Silent Mercy ac-13 Page 11

  “Put a move on, Coop,” Mike said.

  “Excuse me, sir,” I called after the silhouette, shimmying my way across one of the long pews to get closer to the area below the choir loft, looking down so as not to trip over any of the prie-dieu kneelers along the way.

  There was no response.

  I picked my head up again and leaned back, but the loft above was empty.

  Only seconds had passed, but off to my left the church door opened, and though the man was farther away from me now, the feature that was most prominent in my memory showed clearly as I viewed his back. The long hair, bunched together like a ponytail, was tucked into the rear of his coat — just as it had been in the courtroom that morning.

  I broke into a trot to get to the door before it closed behind him, struggling to remember from earlier visits to the cathedral whether there actually was a staircase in that corner of the loft. Even if there was one, how had this man descended it so quickly and silently? I’d have to figure that out later. Now all I wanted was to find out who he was and why he had twice crossed my path.

  I dashed out and gasped as the wind whipped at my face while I continued the hunt for this fast-moving apparition. The CSU detectives were still working off to my left, so I ran down the steps and around to the right — the north side of the great cathedral.

  Against the blue-black sky and the dark gray stone of the old building I could barely see more than a few feet in front of me. I came to an abrupt halt as the walkway ended fifty yards from the corner I had turned. I found myself pressed against the waist-high railing that formed a balcony over the steep incline toward Morningside Drive.

  No one there. I thought for a second that I heard a sound coming from below the ledge on which I stood, but that didn’t seem possible. I was sure it was just me, panting to catch my breath before turning back to go inside.

  SIXTEEN

  GASKIN was fuming about being intercepted in the cathedral, and even more annoyed when Mike left him to follow me out onto the church steps. Darkness had overtaken the streets, and we looked in vain for any sign of the elusive cleric.

  “Is there a staircase that leads down from the choir loft?” I asked.

  “Not on that end, Coop.”

  “Then he must have moved even faster than I thought he was going.”

  “Or he sprouted wings,” Mike said, exasperated with me. “Let me get this right. You didn’t recognize his face.”

  “I didn’t really see his face in court this morning.”

  “But it was well-lit there.”

  “Yes, but he had on a big pair of sunglasses. I didn’t see any of his features, except that his face was long and angular, and his skin was unusually white with irregular red scabs or something.”

  “So, you’re giving me a make on a tall, thin guy with a ponytail?”

  “I told you he was wearing a collar. And I said a gray overcoat.”

  “Detail on that?”

  “Generic.”

  “One of retail shopping’s best consumers and you can’t detail the coat? Would you buy this scrip from a witness, Coop? ‘Oh, yeah, Ms. DA. Ask the man to turn around so I can see the back of his head. Bingo! That’s the guy who did it.’ Come in out of the cold, Madame Prosecutor. I think you’re having a brain freeze.”

  “I’m not exaggerating, Mike. See if that’s who Gaskin was here to meet. Maybe there are connections between this murder and the trial of the defrocked priest, but I’m just too thick to make them. It’s almost like Battaglia wished this on me.”

  Mike pushed open the door and practically rammed it into Gaskin’s chest. “I asked you the nicest way I know to stay right where you were, didn’t I?”

  “I thought you’d gone off and left me, Detective. You’re correct about my calling the bishop first. I should have done that. I’ll go back to my own church and make a plan.”

  “You happen to see the young man who just left the cathedral?” I asked.

  “I’m sorry? I didn’t notice anyone,” Gaskin said.

  “He must have been waiting in the choir loft when you entered.”

  “Waiting for what? Are you implying?…”

  “He only started to move when Mike and you got halfway down the nave, closer to him.” I was creating a scenario that had the two men planning an assignation in the cathedral.

  “You were off base last night when I came to my own church to try to help, and your techniques of information-gathering are even more preposterous today. What young man are you talking about?” Gaskin said. “Who is he?”

  “Ms. Cooper was hoping you could tell us that. Might be a man of the cloth, Mr. Gaskin. Caucasian. Tall and thin, hair in a kind of ponytail, hasn’t outgrown his acne.”

