5 Bad Moon (14 page)

She stood up and stepped through the crowd of chairs toward the door. “I have to go to the—”

“Did you hear us when we came in?”

“What?”

The guard had his head tilted back, looking at her down the angle of his cheeks. He was smiling, but it wasn’t a very nice smile.

“Excuse me. I need a bathroom.”

She stepped closer to the door, but the guard didn’t budge. “I axed you a question. Did you hear us when we came in?”

“Please let me by. I have to go.”

The white guy was looking up at her from under his brows. His big hands were on the table, waiting.

“Excuse me, please. I want to get out.” She tried to be assertive, but the strain in her voice gave her away.

The guard folded his arms over his chest and flared his nostrils. “Answer me first.”

The big white guy got to his feet. He was moving around the table.

Her chest was heaving. It was freezing cold. She wanted to scream, but she stopped herself. What if Tozzi didn’t hear her? It would just provoke them. The big guy would go berserk, strangle her, stuff her body in that case. The guard would sneak it out of the hospital, dump her in the woods somewhere. Animals would chew through the case to eat her. Whatever was left of her would be rotten before it was ever discovered.

She looked from one to the other. They weren’t moving. She felt faint and she felt nauseated, but not enough to throw up. She wished she could as she suddenly remembered that that was a recommended strategy for dealing with a rapist. Puke on him. But these guys were as big as professional wrestlers and they were on opposite sides of the room. She couldn’t possibly have enough in her.

The guard growled at her. “Lady, I axed you a simple question. Did you hear—”

Suddenly the door swung open and banged into the guard’s back.

The man jumped. “What the—”

The door opened all the way. Tozzi was standing on the threshold, holding his cane in one hand like a sword. His eyes swept the room, then settled on the big white guy.

“What the hell you doing in here, Sal?”

Stacy’s jaw dropped. Sal? This is Sal Immordino?

Tozzi glared at the guard. “What’re you doing in here?”

“Well, uh
…
I thought you wanted to talk to Sal.”

“I’ve been waiting for you out on the ward for the past twenty minutes. Whattaya doing with him in here?”

“I thought they said you wanted to talk to him in here, that you wanted privacy. Guess I didn’t understand.”

Tozzi raised an eyebrow and exhaled out loud. He was making it obvious that he thought the guard was full of shit. He glanced at Immordino, who was swaying on his feet, mumbling to his hands, then looked to her. “You all right?”

She pressed her lips together and nodded. “I’m okay.” She hadn’t meant to whisper.

Tozzi barked at the guard. “Get him outta here. Take him to the ward and wait for me.”

The guard shrugged, unfazed. “Whatever you say, man. C’mon, Sal. Let’s go.” He took Immordino by the arm and started to lead him out.

Stacy found her voice. “He’s not strapped,” she said to Tozzi. “The straps are loose. His hands are free.” She sounded panicky again.

The guard heard her. He checked the belt and tugged on the straps. “Must’ve forgot to tighten them after Sal went to the bathroom.” He shrugged. “He don’t need that thing. He gentle. Just another dumb hospital rule. Patients in transit gotta wear the belt.” He fixed the straps and led Sal out of the room.

Stacy felt much better after they were gone.

Tozzi put his hand on her shoulder. “You sure you’re all right? Did they do anything to you?”

She shook her head and shivered. “I think the guard messed around with the camera. I’m not sure. I didn’t actually see him do anything to it, but the light’s not blinking.”

Tozzi examined the camera, then did something to it. The red light started flashing again.

“They say anything to you?”

“The guard kept asking me if I heard them come in. I didn’t know what he was talking about. I guess he wanted to know if I heard Immordino say anything.”

“Did you?”

“I heard two voices, but I didn’t actually see him talking.”

“What did he say?”

“Something about turning ‘that fucking thing’ off. He was talking about the camera.”

“But you didn’t see him say anything.”

“No.”

“Shit.” Tozzi sighed.

“Why? What’s wrong?”

“If you’d seen him say that, we could’ve used you to testify against him. You heard him, but unfortunately you didn’t
see
him talking. Wouldn’t do us any good. Besides, I’d have to explain what you were doing here and that could be a problem in terms of procedure. Shit.”

“Over here, Sal. C’mon. There’s your table over there.”

