Blind Sight (A Mallory Novel) (24 page)

But first—a quiet little talk with the lady. In Iggy’s experience, nobody ever screamed when the point of a knife was an inch from an eyeball. It never failed.

Gently, so gently, he worked two bits of metal in her locks. The door was opened slowly with no giveaway squeak to the hinge. Guided by the thin beam of a key-chain flashlight, Iggy passed through one room and another to find beds with bare mattresses holding piles of old clothes and cardboard boxes. The bed in the last room had sheets and pillows, but no Mrs. Quill. He checked the closets and every space that might hide her. No luck, but he did find enough crucifixes and rosaries to stock the gift shop of St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Where was Angie’s mother tonight? The church service had ended hours ago.

There was no toothbrush in the bathroom. Maybe she went home with the kid’s Uncle Harry. Or could Mrs. Quill be in protective custody? No, that would only work if the cops were onto him. And how much could Granny tell them, anyway? Nothing. Fat chance that Angie would give a God freak like this one any details about her johns.

So what was he doing here? If there had been a good reason for the risk, he had forgotten it, and he blamed this on the drugs he took to keep his eyes wide open. If Granny or the uncle had a name and address to give up, the cops would have come for him days ago. So why the—

A reason for coming after Angie’s mother popped into his head. He had a question. Why had the girl gone away?

He returned to the front room and its reek of incense. Everywhere he flashed his beam of light, it hit a plaster saint or a plastic one, and Jesus Christ was framed on every foot of wall space. What was it with all of this zany, hair-on-fire-for-the-Lord crap?

Oh,
idiot!

He smashed one hand into his forehead, as if that might fix a loose connection and restore common sense. He was surrounded by all the evidence he could ever want that Angie had not known what he was—what he did. She had not been running scared, not running from him. Angie had left him for God.

—

YES
,
FATHER DUPONT
would very much like another drink to top off the second one. Charles Butler refilled the priest’s glass and waited for the real conversation to begin.

“I should’ve spoken to you the other night at the restaurant.”

Ah, finally. “But I was talking to Detective Mallory,” said Charles. “I can see how that could’ve been awkward. I gather she made you rather uncomfortable.”

“Understatement,” said DuPont. “I ran into her once before . . . at Gracie Mansion. Maybe she mentioned it? I take it she’s a friend of yours.”

“I’ve known her for years.” And he had no intention of sharing any business of hers. He knew how to keep a confidence as well as the clergy. Shuttling the priest to another track, he said, “I’ve been to Gracie Mansion for a few charity events, but that was a long time ago. Never met Mayor Polk. What’s your impression of him?”

“He’s a flimflam man.”

“Like your father.”

“Two of a kind—except for the obvious things.” One would have to discount the fact that the priest’s father had never lived in a mansion, and he had died in a prison cell. “That makes Andrew Polk the perfect politician. Me, too. I guess it’s in my genes, and maybe it shows. I don’t think your friend, the detective, believed a word I said the other night.” He smiled, as if this meant nothing to him.

Yes, there was definitely a touch of paternal genes. The priest was charming. People would like him on two minutes’ acquaintance, and they would open up to this man. In respect to Mallory’s distrust, DuPont was obviously expecting a confirmation or a denial. And now Charles had his own trust issues.

He glanced at the priest’s glass, nearly drained of whiskey. He recalled his first meeting with this man. On that long-ago night, the priest had nursed his drink, only one, but this evening he was bolting down the liquor. Was he self-medicating his recent angst? Or had he become an alcoholic?

“I’m not a therapist anymore,” said DuPont. “I quit the profession. You may remember giving me that . . . suggestion.”

During the ensuing silence, Charles gathered that this man did not plan to tell him how many years had passed before following that good advice.

The priest’s dilemma, as Charles had seen it then, was not one of keeping his oath as a psychologist. That had been violated, though Father DuPont had sworn to him that he had never touched the girl. On that long-ago night, the priest had given a very different version of his confession to Mallory. The Chicago recital had been sugared with poetry and irony when DuPont had told him that Angie Quill could only have sex for money or favors, never for love, and the priest could not bed her for any sort of currency—because he
loved
her.

