The 7th Canon (22 page)

He looked up and found himself staring at an unfamiliar, grotesque face, eyes bulging and bloodshot, nostrils flared, teeth bared.

A reflection in the mirror above the mantel.

His face.

Horrified, he released his grip, stepped back, and hurled a lamp from an end table at the mirror. The glass exploded, cascading to the floor.

He grabbed his father and lifted him to his feet. “It’s time for you to leave,” Donley said, breathing heavily, barely able to get the words out. “We don’t want you here. We don’t need you. I won’t leave her here with you. So it’s time for you to leave. Tonight. Now. And if you ever come back, if you make any attempt to contact her, I’ll find you. And next time, I will kill you.”

He released his grip and stepped away. His father fell like a weighted sack, slumped against the hearth.

Glass crushed beneath Donley’s shoes as he made his way to the front door to leave. He reached the entryway when he heard the noise behind him. A low hum, it sounded at first like a distant motorcycle that grew in intensity and volume. When Donley turned back to the living room, his father charged, the scream becoming a deafening roar.

Chapter 14

Frank Ross adjusted the notched knob between the eyepieces and focused the oversize binoculars on the front entrance of the brick apartment building. Bronze-plated numbers illuminated beneath a small light confirmed the address.

He lowered the binoculars and looked up and down the block of manicured trees and three-story apartment buildings, but did not see Michael Whitney’s blue BMW sports coupe. Ross wondered how a tennis instructor afforded such a luxury item or rent in a high-end apartment building.

Earlier that afternoon, Ross had driven by Lou Giantelli’s office, but it was closed. A sign on the door indicated the office would be open sporadically throughout the end of the year. Until Ross found out whether he was still on the case, he was resigned to chasing down an unfaithful wife.

He picked up the handheld tape recorder and pressed the “Record” button while considering his watch. “Ten forty-two p.m. I have confirmed the address to be 1281 Clay Street. According to retrieved information, apartment 6B is occupied by a tenant of the last name, Whitney. DMV and credit-card records confirm the address. Mr. Whitney currently leases a navy-blue, two-door BMW sports coupe. He was seen leaving the Geary Theater with a woman fitting the description of the subject, Abigail Collins.”

Ross turned off the recorder. “The guy must be a hell of a lay.” He depressed the “Record” button. “Attempts to confirm relationship with Abigail Collins earlier in the evening unsuccessful.”

Ross had been unable to snap any clear pictures of Collins and Whitney as they left the 8:00 p.m. performance of
The Phantom of the Opera
. The crowd of attendees on Geary Street, dressed in bulky raincoats and carrying large umbrellas, made it impossible for Ross to raise his camera and snap off a couple of quick shots. Thinking like a guy, Ross suspected Whitney would bring Abigail Collins back to his apartment. Whitney was paying a pricey chunk of change for his Pacific Heights address and would see no reason to spend money on a hotel. The fact that they went to a public show confirmed Mrs. Collins and her lover were unconcerned about Mr. Collins, who had deliberately left town to tempt his young wife.

Ross opened a thermos as old and conspicuous as the football-size binoculars and poured hot coffee into the cap. His car phone rang, an extravagant item for an underpaid private “dictective,” but Ross had put the $2,100 cost on his credit card to pacify his wife. She worried about him, and unlike his time on the police force, the department could not reach him on the radio. “Hi, honey.”

“That’s the nicest thing I’ve been called all week, hero. How are the bad guys?”

“Sam? How did you get this number?”

“I charmed a pretty lady with a sweet voice.”

“Did she at least hold out for a bribe?”

“Not a penny.”

“I tell you, she’s forgotten everything I taught her.”

Sam Goldman roared. Even after a full day, he still sounded wired. “Business must be good if you can afford one of those fancy portable phones.”

“Portable, my ass. The damn thing feels like I’m holding a brick and sounds like you’re in a tunnel.”

“Where I am talking to you?”

