VC03 - Mortal Grace (38 page)

“Doesn’t it seem odd,” she said, “that anyone would risk breaking in just to steal one little clock?”

“It’s a fact of life that weirdos are odd. The kid might be on crack, which means he could do anything no matter how stupid or risky. Or, if he’s been here before, he may not see breaking in as a risk. He may regard this place as an open house.”

“If that’s another dig at Father Joe, it’s not very subtle.”

“It’s not meant to be subtle. I’m not running for election.”

She colored faintly and he concentrated on not noticing the milky texture of her skin.

“At least you’re frank,” she said.

“You don’t know for sure who Father Montgomery was bringing in here. You don’t know what he was doing with them.”

She seemed very tired. He felt guilty pushing her to the edge, but he needed to get past her defenses.

“And you
do
know?” she said.

“I know a few things. And I’m finding out a few more.” He opened his briefcase. “Are you absolutely sure you don’t recognize Wanda Gilmartin?”

He could feel her humoring him as she took the photo from his hand.

“I honestly don’t recognize her. Is there some reason you keep thinking I should?”

“She was the girl we found in the basket in Vanderbilt Garden.”

Bonnie Ruskay’s glance came up to his, startled.

“That’s the fifth dead kid in Father Montgomery’s file.”

“Have you told her parents?” Bonnie said.

“We haven’t been able to find her parents. She may have been using a false name.”

“I’m sure there’s an explanation.”

“There’s always an explanation. I’ll bet there’s even an explanation for Wright Vanderbrook.”

Anger flared in her eyes and then she covered it. “Wright has nothing to do with any of this.”

“I disagree. I think he could have a lot to do with it. The Vanderbrook family brought suit because of the way Father Montgomery counseled their son.”

Now she was back in control of her eyes. They challenged him. “That lawsuit never reached court.”

“The Vanderbrooks still thought they had grounds.”

“Why do you have to unearth these discredited old lies?”

“It’s not a lie that Wright Vanderbrook is dead and his parents thought the church had a hand in it.”

“He’s dead because he was a tragically confused young man.”

“That’s all there was to it? Confusion?”

“No. That’s not all.”

She got up from her chair and went to the bookcase. She moved with a grace that under the circumstances he found almost flabbergasting. This was a lady who never fell apart.

She brought back a leather-bound photo album. She laid it open on the desk. The pictures showed a young man with curly light brown hair and fine, almost feminine features. In one he was playing the piano, dressed in evening clothes. In another he was standing at a kitchen sink in a bathing suit, washing potatoes.

“He was young,” she said. “He was beautiful; he was gifted.”

Cardozo wondered who had taken all these photos of Wright Vanderbrook and why. In shot after shot, on the beach, on horseback, at a banquet table, the boy’s pale green eyes seemed sleepy, almost narcoleptic. “Was he involved with drugs?”

“I never saw it.”

“Was he close to Father Joe?”

She hesitated. She must have suddenly seen where the question was leading. “Father Joe was close to all his young people. And closer to Wright than to most because Wright was needier.”

“Was it a sexual relationship?”

Her jaw fell. The album slid from her lap.

At last
, he thought.
Thank you for a direct answer.
He bent to retrieve the album and handed it back to her.

“I told you that Father Joe took a vow of chastity. He made God a promise.”

“A lot of people make promises,” Cardozo said. “They even make them to God.”

“But Joe keeps his.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“I do know.”

He didn’t answer. He could feel her curiosity like a faint exploring pressure on his skin.
Is this what they mean by faith?
he wondered.
This lady is not only a believer in the sanctity of Joe Montgomery, she won’t rest till she has me believing too.

“Lieutenant, don’t you ever take a person’s word?”

“In life? Sometimes. In work? It’s safer not to.”

“Not even a priest’s word?”

“Priests can be just as secretive as anyone else.”

“Secretive?” She looked at him, eyes pale and troubled. “Are you talking about anything in particular?”

“You asked me to return a photo of two kids in the Vanderbilt Garden. What was the real reason?”

She drew in a breath. “They’re my children. The court only allows me to see them between school terms. They shouldn’t have been there.”

“Then why were they?”

“Because it was an event—and I love them—and I don’t think it’s dishonest to disobey an unjust custody decree.”

