Silent Mercy ac-13 Read online

  “Your Spanish isn’t bad,” Gaskin said, patting Mike on the shoulder.

  “Can’t do homicide in this city without a smattering of español.”

  I was ten years beyond cringing at Mike Chapman’s political incorrectness. But I wondered if the interim Catholic incarnation of the building did anything to influence Mike’s theory of why the body landed here.

  A sharp voice shouted a command as a heavy door slammed shut.

  “What’s the ruckus?” Mercer asked, following Amos Audley through the door.

  Now I could hear many more footsteps. It sounded like cops were running through the building, along the south wall. I recognized Scotty Jaffer’s voice calling out that he wanted help in the basement.

  Mercer broke past Audley, who was moving as fast as he seemed to be able to, and Mike sprinted after Mercer. I stood in the doorway with Wilbur Gaskin at my shoulder.

  “Let it be,” Amos Audley called out, obviously distressed by the massing of officers, two with their guns drawn. “No harm there.”

  “Bringing out four,” Jaffer called.

  I could see a large oak door, and from the echoing sound of the detective’s voice, I assumed he was still downstairs.

  Wilbur Gaskin panicked. He opened his cell phone and speed-dialed someone, starting to explain the situation in which he found himself at three twenty in the morning.

  “Nice and easy,” Mercer said, holding both arms in front of him and backing away from the basement door toward the main sanctuary. “Come forward one at a time. Slow. Hands over your heads.”

  The first to emerge was a young man in his early twenties. He was about my height, with a shaved and waxed head, dressed in a filthy sweatshirt, torn jeans, and unlaced high-tops.

  Mercer’s calm seemed to be controlling the unexpected encounter. “Sit right there,” he said, pointing to a seat in the front row of pews.

  “You know him?” I asked.

  He covered the mouthpiece of the phone. “I’ve never seen him.”

  “Put your guns down,” Mercer said quietly to the cops who flanked him. “Let’s get this done right.”

  “Send out the next one, Scotty,” Mike said. He was always edgier than Mercer, a bit frenetic and pacing now, to distance himself from Amos Audley, who was muttering something at Mike’s back.

  The second guy was heavier-set than the first, but just as unkempt and unhappy to be disturbed in the middle of the night. Mercer seated him a good distance away from his friend and directed two of the four cops to stand behind him.

  It sounded as though there was some scuffling — and some physical urging by Scotty Jaffer — before the next trespasser came up the steps, lifting his head as he entered the large barrel-vaulted space.

  “Dammit!” Gaskin said into the phone before he shut it. “It’s Luther again.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked as he strode forward.

  Wilbur Gaskin waved me off with his free hand.

  “You,” Mercer said, turning his head to look at us when he heard Gaskin’s outburst. “Back row.”

  “Let me speak to this,” Amos Audley said, grabbing Mike’s arm.

  “What?” Mike shook him off. He wanted his hands free.

  “He’s mine.”

  “Last man standing,” Jaffer said. “On the way out to you.”

  The fourth kid didn’t come easily. He was cursing at the detective and banging on the walls with his fists as he climbed up.

  “I thought Luther was still upstate, in prison,” Gaskin said. “Looks like he’s been living here, doesn’t it?”

  “Step back, Amos,” Mike said. “Out of the way.”

  “You don’t understand, Mr. Mike.”

  “You’ll explain later. Stay out of the way.”

  The fourth player showed himself. Dreads hanging out from under a do-rag, a long-sleeve T-shirt with a skull on the front, and tattered black pants made him look like he was wearing an unofficial gang uniform. The long scar across his nose and cheek was thick and dangerously close to his eye.

  “They’ve done nothing, Mr. Mike. These freezin’ cold nights, boys need a place to stay warm.”

  Then I could have sworn I heard Audley say the word “blood.”

  “I’m telling you to take it easy, Mr. Audley,” Mike said, swiveling to get the anxious custodian out of the path he intended to send the last kid.