“I’m in my car.”

“Imagine that. Beam me up, Scotty.”

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Sam?”

“I got some news on the priest.”

“I hope you’re a better reporter than the gal who wrote the afternoon piece for the
Examiner
. That was worthless.”

“I told you, everyone is keeping quiet. It’s like the Kremlin.”

Ross sipped at the coffee. “What’s the big secret?”

“Don’t know yet, but I’ll find out. They can run, but they can’t hide. You asked me about the detective who found the victim?”

“You have a name?”

“Dixon Connor. From what I’m told, Connor caught the priest red-handed. No pun intended. I checked with the people here who monitor police and fire frequencies. A call came in around nine twelve that night. Connor beat everybody there—materialized at the shelter like Hamlet’s father.”

“How did Connor get there so fast?”

“Don’t know. But the real fireworks apparently started when Connor got back to the station. I’m told Mr. United States War Hero threw a fit in Lieutenant O’Malley’s office, and she suspended him. Internal Affairs is involved,” Goldman said.

“Any idea why she suspended him?”

“The priest’s attorney is contending the search was illegal, that Connor kicked in doors and busted locked cabinets without a warrant.”

“What’s Connor’s response?”

“Silence. Like I said, he cleaned out his desk and left. He’s not answering his phone. So, are you going to tell me your angle on this investigation?” Goldman asked.

Ross had known Sam Goldman a long time. He considered him both a friend and a mentor. But Goldman was a reporter first, and Ross knew he could be sitting on potentially explosive information, a story that any good journalist would like to investigate, but it was too early. He knew it would be unfair to tell Goldman the angle, then have him promise not to look into it. Giving a good journalist a tip you didn’t want in the paper was like lending money to friends. You just didn’t do it. Besides, if he was still working on the case, he had a duty to not disclose anything.

Ross threw him a bone. “I’m working on something, Sam. When I feel like I have enough to make it worth your interest, we’ll sit down, just me and you.”

Goldman dismissed it. “You know me, I’m always on the go. The missus said you were working. Top secret? James Bond stuff?”

Ross looked at the mess in the Cadillac and picked up the mammoth binoculars. “Yeah, Sam. I’m a real secret agent. Thanks for the information.”

“No problem. Enjoy that phone while it lasts, hero. Those things will never catch on. Who wants to be bothered morning, noon, and night?”

Ross set down the phone. He thought of Dixon Connor. He thought of Father Thomas Martin. And he thought of the victim, Andrew Bennet. He wondered how they all might have interacted with one another. He had enough material to have somebody take a close and serious look at three different files: three teenage prostitutes, all murdered, all unsolved . . . and Dixon Connor’s name now appeared as the detective on all three.

When he looked back to the front entrance of the apartment building, the BMW was parked at the curb. Michael Whitney had opened the passenger-side door, and his date was stepping out. Ross reached quickly into the backseat for his camera, opened the case, and removed the Nikon, fumbling with the telephoto lens. He started shooting as Whitney and Abigail Collins entered the front door and disappeared into the lobby. He knew he had a blurry photograph of the backs of a well-dressed man and woman.

Nathaniel Collins would not be happy, and an unhappy client was unlikely to pay. Ross picked up the tape recorder.

“Ten fifty-two p.m. Ross screws up. Subjects evade tail. No photographs. Wife makes one-point-five million. Frank Ross, private ‘dictective,’ makes nothing.”

“You OK?”

Donley had opened his eyes. Momentarily confused, he realized he’d fallen asleep in the chair beside Father Martin’s bed and the priest was talking to him. He sat up and shook away the cobwebs. Father Martin had his head turned on the pillow, watching him.

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Donley said. He was sweating and breathing heavily. He unclenched his hands, which had been balled into fists, stood, and walked to the side of the bed.

“Vicious headache,” Father Martin said.

“The turban becomes you.”

“Never thought being bald would be a virtue; at least they didn’t have to shave my head.”