  “I’ll sleep on it, Chapman.” Wilbur Gaskin pulled on the door handle and let himself out as the cool evening air rushed in, the chill attaching itself to me like a second skin.

  Mike’s fingers were riffling through his hair, and when his eyes wouldn’t meet mine, I knew he was trying to curb his annoyance with me.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nice job, Coop.”

  “Hey, I told you I saw Gaskin—”

  “And then you freaked him out so he wouldn’t even wait to talk to us.”

  Two young men, both in the garb of Episcopal priests, appeared through a large oak door behind the altar, looked up when they heard our voices, and started toward us down the long nave.

  “I’m telling you I think that guy with the collar was the one who showed up at the Koslawski hearing.”

  “Heads up, Coop. Everybody in this joint has a collar. It’s a church. Your guys wear beanies, our team likes the white choker around the neck. Makes sense that whoever came to court to watch Bishop Deegan testify was one of his troops.”

  “Then what’s he doing in an Episcopal cathedral, at the precise moment when a crucial piece of evidence is found?”

  “Tall guy, long hair, gray overcoat, and acne. Won’t exactly make for a riveting AMBER Alert. Let’s hit the road.”

  “May we help you?” one of the young priests said as he approached.

  “NYPD Homicide. We’re just about to leave, thanks. Is the bishop in, by any chance?”

  “No. He’s not. I’m his secretary. May I give him a message?”

  “Sorry this happened here is all. Some of the Homicide Squad detectives will be questioning your staff — what they saw, what they know.”

  “We understand that, Detective. We’ll do everything to help. They’ve already told us they’ll be searching the cathedral.”

  “So long as you understand. You know a man called Wilbur Gaskin?”

  “I don’t recognize that name.”

  Mike gave me a self-satisfied grin. “I knew he was full of it.”

  “There was a gentleman who left the church about five minutes ago,” I said.

  “I just asked about him, Coop. They don’t know Gaskin.”

  “Possibly a priest,” I said. “Tall, thin with very long hair and—”

  “I believe we’re the only two in the church this afternoon,” the bishop’s secretary said. “The police officers took the names of people who were here when the young lady’s — uh — when her head was found. Then they asked everyone to leave. Perhaps it was a tourist. They’re in and out all the time.”

  Mike pulled his phone from his pocket and answered the call. “Hold on, Mercer. Let me get out of church and back on the street.”

  He turned and thanked the two men and we were on the broad cathedral steps, walking down to Amsterdam Avenue.

  “It’s Mercer, for you. Wants some legal advice.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Wallace,” I said as I took the phone. “It’s been a long day. What have you got?”

  “Cops at Port Authority are holding Daniel Gersh. He was about to board a bus to Chicago.”

  “Holding him? What’s the charge?” Giving me the slip earlier in the day wasn’t exactly a criminal offense.

  “That�
��s what they want to know.”

  “Where’s his stepfather?”

  “All signs are that he hasn’t left home — you know, the house and his office — in more than a week. He bought Daniel the ticket and made all the arrangements.”

  “Mike can whip me down to the terminal. There’s no way to keep him with what we’ve got now. But I have so many more questions to ask him.”

  “Too late for that, Alex. His old man has him lawyered up. He’s tighter than a tomb.”

  SEVENTEEN

  “OF course she’s drinking, Adolfo,” Mike said to the maitre d’ at Primola, an Upper East Side Italian restaurant that was my hangout several times a week. “I told you she’s tired, but I didn’t say she’d lost her mind. Dewar’s on the rocks. Tell Fenton not to be stingy with the scotch.”

  “And for you, Detectivo?” Adolfo smiled at me as I held up my thumb and forefinger to show him I wanted only a short cocktail while he took Mike’s order.

  “A vodka martini with the works. Olives, onions, capers. Back it up when you see me running low.”

  Mercer arrived ahead of us and was already sipping a glass of red wine. I excused myself to go downstairs to the restroom. When I emerged five minutes later, refreshed after scrubbing my face and reapplying some makeup, Mike was waiting for me with my drink in hand.