Certainly favors had been granted to the girl, and Mallory had rightly called that currency. However, on no account could he see this
man through her eyes. DuPont was surely no molester of children, though now Charles was less certain about the priest’s position on vulnerable girls nearer the age of consent. “I make excellent coffee. You know what goes nicely with that?”

And, yes, Father DuPont thought a cigar would sit quite well with him tonight.

Charles walked down the hall to his kitchen, a place of high tin-ceiling charm and warm ochre walls racked with copper-bottom pots and spices. While the old-fashioned percolator on the stove brewed a custom blend of coffee, he turned to see Father DuPont standing in the doorway. “Come in. Sit down.” Most of his guests eventually gravitated to this room. Mallory had once told him that she favored kitchens over station-house interrogations. Understandable. People were less guarded here in this place of perfect peace, chairs padded for comfort and a table to accommodate elbows.

The priest did seem more relaxed. And planning to stay awhile? Yes, he sensed that DuPont was not done with the expedition into Mallory’s affairs, though this might be only a show of concern for the missing boy. But there was another possibility.

When the two men faced one another across the table, and praise had been lavished on the coffee, they were enveloped in a pleasing cloud of cigar smoke, an opportune moment for a bomb to go off. “You have to tell the police what you know,” said Charles, “for the boy’s sake.”

“I
can’t.”
DuPont fumbled with his cup, spilling a bit of coffee as he set it down. “And there’s not much point to it. The newspapers say all four of the murders were random. Reporters couldn’t find any connections between those people—not ties to each other or anyone else. You see? Angie wasn’t killed by someone from her past. That’s just too far-fetched.”

Charles nodded, but not in agreement. So the priest had someone
in mind for the murder of Angie Quill—if not for the complication of three other killings. “Go to Mallory. You don’t want her coming after you one more time.” Charles took a sip from his cup. And another. Then he ceased to wait for a response from the other side of the table. “It
is
far-fetched. I’m sure you’re right. Once you talk to her, she’ll see that. Mallory’s nothing if not logical.”

“I
know
what she is. . . . So do you.”

“I won’t discuss any personal issues of hers.” Nor would he force Mallory into the neat cookie-cutter framework of a sociopath. He placed her in a realm all her own, and inside its borders, he had fashioned a ruthless government—no mercy, no compassion—and every night was poker night, as she figured the odds and took down the players.

In any contest with her, this priest was surely toast.

“Charles, when you talked to her in the restaurant, did you mention that you knew me?”

“I was surprised that she knew
you,”
and this was the truth. There had been no warning, no name mentioned beforehand. “No, our meeting in Chicago—that never came up in conversation. That would’ve been . . . inappropriate.” Charles pushed his empty cup to one side. “I believe, at core, you’re a man of good conscience. Otherwise, you’d never have asked for my counsel the first time we—”

“I can’t tell Mallory anything. It’s not that I don’t want to.”

“Seal of the Confessional?” Perhaps he had underrated Father DuPont. The therapist’s oath was blown to hell, but a priest’s vows might be left intact—and at stake.

—

MALLORY STEPPED
into the shadow of a doorway. The cobblestones of this SoHo street wore a wet shine, though it had yet to rain. Drops of water hung in the air as fine mist.

Hours had passed and the priest was still here? That would explain the lack of a phone call.

A few drops fell as Father DuPont stepped out on the sidewalk, caught with no umbrella and looking skyward, maybe wondering if he could beat the rain to a taxi. He hurried away.

The detective stayed to watch the lights of the fourth-floor apartment—waiting for her cell phone to ring, giving Charles a last chance to confess. But his windows went dark one by one. He had no plans to tell her about this covert meeting.

The priest had reached the end of the street, where cabs were more plentiful, but Mallory had no further interest in his travels tonight.

She turned her eyes back to Charles Butler’s darkened windows.

What have you done?

And now the rain came down—hard-driving,
punishing
rain.

