A Cruel Season for Dying (37 page)

For most of her life, she had accepted her blindness. Color and texture, shape and dimension, became her own particular inventions.
The vision behind her lids constituted a universe that was both wholly real and intensely satisfying. That she had missed
something, that she had been cheated, she had never accepted. She found no tragedy in her sightless eyes.

She reached down to the side of her bed where Taiko rested. “Tonight,” she said, rubbing his muzzle. “Tonight I will tell
Jimmy about the baby.”

Father Edward Walsh hailed from a large Catholic family with a tradition of giving sons to the Church. And though it had been
fast becoming unfashionable at the time, he had entered the seminary with few misgivings. He was heart and soul an organization
man, and no earthly institution seemed to him more consequential, or deserving of his commitment, then the Holy Roman Church.
Educated to the law at Harvard and Rome, he was a willing instrument in the hand of that power, and as comfortable as it was
possible to be as a human inside his skin.

He sat for a moment behind the wheel of his car in the long, circular driveway of the Brooklyn retreat house, a three-story
residence of Georgian brick, solid and serene on its wooded acres. The air tonight was windless, yet with a piercing chill.
He took a last breath in the warmth of the car and opening the door, dragged his coat from the passenger seat as he stepped
onto the sidewalk. He shot his arm through a sleeve as he walked, swinging into the coat’s protectiveness.

He had called ahead and was let in by the custodian with a minimum of conversation, then directed down the hushed hallways
to the door of the room where he was expected. He did not bother to knock. The door swung inward as he turned the knob and
pushed. The man sitting on the bed turned toward the motion. His expression, complex and unreadable, passed in an instant
to studied nonchalance.

“Want a drink?” Graff’s greeting.

“Yes.” Walsh took off his coat and sat down in the room’s one chair while the priest poured them each a scotch. It seemed
typical of the man that even under these circumstances, he was still breaking the rules, the prohibition against liquor in
this place. He accepted the glass as Graff settled with his own drink on the bed.

“I met with Lieutenant Sakura today.”

“And …?”

“He didn’t tell me anything. But I was mainly there to size him up. Our contacts in the Department feed me all the information
that we need. The police don’t have anything but those pictures.”

“Dear Mrs. Tuminello”—Graff was smiling now—“the faithful housekeeper. Couldn’t wait to rat me out. I’m sure she told anyone
who would listen about my less than cordial relations with Father Kellog.”

“Not important.” Walsh shrugged. “The police knew the girl was the primary victim. Kellog just turned up in the wrong place.”

“That’s what’s funny,” Graff said. “I was probably in my room sleeping while most of those gay men were murdered, but my alibi
is among the dead.”

Walsh was silent, searching Graff’s face. The studied self-assurance made it hard to tell when the man wasn’t telling the
truth. He imagined that he was as hard to read, hoped that he was, since he was so often lying. Like just now when he’d equivocated
about the relevance of the enmity between Graff and his pastor. Certainly, the police must wonder if Graff had killed Kellog
because of something the old man had suspected or learned about the first five murders. Such a scenario was not impossible,
although it did not seem likely, since it still left the riddle of the girl. Why would Graff ever choose the Mancuso child
as a decoy?

But that was a problem for others, as was the question of Graff’s guilt. His job was to protect the client. And his client
was the Church.

“Have you thought anymore about who could have killed them?” he asked. “Father Kellog and the girl?” He took a sip of the
scotch.

“No,” Graff said immediately. “I haven’t the slightest idea who murdered them.” He shot down the remainder of his own drink,
got up to fix another. “So what happens next?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Walsh said. “I don’t see that the police have anything on which to order a warrant for your arrest.”

“So, I can get out of here.”

“No. It’s His Eminence’s wish that you stay put for a while.”

“How long?”

“That’s yet to be determined. The police need a scapegoat, Thomas. You’ve read the papers. It’s getting ugly out there. We
can protect you better in here.”

Graff said nothing, but the expression on his face became intolerable, a contempt that went beyond mere cynicism. It called
for a response. A little dose of reality.

“You could not expect that His Eminence would be pleased with the danger posed by those photographs,” he said. “You threaten
scandal to the Church.”

Graff looked straight into his eyes. Amusement on the face now, an undertow of fear. “Do you care at all that I’m innocent?”

“Why did you become a priest, Thomas?”

The smile deepened but went out in Graff’s eyes. “To save my immortal soul.”

For most of the evening, Hanae had occupied herself making ornaments for the small tabletop tree, which Mr. Romero had helped
her purchase. Her mind on nothing, her hands had seemed to move of their own accord, working in the long-memorized patterns.
It had surprised her when the phone rang that her fingers had been folding swans.

“Hanae.” Jimmy’s voice had spoken to her from the receiver.

“You are not coming home.” She had guessed. She had heard his breath. Hard wind through grass.

