She looked up from her desk, startled and angry. “If you don’t mind, we’re having a private discussion.” She waved him away and he saw a white bandage on her right hand, thick as a mitten with the fingers cut out. “Would you please wait outside?”
A pale woman, wraithlike and jeweled and tall, rose from one of the armchairs. “No, Bonnie. It’s time we got this into the open.”
“Irene—don’t say one word.”
Cardozo recognized Irene Vanderbrook.
“You’ve shielded me long enough.” Irene Vanderbrook turned to Cardozo. “Are you going to prosecute Bonnie?”
“The D.A. decides that, not me.”
“Bonnie’s not responsible. I’m the responsible person.”
“You don’t have to tell him anything,” Bonnie said.
“What’s left to tell?” Irene Vanderbrook said. “He’s seen the notes my son and Mommy wrote.”
“That’s not why I’m here,” Cardozo said.
“I was Mommy.” Irene Vanderbrook’s eyes, deep-set and green, fixed him. “That’s why Wright went into pastoral counseling. That’s why he took his life. I’m prepared to go on the record. Bonnie can’t defend herself. She’s bound by the seal of the confessional. I’ve thrashed this out with her, and she’s aware of my decision.”
Cardozo had a paralyzing sense of embarrassment. “Mrs. Vanderbrook, we’re not prosecuting your son’s death.”
She glanced from him to Bonnie, confused. “But you came to the house—you were looking into it again.”
“Yes, I looked into it, but believe me, the reverend isn’t in any danger on that score.”
Irene Vanderbrook looked down at the floor. Her shame was palpable. “In that case, my conscience is a little lighter on one small point. I’ll be going.”
The minute the door was shut, Bonnie whirled. “How could you do that to that poor woman?”
“What happened to your hand?”
“My hand is my concern.”
Cardozo watched her put all the elements together: the righteous rage, the finishing-school carriage, the womanly vulnerability, the borderline-haughty speech mannerisms “You said those letters of Wright Vanderbrooks’s were notes you’d taken.”
“I did not. I said I took notes and the notes were stolen.”
“Then you misled me.”
“You misled yourself.”
“You really have it down to a science. You play with words. You withhold. You do whatever it takes to protect your technical innocence.”
“I’m sorry if that’s what you think of me after one misunderstanding.”
“Not a misunderstanding, and not just one. You knew I was looking for Father Joe. You knew he was in the apartment over your mother’s garage.”
There was a startled reflex in her eyes. “What have you done with him?”
“He’s back in the hospital—under guard.”
She gathered a careful neutrality into her expression. “I didn’t lie to you.”
“But you and Collie hid him.”
“I’ll be damned if I’ll justify my actions as a priest to you or anyone else.”
“There was a warrant for Father Joe’s arrest.”
“It was an immoral, illegal, invalid warrant and he left the hospital before it was issued.”
“How did a blind man walk out of a hospital?”
“Sonya Barnett helped him.”
“Then you’re all accomplices.”
She cocked her gaze up, defiant now. “David Lowndes doesn’t happen to agree with your interpretation of the statute.”
“At least you’ve had the good sense to consult your lawyer. When did you do that—when you realized I was looking for Collie?”
“I did nothing to obstruct you.”
“You knew he was at St. Kerry’s and you withheld the information.”
“I didn’t know.”
“For the love of God—you drove up there and brought him back!”
“I didn’t know till my brother traced him.”
“Your brother just happened to trace him?”
“I asked him to. I was worried sick. When Collie lost his job he started drinking again.”
“And do you know why he lost his job?”
“He’s not making any secret of it. He celebrated Mass for a runaway and the rector discovered it.”
“Doesn’t it seem odd to you—celebrating Mass for a lone runaway?”
“Maybe it is odd and whimsical—maybe Collie’s odd and whimsical. He chooses to help runaways—just as Father Joe chooses to help them. Is it a crime to help the helpless? To bring God into their lives?”
“It is if you kill them afterward.”
“He didn’t!”
“We got Collie’s fingerprints from the VA. They were on the same chalice as Sandy McCoy’s. They were on the same chalice as Jaycee Wheeler’s. Sandy and Jaycee were both dead within hours of taking communion.”