—

THE REPORTERS
held umbrellas as they kept vigil on the sidewalk.

The mayor stood by the corner window in the Susan B. Wagner Wing. He waved to the press corps. That always excited them. They were so hungry for any activity, and this was his version of feeding pigeons.

He turned around to speak with the two men in shirtsleeves and shoulder holsters. “Why don’t you guys take a break? Give us a few minutes.” He nodded toward Samuel Tucker, indicating the need for some privacy with him. When the bodyguards had withdrawn from the room, he said, “Tuck, about those four packages. How many people saw them before you did?”

“Sir, you told me not to—”

“Well, now I need to know
.
” Deniability was hardly an option anymore.

“Postal workers, I suppose,” said Samuel Tucker. “It wasn’t an outfit like UPS or FedEx. . . . You
saw
the—”

“Who gave them to
you?”

“The kid who comes around with the mail cart.”

“Good.” That teenager was a stoner, half his brain cells gone to drugs. Those very special deliveries could have been given to the mail boy as still-beating hearts in the hand, and that kid would remember nothing useful to the police.

Tucker was straightening a bow tie that was not crooked. Nervous? Had this fool screwed up somehow?

“Go home. Tomorrow you work downtown, the desk in the lobby. If another package gets dropped off, call me.” No chance of that. Deliveries would be intercepted by cops before they got through the door to City Hall, but this chore of busywork would solve one problem. “Good night, Tuck.” He could not get this idiot off the premises fast enough.

The aide left the room, leaving Andrew Polk alone for the first time all day. The damn protection detail, recently turned zealous, would sleep with him if he allowed it.

Thanks to the news media, everyone in the city knew he was a virtual prisoner in Gracie Mansion. The next package would surely come here. The Post Office would be too risky. Would the killer make a personal appearance? The patrol on the surrounding parkland had been doubled, and this time there would be no opportunity to blind security cameras with paint balls. How would the delivery be managed?

No matter. It was going to happen.

Anticipation gave him an adrenaline rush that he could not buy. No drug could do this for him. He was flying high, smiling broadly, as he faced the window to see that the rain had stopped. He watched the street of reporters.

And the street watched him—while he waited for his heart.

—

IGGY CONROY
turned off his windshield wipers as he made a left turn into his driveway. The van’s headlights illuminated the muddy roadbed through woods. Despite the curves, he could drive it in his sleep with no fear of hitting a tree. A temptation to close his eyes was—

His right foot slammed the brake pedal. Full stop.

The twin beams were trained on one of Ma’s garden gnomes where he had never seen one before. Its ugly face peered out of the foliage. That last time out with the machete, he must have gotten carried away and, eyes blind with sweat, he had cut back ferns that had hidden this one for all the years since his mother’s death.

Thank you, Ma,
for this nasty little surprise.

He drove on to the garage at the top of the road, and there it was again. The same little man, but this one had always crouched in plain sight. It was the first one Ma had bought. Others were hiding in the woods, and one in back of the house had the cover of rosebushes grown up around it.

Even in her last years of oncoming dementia, Ma had continued to order them from the garden shop. Sometimes he would come home from a trip and the see the track of a new one, the rut left behind after she had dragged it across the lawn to hide it among the trees and thick undergrowth. How many were there? He had never understood her love for the trolls. Child catchers, she called them. Ma never did like other people’s kids much, most of them
damn
kids to her. How many of her little men were out there? An army?

On this so tired night, he could almost believe that there was only one. This one on the lawn. In the woods. Down the driveway. And sometimes among the roses.

 
14

Good Dog knew only one trick, a fast game of fetch. By taps of a keyboard and a double click, Mallory sent her software creature through a back door, a pet flap of sorts, and into the databank of the Securities and Exchange Commission, a vast circuitry of twisty electronic halls, silver chambers of chips and deep pits covered over with the twigs and branches of burglar alarms. Through this labyrinth of data, mega-billions of bytes, the Good Dog virus followed her command to bring home any bone attached to a case-reference number for Andrew Polk.