VC03 - Mortal Grace (57 page)

Cardozo moved the jeans, the T-shirt, the candle, the three-inch length of chain to one side of the counter, separating out the two small rings.

He swiveled the arm of the examining lamp. The tensor’s bulb threw a wash of sizzling, almost blue light.

One of the rings flashed as though microscopic gem chips had been embedded in its gold plate. It was tagged 408-H-307-5 and it was the ring found in Martin Barth’s knapsack.

The other ring, 408-H-307-1, did not flash when light played over it. It was the ring found in Wanda Gilmartin’s left nipple, and there was hardly any gold plate left on it at all.

Cardozo stared at the two rings. Similar, yes. Identical, not very.

He placed the rings and the other items back in their manila file. He snapped off his disposable plastic gloves and returned to the property clerk’s window.

The air-conditioning in the property room was still pumping out an arctic chill, and today the clerk was wearing a knitted ski sweater.

“I need to see the evidence logs from last year,” Cardozo said.

The clerk vanished behind a storage rack, but not before giving Cardozo a glance that said he was a royal pain in the gazebo.

A TV set somewhere was blasting the fake kiddie voices of a
Sesame Street
rerun. Cardozo’s beeper went off and it took him a moment to realize the beep-beep was not part of the
Sesame Street
backup band.

He crossed to the pay phone and dialed the precinct. The
Sesame Street
falsettos were bleating a number about a blue giraffe. The precinct finally answered. Cardozo had to shout.

The operator put him through to Ellie.

“The tap on Delphillea Huffington turned up another call from Eff,” Ellie’s voice said. “Where in the world are you? You sound as if you’re talking from the bottom of a barrel of chipmunks.”

“That about describes the situation.”

“Delphillea says Eff has another letter from his priest friend. She recognized the handwriting on the envelope. Eff says he’s on his way.”

“When did the call come in?”

“We got the tape five minutes ago.”

“Hey, Lieutenant.” The property clerk had returned with an evidence log. Cardozo said good-bye to Ellie and brushed a year’s worth of dust from the binding.

He consulted the date on Aryeh Fabrikant’s receipt—May third. He opened the log. A kind of darkness seemed to rush up from the pages. He flipped to 5-03 and studied an entry near the bottom of the page.

At 10:30
A.M.
, Harry Thoms of the D.A.’s office checked out item 408-H-307-1, the ring found in Gilmartin’s nipple. He checked it back in at 4:20
P.M
. the following day. Ten days later the ring from Barth’s knapsack was registered with the property clerk as evidence item 408-H-307-5.

Cardozo slammed the log shut. He felt certainty within every cell of his body.

Cardozo parked behind a Dumpster, a block and a half from Delphillea Huffington’s apartment building. He had a clear sight line on the front door.

The white boy with the blond ponytail didn’t show.

The sun set. There was a flurry of movement—honest citizens hurrying home before the muggers and hookers and dopesters took over the street.

A little after nine, a bunch of kids came skateboarding by, giddy on crack, risking their lives as well as other people’s, not caring.

Ten minutes later a junkie stumbled by and puked into a garbage can. He was a senior citizen and a gent of the old school—he put the lid back on the can.

Still no sign of Eff. No sign of any white boy.

A little before ten the radio in Cardozo’s car crackled to life. It was Greg, at the precinct. “Bad news.”

“Give it to me, I’m sitting down. I’ve been sitting down for five hours.”

“We just found out the power source was down on that tap.”

Shit
, Cardozo thought. “How long?”

“A little over four hours. You know what I’m saying? We caught that call when power was restored, but it may have come in before the power break.”

“I know what you’re saying, Greg. He may have made the pickup four hours before I got here.”

SEVENTY-TWO

“Here’s the drill,” Cardozo said. “We phone every Catholic church in the metropolitan area. Explain the situation, but keep it short and don’t say
killer
.”

“So what do we say?” Sam Richards asked. He was leaning against the file cabinet. Beside him, Detective O’Bannon was sitting on the edge of the desk. Ellie was standing beside the air conditioner, careful not to block the trickle of cool air.