“First you say it’s Father Joe and then you say it’s Collie. Why not toss a coin and just choose between them? Or are you so greedy now you want them both?”
“Who’s Damien?”
She looked over at him, confused. “Damien ministered to the lepers.”
“Not that Damien—the Damien who gives books to himself. Collie has a whole collection of them.”
“Damien is a name priests use when they’re being treated for embarrassing problems like alcoholism.”
“And it’s a name Collie uses when he’s off his nut. And when he’s off his nut he kills runaways because he thinks they’ve been bashing the Church—and I wonder how long you’ve known that?”
“You don’t know Collie. I do. He’s never harmed a soul.”
“Then why did you warn him I was looking for him?”
“Because he’s innocent and you won’t believe it.”
“What does it take to shake your faith? There are bloody vestments hanging in the closet. There are souvenirs from the victims sitting in your piggy bank—photographs of the corpses in the scrap book—drafts of that anonymous note blaming Father Joe—and to you he’s still innocent and you’re still hiding him.”
“He
is
innocent and he’s
not
hiding!”
“Then where is he?”
She hesitated. “He went to St. Patrick’s.”
“So he can sit in on another zap?”
“He never—”
The phone rang. She crossed the room to answer. “Rectory… Yes, he’s right here.” Frowning, she held the receiver out to Cardozo.
“Cardozo.”
“Eff just phoned his grandmother,” Ellie said. “She says a letter came for him this morning, Federal Express. He’s on his way now to pick it up.”
“Then we’re into countdown. Wait for me.” Cardozo hung up the phone. He turned to Bonnie. “We’ll have to finish this later.”
EIGHTY-TWO
B
Y THE TIME CARDOZO
collected Ellie and Greg Monteleone from the precinct and negotiated traffic up to the Bronx, the sun had begun to slip down the sky and shadows were creeping up the face of 322 Highland Road. He pulled the Honda into the space beside an open hydrant, near enough to see the front stoop, far enough not to be noticed.
Heat shimmered over the street like ripples in a pair of cheap sunglasses. Boom boxes and backfires echoed in the dead air.
“I forgot to mention the bad news,” Ellie said. “The crime-scene crew can’t go out to the garage till tomorrow.”
“Why the hell not?” Cardozo said.
“They don’t want to run up the overtime.”
“Who doesn’t?”
“Some bean counter in the Puzzle Palace.”
“What about the guard? Can we at least protect the crime scene?”
“No money for them either. Which reminds me—the captain yanked Reverend Bonnie’s guard. She’s on her own.”
“I don’t believe the incompetence of these watch-your-assers!”
Greg spat a mouthful of orange pips out the window. “Believe it.”
“What if Eff decides to attack her again?”
“The captain says he won’t.”
“The captain could have his head up his gazoo.”
“That would be bad news,” Ellie said. “On the other hand, Eff’s got his priorities, right? And right now his priority is his grandmother, not the reverend.”
“Let’s hope he keeps his priorities straight,” Cardozo said glumly.
“And let’s not forget the good news,” Ellie said. “I’ve got a search warrant for the garage.”
“That’s really helpful,” Cardozo said.
At that moment a blue baseball cap came around the corner. It was wagging a blond ponytail and it was bouncing straight toward 322.
Cardozo nodded. “That’s him.”
Ellie double-checked the rounds in her revolver. She looked over at Cardozo and Greg with a falsely bright smile. “You never know, guys.”
Grammaw opened the door wearing a blood-colored shawl. Eff was standing with one elbow against the doorjamb, New York Mets cap pushed way forward over a mock-streetwise scowl.
Grammaw pushed a smile onto her face and kissed him. He sauntered into the apartment. He picked up the oversize Federal Express envelope from the table.
“Must be awfully important,” she said.
He grinned. “I doubt it.”
She watched him tear the envelope open. There was a second envelope inside. He didn’t open that one.
“Do you have time to visit? I was just making some coffee.”
“How about some ice water? And could I use the bathroom?”
“Of course you can.”
Eff went into the bathroom and quietly turned the key in the lock. He opened the second envelope. It contained a photo of a teenage girl sunbathing topless on the dock. He stared at the photo a moment, at the splash of freckles across her breasts, and then his eye went down to the name and numeral printed in block letters below the picture.