“But you do mind leaving proof lying about. In law that would be called cognizance of guilt.”

“I’m not trying to protect myself—I don’t give a damn about myself. But I can’t let Collie be hurt.”

“How could Collie be hurt?”

“He stayed neutral in the divorce, and my ex-husband trusts him. Kelly and Kyle go out for excursions with Collie two or three times a month—and the excursions just happen to end up here.”

“You must have a great deal of confidence in Collie to let him ferry your children around.”

“My brother and Collie and I have been best friends since we were children. As long as I’ve known Collie he’s been absolutely trustworthy.”

Something about the explanation nagged at Cardozo. It seemed to fit, but still he wondered about it. His mind was telling him one thing about Bonnie Ruskay and his instinct was telling him another and he couldn’t get the two messages to agree.

“I hope I’ve cleared myself of all crimes?”

“Almost all,” he said. “There’s one other question. A check you wrote to
cash
—number 2727.”

“You seem to know my account better than I do. Offhand I don’t recall it. I probably ran short of cash and dashed to the bank.”

“It was drawn on the parish account. Two thousand dollars. A check-cashing service cashed it for a girl by the name of Nell Dunbar.”

He could feel her very carefully not reacting.

“Is that a question?” she said.

“No. The question is—what was that check paying for?”

For just an instant, her mouth quivered. “I can’t answer that.”

“How were you involved with Nell Dunbar?”

“It was a pastoral matter. I’m sorry, there’s no way I can discuss it.”

“Then I’m sorry too.”

He stood, and she rose with him.

“I’m not hiding anything that concerns you or your work.” Her eyes were almost pleading. “I wish you’d just believe that.”

“I don’t have your capacity for faith.” He smiled. “I must strike you as an obnoxious, doubting kind of guy.”

“No, but you’re thorough to a fault.”

“You’ve had a dose of me and my thoroughness.”

She didn’t deny it. She walked with him into the hallway.

“Be sure you reset the alarm every time you open the door,” he reminded her. “It has to become second nature—or it’s useless.”

“I’m a klutz with electronic gizmos and you’re kind to care.”

She walked with him to the sidewalk. She touched his elbow. It was the first time she had ever reached out and just touched him. “Thank you.”

“Look,” he said, “wouldn’t you feel better if you had a guard?”

“The police have enough trouble on their hands without worrying about me.”

“Guess you’ve had enough complications with the law for one lifetime.”

She looked perplexed. “I don’t follow.”

“This investigation on top of the lawsuits. First you walk the civil gauntlet, now the criminal. Frying pan to fire.”

“We haven’t had that many lawsuits. Only two. The Vanderbrooks and the Schuylers. And they were both nuisance suits.”

“What were the Schuylers trying to prove?”

“Samantha sued to get half our garden. The court turned her down.”

“All the same, it’s tiring. You beat back the lawyers, you beat back the cops. But I’m not kidding—if this punk keeps hanging around, you’re going to get a guard.”

“We’ll see.”

Cardozo admired spunk, but spunk alone wasn’t always the answer. “There’s no ‘we’ll see’ about it.”

Cardozo phoned ahead, and Mrs. Schuyler’s social secretary said to pop by anytime between five and seven, no trouble at all. When he arrived at the Schuyler town house, champagne corks were popping in the living room and uniformed servants were circulating with silver trays of hors d’oeuvres. A butler handed Cardozo over to a young woman wearing prim glasses and no jewelry.

“Hi,” she said. “We spoke on the phone.” She led Cardozo through a babbling sea of coutured dresses and tailored Italian suits.

“Mrs. Schuyler, Lieutenant Cardozo is here to see you.”

A blond hairdo was chattering with a red hairdo. Both hairdos turned, but it was the blond hair that spoke.

“How do you do.” A jeweled hand went out. “I’m Samantha Schuyler and this is my dear friend Allison Fitzregis. Maggie, get the lieutenant something to drink.”

“No, thanks,” Cardozo said.

“We’ll never be able to talk in this madhouse.” Mrs. Schuyler had not bothered to let go of Cardozo’s hand. “Let’s go find ourselves a little nook.”

She pulled him on a figure-eight through the room, introducing him to two dozen friends, and Cardozo realized that Samantha Schuyler was delighted to have a real live police lieutenant to show off to her chums.