  Audley took two steps to the side and the young man saw his opening. He bolted past Mike, clearly familiar with the interior of the old building, and around to the rear of the chancel. He was thin and wiry, and his head start made it impossible for any of the cops to catch him. I was simply grateful that none of them drew a gun.

  “What’s back there?” I asked.

  “A couple of doors, Ms. Cooper.” Before Audley could finish his sentence, I heard one slam shut.

  Mercer called out to Grayson, who sent men running through the church and, I’m sure, out on the street as well.

  Mike was furious. “These kids don’t move. Cuff ’em and let ’em sit till we sort this out.”

  Amos Audley hadn’t figured out how to keep out of Mike Chapman’s way. He pointed at Luther, his finger trembling with fear. “It’s the Lord’s house, Detective. No harm in them being in the Lord’s house. He’s my grandson, Mr. Mike. That boy’s my blood.”

  FOUR

  “NO harm in them being in the station house, either,” Mike said. “How old are you, Luther?”

  The young man neither looked up nor answered.

  “How old?”

  “He twenty-two,” Amos Audley said.

  “Luther. Look at me.” Mercer Wallace’s booming voice got the young man’s attention. “Don’t go dissing your grandfather, ’cause you do that and you’re taking on me and Chapman and a whole bunch of guys you don’t really want to butt heads with. Let’s go inside and talk.”

  Luther appeared to be more sullen for being singled out from his friends by a detective. He didn’t budge.

  “Get up on your feet,” Mercer said.

  He rose slowly, and his two companions hissed their disapproval.

  “Mr. Audley,” Mike said to Amos, trying to distract him from his grandson’s predicament, “I think the sergeant could really use your help. Don’t get yourself in knots over these kids.”

  Mercer frisked Luther from top to bottom and then led him back to the small room in which our conversation with Wilbur Gaskin had started. Luther’s jeans hung so low on his body that Mercer grabbed the waistband and hoisted them, startling the vacant-looking young man and probably pinching one of his testicles, from the sound of his squeal.

  “Wassup with that?” Luther asked, trying to wrest himself away from Mercer.

  “R-e-s-p-e-c-t. If the lady really wanted to see your ass, Luther, she’d probably invite you to drop your pants all the way.”

  Mike was giving Grayson orders to search and cuff the two others and separate them for some initial questioning before taking them off to the 28th Precinct station house.

  “What does your gut say, Detective?” Gaskin asked.

  I had almost caught up to Mercer, but I paused to listen to Mike’s answer.

  “Unlikely they’re involved. I haven’t been this lucky — or fast — catching a perp since my first domestic when the guy stabbed his wife to death with a carving knife in their bed then fell asleep next to her, waiting for a response to his 911 call so he could tell me she must have forgotten it was there and fell on it. They’ll be more valuable for anything they saw or heard. You know them?”

  “Just Luther. The kid’s done everything possible to break his grandfather’s heart.”

  Amos Audley’s limp was more pronounced as he struggled to follow Grayson while keeping an eye on Mercer’s charge.

  “Banger?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Is he in a gang? A gangbanger?”

  “Yeah. Something to do with that dead rap gangster they all idolize,” Gaskin said.

  “Tupac Shakur
,” Mike said, shaking his head. “Rapist and rapper. One of Coop’s best teammates prosecuted him for molesting a teenage fan, which only helped confer sainthood on him.”

  “ ’ Course they idolize him. He was a total thug.”

  “PacMen’s Luther’s gang, then. A most unsuccessful group of losers.”

  Mike’s stage whisper was intended to irk the two young men now handcuffed to the armrests at the end of the row in the handsome church.

  “We’ve got a program here,” Gaskin said. “An initiative working with kids at risk, kids who’ve been in the system. Called something like Fair Chance.”

  “Should have called it Fat Chance,” Mike said. “Fat chance anything but the max and a little attitude adjustment works on these bastards.”

  Mike left Gaskin in the sanctuary and by the time we opened the door to the small office, Mercer was sitting on the edge of the long table, forcing his attention on Luther Audley.

  “Twice, juvenile. Three more since I turned sixteen.” Mercer’s first question had obviously been about the number of Luther’s arrests.