In the one-way mirror Charles was leading Sal across the ward.

“I’ll be as quick as I can. You wait here.” Tozzi started to go, but Stacy held on to his hand.

She looked into his eyes. “I have to pee.”

He looked into hers. “Oh. Then go.”

“Come with me.”

“You can’t go alone?”

“Keep walkin’, Sal. Keep walkin’.”

Tozzi couldn’t keep his eyes off the glass.

“Just come with me and wait outside. I’ll be fast.”

He shrugged, a little puzzled. “Okay.” His avenging-eagle face switched to a fatherly expression of extreme concern for her well-being. She liked him better the other way.

She rubbed her arms again, thinking about Sal Immordino’s expressionless face. He put his arm around her shoulder as they left the room and went out into the hallway. It was a little warmer in the hallway, but she still had goose bumps. She walked a little faster and picked up their pace as they went down the hallway. She really did have to pee.

Gibbons cupped his hands over the windowpane in the front door of the Mary Magdalene Home for Unwed Mothers and looked in. A skinny guy was right there in the hallway, painting the wall with a roller. Gibbons frowned. What the hell was his problem? Couldn’t he hear the doorbell? Gibbons rang it again.

Madeleine Cummings tilted her head to one side and gave him that sarcastic little grin of hers. “Shall we break it down?”

He ignored the remark. He was trying not to fight with her. Actually, he was trying not to even talk to her. He was here for a reason, even though she didn’t think so. Sal Immordino wouldn’t talk to Tozzi yesterday, which was no surprise, but Tozzi had a bad feeling about him now. He’d scared the hell out of Stacy, and she believed that either Sal or that guard Charles Tate had tampered with the video camera Tozzi had set up. Gibbons figured that it might be worthwhile to squeeze Immordino’s sister Cil, the nun. She always seemed to be in a fog when it came to her brother’s criminal enterprises, but she might let something drop without even knowing it. It was worth a try. After all, if that was a hit man who shot Tozzi, the contract was still open, and the way Gibbons figured, if Immordino was the one who put out the contract on Tozzi, there was probably one out on him, too. Gibbons sucked in his breath and pressed the doorbell again.

“Why don’t you give them a chance?” Her exasperated voice now.

He kept peering through the window. “There’s a guy standing right there, for chrissake. What is he, deaf?”

Cummings shrugged. “Maybe he is.”

Gibbons just looked at her. He knew what she was thinking, that he was insensitive to the plight of the disabled. She’d been going on and on about how he and Tozzi had “brutalized” Immordino at the nuthouse, even squealed on them to Ivers, and Lorraine had been lapping this crap up, looking at him across the kitchen table every morning like he was Hermann Göring or something. Gibbons wished to hell Charles Manson would escape, so Cummings would be called back to her old job down at Quantico.

He was about to start pounding on the door when he spotted a girl inside coming down the hall. She slid the chain on before she unlocked the door.

“Yeah?” She peered under the taut chain. Her eyes were light brown and very wary. Her face was pasty.

Gibbons held up his I.D. so she could see it. “Special Agent Gibbons, Federal Bureau of Investigation. This is Agent Cummings. We’d like to talk to Sister Cil.”

The girl stared blankly at his I.D. Her bottom lip hung slack, and she looked like she had too many teeth for her mouth.

Cummings lowered Gibbons’s hand and looked into the gap in the door. “Please tell Sister Cil that we’re sorry to show up unannounced and that we won’t take up too much of her time.”

Gibbons glared at her. What the hell does she think they do, call ahead? Sure, why not give suspects enough time to get their stories down pat before you get there? The way Cummings figured things, that would be the polite thing to do, and with her, civilized behavior counted for a lot. Jesus, she was an ass.

The girl closed the door and slid the chain off. When she opened it again, Gibbons noticed that she was pregnant—not real pregnant, just starting to show. Her mousy brown hair stood up straight over her forehead, glued that way with that mousse crap these kids all wear. The rest of her hair was an awful-looking rat’s nest. He figured her to be fourteen, maybe fifteen.

“I’ll go get her,” the kid said. She went back through the hall and disappeared into the back of the building.

The smell of wet paint drifted out through the open door. The painter looked like a real halfwit, staring straight ahead at the wall in front of him, rolling over the same strip, up and down, up and down, not going back to the pan for more paint, not moving on to a new spot, just moving that roller up and down, up and down.