  “Giuliano said we could use the television in his office. It’s all tuned up.”

  For more than a decade, Mike had engaged us in his habit of betting on the Final Jeopardy! question every weeknight. He did it at the morgue and in station houses, at crime scenes in mansions and tenements, in front of startled witnesses and crusty old NYPD bosses. He had no time or use for the entire show, but was fascinated with the trivia of the last brain teaser often worth many thousands to the contestants, and happy to wager twenty dollars of his own.

  “So much for my privacy.” I took the glass and clinked it against Mike’s.

  The owner of Primola — Giuliano — had been charmed by Mike’s humor and intelligence for years and was always pleased to let us into his tiny business office for the three minutes that closed the evening game show.

  “You look a hell of a lot better than you did an hour ago. D’you put that blush on for us? I thought you said you wanted an early night, but here you go trying to be your most fetching for Mercer and me. Wish you could do something about those dark circles under your eyes. I’ve seen raccoons more attractive than you.”

  Mercer was sitting on the edge of the desk. “If we’re talking attractive through your eyes, Detective Chapman, then we’ve got to build in a whole new set of standards. Rumor has it you were spotted at closing time at Elaine’s last week with a real—”

  “Don’t go telling secrets on me. It was the forty-eight-hour rule.”

  “What rule?” I asked.

  “Still within forty-eight hours after the St. Patty’s Day parade — like a temporary blindness sometimes sets in, on account of the green beer. Errors in judgment don’t count.” Mike passed behind me, giving a quick squeeze to the back of my neck, and took the cushy leather chair, resting his feet on the desktop. I plopped down on the small stool in the corner of the room, barely able to see the wall-mounted television.

  “Who was she, Mercer?” I said, smiling for what seemed like the first time in hours. “What did you hear? Spare nothing.”

  “Code of silence, m’man,” Mike said, pointing his finger at Mercer.

  “Can’t go there, Alex. Sorry.”

  “So back to business, then,” I said, drumming my fingers on Mike’s knee. “What happened with Daniel Gersh?”

  “Port Authority police managed to delay the departure for about fifteen minutes, to give us a shot at the kid. But he wasn’t the least bit cooperative. I think his old man really put the fear of God in him.”

  “With good reason. I’d like to talk to the stepfather as badly as to Daniel,” Mike said. “Shh. Here’s the category — it’s ASTRONOMY. Let’s see your money.”

  “I’m good for it. I left my bag upstairs.” It was safer there than just about anyplace in the city.

  “Ready to double down?”

  “Not a chance. Unless you tell me more about the girl you were ogling at Elaine’s.” The famous watering hole was a last-call stop for many reporters and detectives on their way off duty in the early morning hours.

  “She reminds me of you.” Mike was inhaling his drink and already seemed more playful.

  “Brace yourself, Alex. This won’t be pretty.” Mercer laughed.

  “Too skinny for my taste, for starters. Actually, that’s where the resemblance ends.”

  “See, Mercer? Painless for me.”

  “Almost forgot. Good-natured. Quick to laugh.”

  “Who’s faster than I am when it’s not over a dead body?”

  “Very solicitous of my needs. Patient with me and all that.”

  “She’s got me there. Not happening. Ever.”

  “And instead of the ice water that courses through your veins, she’s all heart. Somehow, I have the feeling that girl gets under the sheets and gives in to it, you know? Isn’t all Miranda warnings and Fifth Amendment, reciting sections of the Penal Law and worrying if what you’re doing is okay with Paul Battaglia.”

  “That’s your idea of me in bed, Mikey? Love-locked because of the law and too much Battaglia on the brain? Sweet.”

  Alex Trebek read the Final Jeopardy! answer aloud: “‘Friday the thirteenth, April 2029, this object will come uncomfortably close to Earth.’ Too close to Earth, folks. That’s your final answer.”

  The three contestants earnestly peered at the game board before starting to write.

  “You good for forty, Mercer?” Mike asked.