He lowered the toilet seat cover, stepped up onto it, and reached into the opening in the sash. He pulled up the stash bag and retrieved one of the special pink pills.
When he returned to the living room, Grammaw patted the sofa cushion beside her. “Come sit. Let’s talk.”
“In a minute, Grammaw. Can I borrow your phone?” He felt the soft pressure of her concern as she watched him lift the receiver and dial.
A young female voice answered.
“Hi,” Eff said. “That little job we discussed? Better get yourself ready—it’s come through.”
“How soon?” she said.
“Right now. I’m on my way to get you.” He hung up and met the troubled glow of his grandmother’s eyes.
“Honey,” she said, “I’m serious. We have to talk.”
“Next time, Grammaw. I’m in a rush.”
She held out his glass of ice water. Her eyes commanded him.
He sat.
“When you raise a kid, there are some things you never know for sure.” Her gaze was sad. “Some things you never want to know for sure. Some things you have to know for sure.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Grammaw.”
“A cop was here, a white man, pretending to be from foster care. He was asking about you, and about your priest friend. What are you doing, honey, what have you got yourself into?”
“You know what I’m doing, Grammaw—I’m earning money, putting it away so we can move you out of here into Peter Cooper Village.”
Grammaw shook her head. “This is my home right here, Eff—I don’t need to move.”
Eff hugged her. “I don’t want my grammaw having to step over junkies and crackheads and dodging bullets every time she comes home.”
She didn’t seem to have heard him. “Eff, I have a bad feeling about that man. I’m scared for you.”
He laughed. “Don’t worry about your little Eff. He’s got the juice. He’s gonna take care of himself.”
Bonnie had no idea how much time she spent pacing, just walking the same tight circle around her office. Refusal pumped through her. She didn’t want to think. Tried not to think.
It was no good. The beat of her blood slowed down and the thought went through her head like the melody of a hated song:
I know the truth now.
She could see day dying through the window, shadows of dogwood and pear tree seeping across the brick courtyard wall.
I know who, I know why. God forgive me.
She hurried to the garage. She slid into the car, fastened the safety belt, and shoved the gearshift into reverse. The nerves in her bandaged hand screamed.
A rap station boomed from stereo speakers. She killed the radio. She ignored the pain that shot again through her hand.
No time now for pain. I’m fine. Every little ache in place.
She backed into the courtyard. She waited for the garage door to creak back down before she opened the gate and pulled into the street.
Today there was no dark blue Pontiac in her rearview mirror. No screech of wheels behind her as she angled into traffic. No one guarding her, no one tailing her.
In her mind she saw Vince Cardozo’s grim dark eyes and she felt compassion.
Poor soul. He really believes he has the answer.
EIGHTY-THREE
E
LLIE GAVE CARDOZO A
sharp nudge.
“There he is.”
Eff Huffington, supercool, came boogying down the steps of the graffitied, dust-caked stoop, fingers snapping, ponytail flipping.
“Mr. Wonderful,” Cardozo muttered.
Eff hailed a cruising gypsy cab and hopped in. The cab took off in a crazy screech of rubber, its rear end fishtailing like a catfish out of salt water.
“Seat belt alert,” Cardozo advised.
“Mine doesn’t work,” Greg Monteleone grumbled from the backseat.
“Sorry about that. Just grab something that isn’t Ellie’s or my neck and hold on.”
Cardozo gunned the motor and the Honda shot forward.
Eff’s cab ran three red lights, hooked two illegal turns, and sped west on a one-way east-bound street.
“Eff must have promised him a hell of a tip,” Ellie said.
Cardozo busted the same lights and made the same turns, but he drew the line at the one-way street. He whipped south and then west on the next legal street.
“You’re losing him,” Ellie warned.
“I think we can guess where he’s headed.”
Cardozo picked up the cab on the entrance ramp to the West Side Highway. The ride south was a horn-blasting nonstop lane-hop.
He lost the cab when it ran another red light on Forty-second Street. He spotted it again at Twenty-third, hooking a wild left against oncoming traffic.
“He’s not going to the docks,” Ellie said.
“Unless he knows a new way of getting there.” Cardozo used the horn, not the siren, and cut the car sharp into the left east-bound lane. A chorus of horns exploded. Somewhere behind him metal bongoed into metal.