“All they need to know is that a criminal is using empty churches. Find out which churches are going to be empty and unguarded tonight. Plead with them to put a priest on guard. If they can’t do it, we’ll put a cop on guard—but emphasize that’s a last resort, because we haven’t got the manpower. Ellie, you take the Bronx. Sam, Brooklyn. Tom, Manhattan. I’ll do Queens. First one finished takes Staten Island. Okay, let’s get on it.”

It took less than an hour of nonstop phoning for Cardozo to begin raising a blood blister on the tip of his button-pushing finger.

“You don’t suppose you could stay close to the church tonight?” He was talking with Father Malloy of Our Lady of Carmel.

“But it’s bingo night down at St. Anastasia.” Father Malloy’s tone was desolate.

The other line began blinking. “Excuse me just a minute, Father.” Cardozo switched calls.

It was Lieutenant Ross, who managed flack for Captain O’Reilly. “Your line’s been busy.”

“That’s because I’ve been busy.”

“O’Reilly needs to talk to you. Right away and in person.”

When Cardozo stepped into O’Reilly’s office, the coolness hit him like an ice block in the face. The captain’s air conditioner was one of two on the floor that actually worked well.

“Vince, what the hell are you trying to do?” O’Reilly’s sad, whiskeyed eyes added the footnote,
And why are you doing it to my pension?

“I’m trying to save a kid’s life.”

“You’re creating havoc. The diocesan press office says there’s no communion killer. The D.A. says there’s no communion killer.”

“And between them they’ve kept the communion killer safely in business for the last three years.”

“The commissioner says the mayor does not need this kind of panic.”

“The commissioner seems to say whatever the mayor tells him to.”

“The commissioner says no cops are to be assigned to guard churches tonight.”

Cardozo let his breath out very slowly. “Trying to get any kind of job done under this administration is like barfing upwind.”

“There’s a chain of command here, Vince. Do you know what I’m saying?”

Cardozo’s capacity to keep his mouth shut suddenly snapped. “I took an oath to uphold the law and protect citizens—not some bureaucrat’s insecure ego. His Honor’s scared that cops are going to offend someone. So we should go down with the first punch and take the count. Fine, and there may be enough cop-haters in this city to reelect him, but all he’s going to be mayor of is a wall-to-wall riot.”

O’Reilly just sat there and didn’t speak. His anger was bright red on the skin of his face and neck.

“I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to lose my temper. I understand what you’re saying. May I go?”

“You sure as hell may—and stop phoning those churches.”

Cardozo showed his ID to the receptionist. “I have an urgent message for the cardinal. I’d prefer to deliver it personally.”

“Do you have an appointment?”

“I’m afraid not.”

She shot him a look through wire-rimmed glasses that said he had to be crazy.

He took a piece of paper from her desk and wrote in large, legible letters:
The communion killer will strike tonight.
He did not fold the note. He placed his shield on top and reversed the paper so the receptionist could read it. He slid it back toward her across the desk top.

She looked at the note and darted a glance back at him. “Just a moment, please.” She vanished in a clatter of panicky heels.

The lights danced on her phone set. Visitors piled up behind Cardozo. Three minutes went by before she reappeared with a hefty-looking monsignor. He flashed a chummy smile and invited Cardozo to follow him.

They walked down a long, carpeted corridor hung with portraits of New York’s last twenty-two cardinals. None of them looked like happy men. The monsignor tossed nods to two more receptionists and a uniformed private security guard. He paused at a paneled door. “Could I trouble you for your service revolver, please?”

Something in the manner of the monsignor’s request startled Cardozo. It took him an instant to realize it was not the manner, but the eyes. The monsignor’s left eye was pale brown and the right eye was pale blue.

Cardozo handed his gun over.

“Thank you.” The monsignor knocked and opened the door. “His Eminence will see you.”

Cardozo stepped into a Victorian chamber of high windows and heavy lace curtains. Most of the light came from a pair of lamps on the oak desk. They were carved and painted to resemble Black lady footmen in a Ruritanian operetta. Cardozo’s note and shield lay on the desk top between them.

Barry Cardinal Fitzwilliam stood by a window adjusting his biretta. “It may not be appropriate to say thank you for a note as unwelcome as yours, Lieutenant—but thank you.” When his Eminence turned, he looked no older than his photographs, but much wearier. “It was well-intentioned, I’m sure.”

“Thank you for seeing me, your Eminence.”

“I’m especially interested because, so far as we’ve been able to establish, the communion killer is largely a campaign of rumor.”

