“What sort of delusions?”
“He’d wear a clerical collar—present himself to strangers as a priest.” Father Gus seemed perfectly relaxed discussing his former sexton, except for his left foot. His legs were crossed, and the foot kept moving in a tight circle. He was wearing baby-blue socks and down-at-heel moccasins. They were obviously his comfy at-home shoes. “I even suspected Draper of using my vestments from time to time.”
“What made you suspect that?”
“I found them rearranged in the closet.”
“What reason would he have had to wear your vestments?”
“It could have been a dressing-up thing. Or it could have been more serious. He could have been celebrating Mass, right here in the church.”
“Did you ever find any evidence of that?”
“Once or twice it seemed there were fewer consecrated wafers in the pyx than I remembered. And a chalice seemed to have been taken out and used. But there was never anything I could be positive of.”
“When did this happen?”
“When I went away.”
“How often was that?”
“I took a week’s vacation every year. Other priests came in to celebrate Mass, but from sundown to sunrise the church was Draper’s.”
“And how often did Father Romero leave him in charge?”
“Father Chuck never took a vacation—but he did travel to church conventions.”
“I don’t suppose you’d have the dates of those conventions.”
“The church bulletins would list them—if you have the time, I can look. They’re in my office.”
Father Gus’s office, on the other side of the rectory, housed an IBM personal computer, a laser printer, and floor-to-ceiling bookcases. The shades were drawn and the air smelled of pipe tobacco and coffee simmered too long in a coffeemaker. Cardozo had the feeling that this was Father Gus’s cave.
While Father Gus went through a stack of monthly bulletins, Cardozo studied the crayon drawings by children of the parish that decorated the walls.
In seven minutes Father Gus had the information. “Three years ago, Father Chuck was a delegate to the San Francisco convention from November seventh to November fourteenth. The following year he was a delegate to Lima from January twelfth to January twenty-second; and to New Orleans from March third to March seventeenth.”
Cardozo jotted down the dates in his notebook.
“This is sad.” Father Gus had come across a letter tucked inside one of the newsletters. “From Draper. I’d forgotten how unhappy he was after he left us.” He handed Cardozo the handwritten note.
Dear Father,
I am not like you. I have become a loner—such a flop. I feel that God has forgotten me. If only I could do something splendid for God. How I yearn to risk my soul—lose it even—to serve His glory.
Your friend,
Collie
“He calls himself Collie?” Cardozo said.
“That’s his nickname. I think the children gave it to him.”
“Could you describe him?”
“Here, I have a picture.” Father Gus took a photograph down from the wall. It showed a church picnic in a park. “That’s Draper.” He pointed out a lean, dark-haired man carrying a very happy little girl piggyback.
Cardozo’s heart skipped a half beat. He recognized Bonnie’s friend Collie, the man who chauffeured her children. “Could I borrow your phone?”
“Of course.” Father Gus pushed the phone across the desk.
Cardozo dialed Bonnie’s number. Her machine answered. He waited for the beep. “It’s Vince. I’m not at the precinct—I’ll call back. This is urgent. Make sure your kids are with your husband or with you—no one else. Do you understand? No one else.”
When he hung up, Father Gus was watching him with a troubled expression.
“May I borrow that letter?” Cardozo said.
The precinct was screaming like a car alarm, so Cardozo shut the door of his cubicle. He brought the arm of the lamp down low to the desk and began comparing the dates of Father Chuck’s absences with the time ranges that the M.E. had fixed for the murders.
The phone gave its I’m-about-to-ring-and-knock-your-ears-off rattle. “Cardozo.”
“Sandy McCoy’s clothes are saturated in the same incense as the other victims’ clothes.” It was Lou Stein over at the lab. “Again, there are bits of generic acrylic gray shag carpet sticking to them, and again it means absolutely nothing.”
“Except that it’s the fifth time. What about the hamper?”
“Styrobasket, as usual. Same model as the other bodies were found in.”
The light on the other line was blinking. “Thanks, Lou.” Cardozo punched the button. “Cardozo.”
“For the first time,” Dan Hippolito said, “the victim’s fresh enough for the wine to show up in the stomach.”
“So he had communion?”