Donley smiled. “One of the officers who brought you in said you put up a hell of a fight. He said you might not be alive if you hadn’t.”

“I always did have a problem with that ‘turn the other cheek’ thing. What day is it?”

“Saturday.”

Father Martin turned his head to look out the window. “It’s late. You should be home with your wife and son.”

“I’m doing hospital rounds. I went to visit my uncle earlier and thought I’d come check on you.”

“How is he?”

“Ornery as ever, which means he’s getting better. They have him walking the halls. He keeps threatening to walk right out the door. He would, too, if my aunt wasn’t there. Walk right to the office, probably. You feel up to a few questions?”

“Sure.”

“I tried to see your friend Danny a couple nights ago.”

Father Martin’s eyes widened. “Is he all right?”

“I don’t know. He left the hospital in the middle of the night. Apparently, Detective Connor paid him a visit just before he did.”

The priest’s gaze shifted to the ceiling. “He’s scared.”

“With good reason. I paid Connor a visit myself earlier today to see if he would talk to me and to hand him a subpoena.”

“How’d that go?”

“Let’s just say I wouldn’t count on him as a character witness.”

“Connor hates the shelter.”

“Why?”

“People like Connor hate just to hate. They don’t need a reason. It’s part of their DNA.” Father Martin’s eyes fluttered. He yawned.

“I’ll let you rest.”

“What about you?” the priest asked.

“No rest for me,” Donley said. “I have an evidentiary hearing to prepare for, though I intend to ask for a continuance with you lying here looking like a Saudi oil sheik and Connor refusing my subpoena. No guarantees Maximum Milt will grant it, since you really don’t need to be present, and I’m sure the district attorney will argue I’m only stalling.”

Father Martin said, “It looked like you were having a nightmare.”

Donley dismissed it. “Nothing like the one you must be having.”

Father Martin paused. Then, apparently not wanting to push the subject, he asked, “How old is your son?”

“Benny? He’s two, almost three. Why do you ask?”

“He’s with your wife?”

“Actually, he’s with his grandmother. My wife’s on call tonight.”

“She’s a doctor.”

“A resident.”

“So, he stays with your mother.”

Donley shook his head. “My wife’s mother. My mother is dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s been a few years,” he said.

“How’d she die?”

“Cancer. I was in law school. They found it too late. She died sixty days from diagnosis. The really amazing thing is, she waited a month to tell me because she didn’t want it to interfere with my semester exams. She went through hell by herself. That still bothers me.”

“What about your father?”

Donley shook his head, and for a moment remembered his nightmare, which was all too real. “He died in an accident a few years before that.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. He was a lot like Dixon Connor, angry at everyone and everything. Blamed everyone else for his problems. Hated just to hate . . .” Donley checked his watch. “I better get going.”

“It’s all right to be angry, Peter.”

Donley nodded, but no words came.

“It’s all right to be angry at God. He and I battle all the time. When my mother died, I was angry because she gave her life to him, and I thought she deserved better. But we don’t know why God does what he does until sometimes much later. My mother’s death forced my older brothers to grow up and realize they had a responsibility to step up and take care of the rest of us. If they hadn’t, social services would have split us up, and they likely would be dead, given the direction they’d been heading. Maybe me as well. They protected me, and when I got to the seminary, they made sure I stayed there.”

“My mother used to say something similar,” Donley said. “But I never did find much comfort in the ‘everything happens for a reason’ answer, Father.”

“Do you know the story of Saint Paul?” Father Tom asked.

Donley smiled. “Not very well, I’m afraid. From what I recall, he persecuted the Jews until God knocked him from his horse and struck him blind.”

“Paul didn’t just persecute the Jews,” Father Martin said. “He murdered them. And yet, he was the disciple God chose to spread Christ’s message. God made us sinners, Peter. But he also forgives those sins. That’s his divine mercy. But first, we have to forgive ourselves.”