“Rumor and five dead bodies.” Cardozo placed the autopsies and photos on the desk.

The cardinal’s robe made a whispering sound as he crossed the room. Gravely, he fitted a pair of reading spectacles to his nose. He sat at the desk. He studied the documents. He separated the photos into two groups: the three who had died before Father Chuck’s murder—and the two who had died since. “You say one man is responsible for these crimes?”

“Yes, your Eminence.”

“Do you know his identity?”

“No, your Eminence—but we believe he’s a priest.”

The cardinal hesitated. “An Episcopal priest?”

“We haven’t determined that yet, but we know his pattern. He’s using empty Catholic churches to give his victims communion. And he’s going to kill his sixth victim tonight.”

“Tonight?” The cardinal pulled back. “That doesn’t give you much time to stop him.”

“It gives us enough time if you’re willing to help.”

The cardinal fumbled the pictures together into a facedown stack. “Of course, anything in my power—but how?”

“Every empty Catholic church in the city has to be watched—and only you command the manpower to do that.”

Cardozo parked in the alley beside the station house. The sun was a fiery smear sliding down the sky. He took two brown paper bags up to the squad room: Chinese takeout for Ellie, cheeseburger deluxe for Greg. They had agreed to stay behind to monitor the phones in case a church reported a break-in.

Greg made a face. “This cheeseburger’s been cooked the way you clean pleated curtains—with steam.”

Ellie ate her cashew chicken with chopsticks. She handled them with a deftness that surprised Cardozo. “Aren’t you eating, Vince?”

“Not hungry.”

“You still need to eat.”

“I will.” He stood at the window, watching the sky darken.

Phones kept ringing, but no priests.

Cardozo hated waiting. It was the one thing in life he hated most. He went to Ellie’s desk in the squad room and checked the crime-scene logs on St. Andrew’s rectory.

Ellie watched him. “What are you doing?”

“Killing time.”

“If you told me what you’re looking for, maybe I could help.”

“Here. I found it.” He showed her the entry. “The rectory wasn’t secured until Pablo Cespedes died. That left it unguarded for eight hours after he was found. Anyone could have broken in and planted photos in the talent file.”

“Hey, Vince,” Greg Monteleone called over from his desk. “Radio message. Something’s going down in one of the churches. It’s on your phone.”

“Holy Christ.” Cardozo ran to his phone and jabbed the blinking button. “Cardozo.”

A radio spat patched-in static. “Sorry, Lieutenant,” the operator said. “False alarm. A cat got into St. Anne’s in Queens.”

A little after nine a full moon rose. By ten o’clock, cops were pulling crazies in off the street, and there were screams from the holding cage down on the second floor.

Ellie rapped on Cardozo’s door. “Who says the photos were a plant?”

“They were taken with Eff’s camera. There’s a light leak that matches photos he sent to Vergil Muller. Believe me, Ellie, I’ve been through this with Lou.”

She arched a skeptical eyebrow. “Okay, I believe you.”

Cardozo was napping, head on his desk beside the telephone, when Ellie woke him with a cup of coffee.

“Are you sure you want this? You must have had two dozen since midnight.”

“Did I ask for it?” He couldn’t remember.

“Just a minute ago.”

“Then I want it.”

She handed him the cup.

He drained it in three gulps. Something sour rode halfway up his esophagus and lodged there.

She was watching him. “Why plant the photos in Father Joe’s talent file?”

“To frame Father Joe. To bury the traces of a bungled investigation—and cover the D.A.’s ass—and get Harvey Thoms off the hook.”

“Well, we’ve certainly changed our tune.” She was staring with that expression he’d come to dislike, because it meant she was studying him and not the facts. “Okay, maybe there’s a frame on Father Joe. But you’re going way beyond the evidence if you’re saying Thoms and the D.A. are behind it. And Eff’s working with them? No way.”

“Thoms is sure as hell behind something.” Cardozo foraged through his briefcase. He slapped Aryeh Fabrikant’s invoice down on the desk top. Beside it he slapped the Xerox of the task force’s canceled check. “Four and a half weeks after Wanda Gilmartin’s body was found, four days before Martin Barth confessed, Harvey Thoms checked Gilmartin’s nipple ring out of the evidence room.”