“Possibly twice. There were fragments of a second wafer lodged behind a molar.”
“What caused death?”
“So far it’s a toss-up. Asphyxiation due to C.N.S. shutdown due to overingestion of azidofluoramine, or massive blood loss due to severing of four major arteries with an electric saw. He had barely two quarts left in him. Hands were secured at some point with leather belts. Signs of beating within the last ten days and burning with dripped candle wax. Plus there’s an injection mark on the inner left forearm, trace cocaine residue on injection mark. Plenty of alcohol and cocaine in the bloodstream.”
“Same killer.”
“You’re the detective.”
“I say it’s the same.”
“I’m with you.”
Cardozo returned to his two lists of dates. The matches kept leaping off the pages.
“You shouldn’t read in that light.”
He hadn’t heard the door open.
“You’re going to ruin your eyes.” Ellie stood watching him from the doorway. “You could buy yourself a new fluorescent bulb from the hardware shop and invoice the department. I could do it for you.”
It was almost a minute before Cardozo pushed back from the desk, satisfied. “Father Chuck was away from his church when Richie Vegas was murdered. St. Veronica’s was in the care of his sexton, Colin Draper. Ditto when Wally Wills was killed. Ditto when Wanda Gilmartin was killed. Colin Draper had the window of opportunity.”
“In that case, you’ll be interested in the preliminary crime scene results.” Ellie handed him a slick sheet of faxed interdepartmental paper. “They’ve put Sandy at Church of the Redeemer an hour before his death.”
Cardozo lifted the phone. Ellie watched him dial Bonnie’s number.
This time Bonnie answered. “What do you mean, my kids could be in danger?”
“Where are they now?”
“With their father.”
“Tell him to keep them there. And don’t let Colin Draper get anywhere near them.”
“But why?”
“I’ll explain. I’m coming right up.”
SIXTY-SEVEN
“W
HERE CAN I FIND
Colin Draper?” Cardozo said.
“He works at the Church of the Redeemer.” Bonnie stood in profile beside her desk, slender in ice-blue. “On Staten Island.”
“Is that your most recent address for him?”
“Yes.”
“When did you last see him?”
The purring air conditioner created a climate like the air in a cave behind a waterfall. The blinds had been angled against the sun-dazzled day and the soft light of the desk lamp lit her from the side.
“I saw him last week when he brought my children over.”
“When are you planning to see him next?”
“Next week when he brings the children here.” She turned. “Unless there’s a change in plans.”
“When did you last speak to him on the phone?”
“Maybe two days ago. Maybe three. I forget.”
“Did he mention anything out of the ordinary—any travel plans?”
She shook her head.
“Was anything bothering him? Did he sound odd—under pressure?”
“No more so than usual—Collie always sounds a little odd and a little pressured.” There was a grace note of irony in the intonation. “You’re awfully interested in Collie.”
For a moment Cardozo did not speak. He felt like a man about to jump from an airplane, uncertain if the parachute would open. “Would you mind telling me exactly how long you’ve known this man, how you met him, what you know about him?”
A shadow slipped across her face. “We met when we were children. It was up in Mount Kisco, at a church-sponsored day camp run by Trappists. He played the organ. I was very impressed by him.” She sat in the easy chair facing Cardozo. “I suppose it was a childhood crush. It never came to anything. We were like brother and sister. We confided everything to one another. I told him my problems, he told me his.”
Something dreamy flitted through her eyes. She smiled. Only a half smile, but it was for her friend Colin, and it wounded Cardozo.
He knew some detachment was necessary. He was doing his best to detach and it wasn’t working.
“Of course,” she said, “he always had more problems than I did.”
“What kind of problems?”
“Awful things. Life never quite seemed to work out for him.”
“Why not?”
A kind of caution was stealing into her eyes. “Maybe because he got a rotten start. Maybe because he came out of a classic American dysfunctional family. His mother was an alcoholic and his father abandoned them when Colin was five. Anything he’s achieved in life he’s had to fight for.”
“Is he unbalanced?”
She glanced across at him. In that split instant he could feel her alarm, hanging solid and tangible in the air between them. “Do you think I’d trust my children to him if there was the slightest question?”
“He wrote a letter to Father Gus.” Cardozo handed her the letter.