Gibbons knew Cummings was waiting for him to say something about the guy. He wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction.

“So where’s Tozzi today?” she said.

Gibbons shrugged. “I dunno.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t bring him along. Having seen how he deals with the mentally disturbed, I can’t imagine what he’d do to a nun.”

Gibbons raised his eyebrows and shrugged. He wasn’t gonna say a word.

“Or is he too preoccupied with that girl now?”

“What girl?”

“That young girl, the one on TV.”

Gibbons knit his brows and deliberately looked puzzled.

“Stacy Viera.”

Gibbons grinned. He knew who Cummings was talking about; he just wanted to hear her say Stacy’s name. She and Lorraine had been referring to Stacy as “that young girl” ever since they met her at the hospital.

“So? Is he still seeing Stacy?”

Gibbons shrugged. “I dunno what Tozzi does on his own time.”

But it wouldn’t take too much imagination.

Cummings frowned. “You may not realize it, but Lorraine is pretty upset about this. She thinks her cousin is just leading Stacy on.”

Gibbons shrugged again. “The girl’s over twenty-one
…
I think.”

“Age has nothing to do with it. It’s Tozzi’s attitude. You can see it in his face. He thinks of Stacy as his personal pinup girl.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know that’s the way he feels about her? Maybe he respects her for her mind.”

Cummings folded her arms and looked over her glasses. “Not likely.”

“You’re just assuming he’s up to no good. But you don’t know for sure. And neither does Lorraine.”

“I’m not
assuming
anything. What I
see
is a special agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation carrying on with a television personality of some local repute whose popularity is based on her sex appeal and implied lasciviousness. This association does not fit in with the circumspect image the Bureau expects from its personnel. And I’m not entirely sure Tozzi has the moral fiber to keep his relationship with Stacy from becoming a serious embarrassment to the Bureau.”

Gibbons bit the insides of his cheeks before he cursed. “How would you know what kind of ‘moral fiber’ Tozzi has?”

“I’ve seen the great qualms he had in belittling Sal Immordino. Dating Stacy doesn’t seem to pose much of dilemma for him. I realize Tozzi’s your friend, but face it, he’s an oral personality. He takes what he wants when he wants it with little regard for others.”

“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

Cummings pointed at the backward words painted on the glass in the front door: The Mary Magdalene Home for Unwed Mothers. “Places like this exist because of people who can’t control their wants and desires.”

“You saying Tozzi would knock Stacy up and then abandon her? Is that what you’re saying?”

If Tozzi did, he’d kill him.

Cummings closed her eyes and shrugged. “I’m not saying he would. I don’t really know him well enough to state a professional opinion. But the potential for unacceptable behavior exists in every personality.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She held her chin and studied him for a moment. “Your adamant defense of your partner couldn’t stem from a vicarious thrill you’re getting out of Tozzi’s relationship with Stacy, could it? Armchair quarterbacking in a psychosexual sense?”

Gibbons ground his molars. “Save the psychology for the real nuts, okay?” Bitch.

“Very bad. This is very bad.”

They both stared at the painter as he kept rolling over that same spot. He was shaking his head and mumbling to himself, eyes glued to the wall.

“This is bad.” The guy didn’t seem to know they were there.

Suddenly Sister Cil appeared, swooping down the hallway like Batman. She was wearing the heavy-duty habit, the black one that went down to her ankles. A bad sign. She usually wore the more modern version, the knee-length skirt and the little headpiece that showed her hairline. Gibbons knew that when she wore this getup, she was going to be filled with the spirit of the Lord her God, which meant she’d evade all his questions and stonewall it.

The nun stopped by the painter and admired his work, then took his arm and moved the roller a foot to the right. “Very good, Donald. Now try using some more paint.”

Sister Cil swooshed toward the door to greet them in a flurry of black cloth, head-tilted smiles, and glinting glasses. The Catholic caped crusader. Gibbons could understand why people who went to parochial school never get over the experience.

“Agent Gibbons, how
are
you?”

“You remember me.”

“Of course I remember you.” She turned her high beams on Cummings. “And you are
…
?”

“Madeleine Cummings. I’m also with the FBI.”