“Not until late. I can catch some dinner at my desk.”

“I know you will not eat properly,” she said. “I will have something prepared.”

“Okay. But don’t wait up. I can warm it myself….
Aishiteru yo.
” He had said the words
I love you.

“Watashi mo,”
she’d answered softly, today’s betrayal fresh within her heart.

She had not been sleeping when, at last, he had come home. The meal she had prepared for him had passed mostly in silence.
She’d sipped at her tea, listening to the sound of his chopsticks. Now, while he prepared the bed, she stood inhaling the
balsam scent of the small fir. She loved the smell, the sharp tiny prick of needles as the ornaments were hung. Christmas
trees in Japan were largely artificial, public decorations placed in offices and department stores. The holiday itself was
artificial in Japan, a grafted-on celebration, purely commercial, with gifts for children only. She loved Christmases in New
York, had come to understand the spirit that lived inside the tradition. And yet the season remained a time best shared with
children. Despite the
distractions of his work, she must keep her resolve to tell him about the baby tonight. What better gift could she give her
husband for Christmas?

She went to join him in the bed for what little remained of the night, kneeling beside him, her hands moving along the pathways
of his back. Never had she felt the flow of
ki
within him more unbalanced.

“What is wrong?” she asked him.

His breath was a laugh that came in the form of a sigh. “I am tired,” he said.

“It is more than that.” She sank back upon her feet, her hands for the moment idle. “Is it the newspapers?”

He made a sound, a hard laugh now, but no immediate comment. Then, “We have three suspects.”

“Is that not good?”

“I don’t know. Two of them don’t seem likely for the murders.”

“And the third …?”

“Is a Catholic priest.”

She knew but little of the religion, but the power of the institution was clear. “Do you believe this priest committed the
murders?”

“In some ways he fits Willie’s profile.”

“What does Chief McCauley say?”

Again that laugh. The harshness of it cut her.

“McCauley wants the commissioner off his back. The commissioner wants the mayor off his back.”

Her fingers still rested along his spine. Something … involuntary, a phantom of apprehension, moved on the level of nerve
and muscle.

“You are afraid,” she said, “that you will be forced to arrest the wrong man.”

He did not answer but rolled over beneath her hands. She felt his gaze, a tender pressure upon the curve of her face. It was
now she must tell him.

“Jimmy,” she began, “I have been thinking again about a baby.” It was not the way to begin … with equivocation. A coward’s
mistake. She felt him stiffen.

“Please, Hanae, not tonight.” His voice so infinitely weary. And had there not been, underneath, at least some edge of anger?

T
he attorney and the comic were a mismatched pair as they filed into the interrogation room. Linda Kessler with her briefcase,
severely chic. Shelton, loose and ostentatious. They sat across from Sakura and Johnson at the table.

Linda Kessler began with a rehash of the ground rules, which had already been settled on the phone. Her body language was
hostile, and Sakura wondered why she had agreed to this second interview with her client. Neither the Church, in the case
of Father Graff, nor Tony Paladino were being so cooperative.

“Thank you for agreeing to this interview, Mr. Shelton.” Sakura turned to him as the lawyer concluded with a reminder that
recording devices of any type were not allowed.

“I thought it might be entertaining,” Shelton said. He half slouched in the uncomfortable chair, favoring Sakura with his
persistent grin, pointedly ignoring Adelia.

“I understand,” Sakura said, “that you’re still working as a comic.”

“I’m not headlining in Vegas. But if you don’t mind the travel, there are plenty of small clubs.” The mouth quirked cynically.
“You’d be surprised how much money there can be in notoriety.”

“I also understand you’re being sued by the parents of the girls you exposed yourself to in the park.”

“My client cannot comment on a pending case.” Kessler made the objection.

“I am being sued.” Shelton spoke as if he hadn’t heard her. His voice started tight, but he smiled broadly and launched into
what was
clearly shtick. “It was the nanny who freaked out,” he said. “The two little bitches actually laughed. I should be suing them
for psychological damage.”

Sakura knew he was intended to smile. “You have an apartment in Chelsea?” he asked instead.

“Yes, I bought it a while back. Paid cash.”

“Own a car?”

“A Buick. My sweet old daddy would haunt me if I got a foreign job.”

“Color?”

“The car? Red … like the hair.”

“Do you do drugs, Mr. Shelton?”

“Don’t answer that,” Kessler said. She sounded like she meant it.

“Can it, Linda,” Shelton said genially enough. “The lieutenant’s not looking to bust me.” The eyebrows bowed upward, making
it a question.

“No, he’s not,” Kessler answered again, “but he is attempting to compare you to his profile of the killer. Which is why I’ve
advised you against this.”

Shelton’s eyes during this exchange had remained on him. “Is that what you’re doing, Lieutenant Sakura?”

“Yes.” He smiled now.