She read it carefully. He could feel her trying to puzzle something out.
“Your friend Colin says he’s willing to risk his soul or even lose it for God’s sake.”
Her eyes came up. “What’s so odd about that?”
“Eff has been playing go-between in the communion killings.” Cardozo kept his voice cool, measured, explanatory. “He collected the victims and led them to a man dressed as a priest. This man performed a sort of Mass—and then killed the kids.”
She blinked and missed a beat. “And what does Collie’s letter have to do with any of that?”
“The letter could mean that in some twisted way Colin Draper thinks that killing these kids is helping God.”
She sat perfectly still, then she took in a breath and sprang to her feet. “No. That’s not possible. Collie couldn’t be doing those things. I
know
him. My
children
know him.”
She strode to the bookcase. Then to the window. Just moving. No apparent purpose.
“You’re misreading the letter. It could mean a dozen things.”
“He’s helping God.”
She whirled. “God doesn’t
need
anything, least of all help. You’re not a trained theologian. Collie is. He wouldn’t attribute deficits to an infinite, omnipotent being.”
Cardozo wondered about Bonnie Ruskay. She had the intelligence to dissect a dot and yet she wouldn’t let herself see that the undissected dots made up a picture.
“Have you heard from Father Joe?” he said.
“Since I last spoke with you? No.”
“Aren’t you worried?”
“I always worry about Joe.” Her tone was just a bit too suddenly conversational.
“And is your van back?”
“It’s back.” She smiled and he couldn’t quite make himself believe the smile. “Do you want me to show you?”
“When did it come back?”
“I don’t know—the driver has a key to the garage.”
“Who was driving it?”
She shrugged. “The Meals-on-Wheels drivers vary.”
“You don’t seem too curious about who’s in and out of this building.”
“Not as curious as you. I’m used to chaos.”
Cardozo stood. For now, he had said all that he had to say to her. “Would you let me know if Colin contacts you?”
“All right.”
“And if you leave the rectory, would you advise my office where you’re going—or put your calls on call-forward?”
“Am I under your protection or your surveillance?”
“Let’s just keep you safe and alive.”
“You’re wrong, you know. About Collie. He’s a sweet, spiritual man.”
“I know how fond you are of him. I’d love to be wrong.”
After she’d let Cardozo out of the rectory, Bonnie hurried back to her office and phoned Collie at the Church of the Redeemer. After too many rings, a man told her that Collie was not there.
“Where is he?”
“Gone.”
She recognized Father Henry’s voice, but decided not to identify herself.
“Where can I get in touch with him? It’s urgent.”
“I have no idea.” Father Henry sounded cold, angry. “He didn’t leave a forwarding address.”
Bonnie broke the connection. For a moment she had trouble drawing a full breath. She looked up a number in the directory and tapped seven digits into the phone. Three rings. Her fingers played with the phone cord.
“Pierre Strauss.” A woman’s voice.
“May I speak with him please? It’s Reverend Bonnie Ruskay. Urgent.”
She waited, fidgeting, staring out the window at sunlight streaking through the pear tree.
“Tell me you’re not prosecuting my client,” Pierre Strauss growled. “Please.”
“I have an offer. I won’t press the rape charge against Eff. In exchange, he has to meet me face-to-face. It can be alone. There don’t have to be lawyers or police. He can pick the time and place.”
“What do you want this meeting for?”
“I need the answers to some questions.”
“What questions?”
“I can’t tell you. But he knows.”
Pierre Strauss sighed. “I’ll have to get back to you.”
The rectory door slammed with the sound of a cannon shot. A flight of pigeons stampeded into the sky.
Halfway down the block, behind the wheel of his double-parked Honda, Cardozo saw Bonnie Ruskay dash into the street. He started his motor.
Bonnie flung out an arm. A taxi screeched to a stop. She leapt in and the taxi took off.
Cardozo slammed his engine into gear and wheeled into traffic after her.
The taxi let her off on Broadway, south of Houston. The block was peppered with empty storefronts and
FOR RENT
signs and boarded-up windows. The glitzy boutiques and galleries that had moved in during the Soho boom of the eighties had moved back out with the hard times of the nineties.