The nun nodded and smiled. At what, no one knew.

“I apologize for just showing up like this, Sister”—Cummings glanced sideways at Gibbons—“but my partner insisted. We’d just like to ask you a couple of questions, if you can spare a few moments.”

“Of course, of course. Come into the parlor. And watch out for the wet paint.”

The caped crusader led the way to the front room off the hallway. It was a dark, dingy room with big bay windows covered with heavy drapes drawn halfway. Rather than taking advantage of the daylight, the room had ice cube-tray fluorescent fixtures buzzing on the ceiling. These walls needed a paint job even more than the hallway, but the way their painter was going, it was gonna be a while.

Three worn, mismatched sofas were arranged around the old brownstone’s white marble mantelpiece. A television set was inside the fireplace. The kid who’d answered the door was sitting on the sofa closest to the TV, engrossed in a soap opera. Another kid, an out-of-the-bottle blonde with a rat’s nest of her own, was sitting next to her, holding an infant. Gibbons could only see the baby’s legs because his head was under his mother’s oversized T-shirt, sucking away. Neither of the girls paid any attention to the visitors. The soap was more important.

“Please sit down.” Sister Cil indicated the green brocade sofa directly opposite the two kids.

Gibbons caught Cummings staring at him again. She thought she could read his mind. She was probably thinking he was getting all bent out of shape because the kid was breast-feeding over there. He didn’t give a shit. You couldn’t see anything anyway—just a little bit of her bare belly and the baby kicking his legs, having a ball under there. It was no big deal. What the hell did she think he was gonna do? Throw a blanket over them? Make the kid leave the room? Christ, the poor girl’s life was miserable enough. Let her have her soaps in peace.

Sister Cil sat with her hands clasped in her lap. “So how have you been, Mr. Gibbons?”

“Fine, Sister. Fine.” Gibbons watched for signs of sarcasm in her relentlessly pleasant demeanor. He and Tozzi were the ones who had arrested her brother in Atlantic City two years ago. She knew he was here to ask about Sal.

“And how is Mr. Tozzi doing these days?”

Gibbons nodded. “He’s fine.”

“I take it he’s not your partner anymore. You’re with Agent Cummings now?”

Gibbons and Cummings answered together. “Temporarily.”

“Oh.” Sister Cil smiled and nodded. “Before we get to your business, may I ask you something, Ms. Cummings?”

“Yes?”

“Now, you don’t have to give me an answer right this moment, but I would be terribly grateful if you could come back some evening and speak to the girls. They have so few good role models, and I think meeting a successful woman from the real world would make a big difference to some of them.” Sister Cil nodded in the direction of the two kids zoned out on the other couch.

On TV, a rich-bitch blonde was huffing and puffing around an office, talking down to her little brunette secretary. The blonde seemed to be warning the brunette about seeing some guy, saying it wasn’t “very smart” for her to be seen with him. The brunette cowered a lot and had a good “distressed” face. The blonde acted mainly with her shoulders. The kids were riveted.

The nun sighed. “I wish I could afford more stimulating diversions for the girls than this trash. But I suppose I should be grateful that we even have a television. Money has always been a problem for us, but donations are down and it’s become particularly difficult.”

Cummings turned from the soap opera back to Sister Cil adjusting her glasses. “Media images are very problematic for adolescents. Young women seem to be especially vulnerable to misleading messages, particularly those concerning idealized concepts of romance. These messages have largely become the operating subtext of most commercial television programming. Young women become so eager for the kind of glamorous romance they see in the media, they become easy prey for manipulative men.” She adjusted her glasses again and looked Gibbons in the eye.

Gibbons rubbed his jaw, looked at the ceiling, and sighed. Give me a break, will ya?

Sister Cil laid her hand on her chest and pursed her lips. “You are so right, Ms. Cummings. I hear virtually the same thing from every young woman I talk to. They want to be loved so badly that they will submit themselves to any boy who shows them the slightest bit of attention. Men seem to have an animal instinct when it comes to finding girls like this. They seem to be able to smell them. I’m sure they’re not evil people, because they must be subject to equally distorting influences of their own. But when it comes to innocent young girls, men do become sinful. It may be nature’s way, but it’s not right.” Cil was all choked up by the time she finished her little spiel.