  Each one of us had our favorite subjects. For me, with a heavy concentration of literature studies at college, I usually cleaned up on book and author questions. Mike knew more about military history than most scholars I’d ever encountered, and his knowledge of war and warriors took him deep into myths of ancient cultures. Mercer’s lifelong fascination with geography made him a whiz in that category, and most of the time we hedged our bets on the strength of our friends’ wisdom.

  The Jeopardy! time clock ticked on as Mercer nodded to Mike.

  “Don’t be a bad sport, Coop. Give me your best guess.”

  “What’s an asteroid? It’s got to be an asteroid. You really think I’ve got ice water?”

  “Of course it’s an asteroid. Any fool could answer that. What’s its name? You got tons of compassion for every victim or fool who sits in front of your desk. But your love life? Totally lacking in substance.”

  “I have no idea of the asteroid’s name. Mercer, you got this?” I said. “What about Luc? Doesn’t he count for anything?”

  “Case in point. The guy lives for foie gras. How do they make it? Tap-tap-tap — first you nail the damn goose in place, then you force-feed it to fatten it up. After that you kill it, just to make a little pâté for some rich customer and his babe. You and Luc are a perfect match in that department. Cool as ice. He’s got his head back on the pillow, fantasizing about his next meal, and you’re dreaming about how many convictions you can get in this quarter.”

  “She’s all heart, Mike. Ask my kid,” Mercer said. “What is Apophis?”

  Trebek was consoling the two contestants who gave wrong answers.

  “Looks like we split the pot, pal. What is Apophis?” Mike asked. “That’s the stuff. The damn thing might get close enough to dip beneath our communications satellite. Set off a tsunami that would clean up Venice Beach and all the whackjobs on it. Named for the Egyptian god of death.”

  Mike knew everything there was to know about death. He clicked off the TV with the remote. “Let’s feed her and send her home.”

  None of us needed a menu. We could probably recite the choices from memory as well as the waiters. Adolfo told us the specials and we ordered. A veal chop with three hearty side dishes for Mike, grilled Dover sole and a salad
for Mercer, and a linguine con vongole for me.

  “What’s the plan for tomorrow?” I asked.

  Mercer opened his notepad. “The squad had a few calls in after Naomi’s name was released this afternoon. She’d been taking a course at the Jewish Theological Seminary. I thought I’d take a run up and do some interviews.”

  “I’d like to be with you.”

  “You want to go to your office first?”

  “I do.”

  “Pick you up there. Figure late morning.”

  We were nibbling on breadsticks and antipasti as Adolfo opened a bottle of wine for us.

  “There ought to be more information after the story breaks wide,” Mike said. “The guys will still be canvassing the neighborhoods around the churches, talking to Naomi’s neighbors, finding out more about Daniel and whoever he socialized with at work.”

  “The autopsy set?”

  “In the morning. I’ll be there while you two go to the seminary.”

  As always when the three of us segued from the intensity of investigative work to a casual meal together, the conversation would have confused anyone listening in. One of us would think of something that had to do with the murder — in this case, Mike describing the condition of Naomi’s head to Mercer — then would go on discussing Mike’s mother’s health or Mercer’s son’s allergies or the last time I’d been to my ballet class.

  I had the sense to pass up espresso, counting on a good night’s sleep before the frenzy of the next day. I dipped my biscotti in Mike’s cup, yawning despite the early hour.

  “C’mon, Alex,” Mercer said. “I’ll drop you at your door.”

  Mike lived in a tiny studio apartment east of the restaurant. He called it “the coffin,” for its small size and light-starved interior. We left him nursing his coffee and sipping the dregs of the fine bottle of wine that Giuliano had sent over to us. He was more likely to work out the day’s demons at the bar than in his bed.

  Mercer drove me the short distance to my building. My father’s trust fund afforded me the luxury of a beautiful co-op apartment twenty floors above the racket of the city streets, secured by two doormen on duty twenty-four hours a day. I was grateful for the comfort and peace of mind my home provided me, as well as its convenience to the office.