“A pipe burst in the polo practice room. So if we want any privacy I’m afraid we have to talk in the humidor. Do you mind tobacco?”

When she opened the door he understood why she asked: The floor-to-ceiling maplewood drawers that took up three walls must have been stuffed with cigars: the small room had the sweet, overpoweringly dank smell of cured leaf.

Mrs. Schuyler sniffed. Raisin-sized diamonds at her ears and throat sent out blips of blue light. “Is the air all right?”

“The air’s fine.”

“I won’t let Houghton smoke anywhere else in the house.”

She settled herself into a stuffed leather armchair. Cardozo took the matching chair. He saw that she had brought her champagne glass with her.

“It’s about Wright Vanderbrook. I need a little filling-in.”

Samantha Schuyler’s smile took on a mean edge of satisfaction. “So it took a man to find out about that saga. How much of the story do you know?”

Cardozo outlined what he’d been able to put together from the medical examiner’s report. “And this.” He handed her a Xerox of the
New York Times
obituary.

Her expression took on a pearly glaze. “He was a wonderful boy and it’s a wonderful write-up. Pity he had to be dead to get it.” She gave the obit back. She sat sipping champagne. “After Wright killed himself, notes were found. Do you know about those?”

“Only rumors.”

“They were babyish, scrawled outpourings. The wording left no doubt—all the time that Wright had supposedly been in counseling he’d actually been having an affair with his counselor.”

“How did you happen to get possession of these letters?”

“The cleaning woman discovered the originals.” Mrs. Schuyler drained her champagne glass. “She made copies on the parish Xerox—for security—and as I was then chairperson of the vestry she brought them to me. They indicated an extremely sick relationship. Naturally, we petitioned the bishop to reorganize St. Andrew’s.”

“You asked him to fire Father Montgomery?”

“Fire them both.” Mrs. Schuyler was looking at Cardozo with half-mast eyes. “Ruskay and Montgomery are like the two faces of a counterfeit coin. There’s a very sick relationship between them—what do psychiatrists call it, folie à deux? Alone, each of them is quite harmless. But together…” Her gaze dropped modestly. “We explained the whole thing to the bishop. The old fool said, flat out, Montgomery and Ruskay stay. Couldn’t budge him. God knows what those two had on him. But I can imagine the sort of thing.”

FORTY-NINE

B
ISHOP GRISWOLD HANCOCK PRESIDED
that Sunday at the eleven o’clock service at St. Andrew’s. Bonnie assisted. It was a full house, as it always was when the bishop gave the sermon.

The congregation took communion in shifts. As many as could fit knelt at the altar railing while the others waited in the aisles. The bishop served the wafer and Bonnie followed, serving the wine.

“The body of Christ.” The bishop made a sign of the cross with the wafer and placed it in Tina Vanderbilt’s cupped hands.

“The body of Christ.” And in Whitney Carls’s cupped hands.

“The blood of Christ.” Bonnie raised the chalice to Tina’s lips. Tina’s eyelids fluttered as she swallowed.

“The blood of Christ.”

Eyes open but averted, Whitney Carls took a tiny sip. As he rose he tugged at his wig.

Bonnie heard Tina whisper. “Would you just leave that damned wig alone! It’s not a toy!”

Shadows moved single-file back to the pews. A new batch took their places.

An angelic-looking blond child caught Bonnie’s eye at the far end of the railing.

As she worked her way down, something about him kept tugging her eye. He was dressed in high ghetto style: Hawaiian shirt, bright red floppy cotton trousers, a blue baseball cap worn backward over his ponytail.

Even before she saw the crucifix earring, a wind of recognition chilled her.

“The body of Christ.” The bishop placed the wafer in the boy’s hands.

Now Bonnie took the bishop’s place.

Holding the chalice in both hands, she raised it to the boy’s lips.

She began to pronounce the formula: “The blood of—”

She broke off, realizing that he had two hands free, she had none free. At this instant he could do anything to her he wanted.

“The blood of Christ.” Her voice shook.

He did not sip the offered wine: it was as though he had not heard her. Above the rim of the chalice, his gaze met hers. His eyes were a steely, dead blue. Ice went through her.