Day, or if he wore it all the time as a widower might, as a sign of remembrance and loss.
“I hate to interrupt when you two have got a good dialogue going.” Ellie Siegel approached, beaming a friendly smile. “But I’m dead. Are all these seats taken?”
Cardozo got to his feet. “Ellie, meet Ernie. He’s telling me about roofing and construction in the big city.”
Ernie rose with careful gallantry and pulled out a chair for her. “I don’t know if that’s the kind of subject you’re interested in.” He gave her a long glance.
Ellie sat down. She returned the long glance. “I’m very interested.”
“Ernie did the roof we’re sitting under.”
“Really.” Ellie looked up. “How’d you do that, Ernie?”
“It was a challenge—a composite roof truss without queen posts.”
“Really.”
“You don’t want to hear this.”
Ellie shook her head. “I do, I do.”
“No queen posts, you can’t run struts. No struts, how do you hold the weight of the glass?”
“Well, hello there.” A dark-haired woman approached the table, leading two very young, very blond children.
Ernie cleared his throat. “My friend Laura Lupecano. And my kids, Kelly and Kyle. Fellas, I want you to say hi to Ellie and Vince Cardozo.”
“Siegel,” Ellie corrected. “Ellie Siegel. I’m just a family friend.”
“Like me.” Laura had pretty, heavily made-up eyes, and she was holding an almost-empty plastic cup with lipstick prints on the rim. “Tell you one thing, we’re pretty good friends to come to Parents’ Day, right?”
“Vince and I work for the same company,” Ellie said. “I figured he needed a little moral support.”
Cardozo got up and pulled out a chair for Laura.
She smiled. “Thank you.” She sat. “What company is that?”
“The police,” Ernie said. “They work for the police. So watch what you say.” He laughed. “Just kidding.”
“Really?” Laura’s pencil-line eyebrows went up. “You hear that, kids? These guys are cops.”
“Can I have your autograph?” the little girl said. She wore pink bows in her pigtails and she had the irresistible smile of a four-year-old flirt.
“May I,” Laura corrected.
“Sure thing.” Cardozo ripped a sheet from his notebook, signed it, and passed it to Ellie. She added her signature and handed it to the girl.
The freckled face broke into a delighted grin.
The boy was hanging back, looking away from Cardozo. He appeared to be six years old or so, with eyeglasses that gave him the precocious scowl of a very young Einstein. Cardozo had recognized the boy instantly: he had been playing hide-and-seek with Collie in the St. Andrew’s rectory.
The next move’s up to you
,
kid
, Cardozo thought.
You can tell your dad we’ve already met and blow your secret meetings with your mom
—
or you can keep it under your hat. Whatever makes you comfortable.