  “How much time have you done?”

  “Two years. Got out in December.”

  “You like it upstate?”

  Luther Audley tilted his head and screwed up his mouth, looking at Mercer like he was crazy.

  “You like it enough to go back?”

  “I ain’t never going back.”

  “Then who are your friends? These other three guys?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You stupid, Luther, or you just look like you’re stupid?” Mike asked, pulling up a chair to sit opposite Mercer.

  Mercer held out his arm to tell Mike to back away. “The two guys inside, who are they?”

  “I only know their faces. Not their names.”

  “How about the dude that ran off?”

  Luther just stared at the tabletop. “Don’t know him.”

  “Shit. So when you want to hang out with him,” Mike said, “you just ask around for the ugly mother with the big scar across his cheek? That how you find him?”

  “What’s he running from?” Mercer asked.

  “Just running, I guess.”

  Mike slammed the table and Luther sat up. “Olympic trials, don’t you think, Detective Wallace? Fastest ex-con with his butt crack showing, sprinting away from a murder rap.”

  “What you mean, murder?” Luther swallowed hard and looked to Mike, who stood up and turned his back.

  “Scotty?” Mike called out into the sanctuary. “Any blood downstairs? Body parts?”

  “Not so far. A crack pipe and a dusting of white powder. Smoke and coke.”

  “Your buddies are giving you up, Luther. They’re sitting inside the church, telling the other cops why they’re here,” Mercer said. “And they’re here because of you. Because your grandfather was kind enough to let you crash inside this church. Risk his job and everything he cares about. So who are they?”

  “They just guys. We hang out sometimes.”

  “PacMen,” Mike said. “Gangsta-wannabe assholes. What’d you do time for?”

  Luther licked his lips.

  “Let me guess. At least once for drugs. Then, two years? Armed robbery, I’m figuring. Botched job at best. Nobody got hurt, you weren’t the one carrying heat. You were too dumb to get away clean. Copped to the attempt and got a deuce up the river. Am I warm?”

  “My lawyer made me take that plea.” Luther Audley rolled his head around and looked up at the ceiling.

  “Always the damn suits that make you do things you don’t wanna do, isn’t it?” Mike asked. “Ms. Cooper here, she’s a mouthpiece too. She finds out you know something about this murder and she’ll have your parole revoked, then ship you right back up to the yard. She actually enjoys doing that.”

  Luther’s head dropped and he fixed his vacant gaze on me. “What you keep talking about murder?”

  “There was a body found on the steps of the church tonight,” I said, trying to edge Mike farther away from the young man. “A woman was killed and—”

  “We didn’t kill nobody.”

  “I’m going to start easy, back it up a few hours, and find out what brought you here,” I said, pulling my chair closer to the slow-to-anger interloper.

  “Whoa, Ms. Cooper.” Wilbur Gaskin had appeared in the doorway. “How about Miranda? How about the right to—”

  Mike interrupted him and rose to back him away from the room. “Nobody’s in custody, Mr. Gaskin. Let’s not put a plug in the works yet.”

  “Not in custody? You’ve got the kid closeted in back here, while his God-fearing grandfather is going to pieces right outside,” Gaskin said. “You hear that, Luther? Get your tail out of this place.”

  The young man’s mouth was open but he didn’t move fast.

  “I’d sooner lock up Grandpa for aiding and abetting,” Mike said. “I’d get my answers damn fast, and they wouldn’t be full of lies and laced with crack.”

  Luther lit up like he’d had a snake bite. He stood and shouted at Mike, his finger jabbing at the air. “You can’t be all gettin’ on Amos. You can’t be all—”

  Mike was walking out the door and directing Gaskin to come with him as he looked back for a last comment. “You’d be surprised at the things I can do, Luther. Hold tight and tell Ms. Cooper what she wants to know. Who comes and goes is up to me.”

  Luther Audley stared at me and laughed.

  “Talk to her,” Mercer said.

  Mike’s bluff had worked. If the kid was agitated about nothing else, he still wanted to protect his grandfather. He snarled at me but took his seat.

  “Tell me why you’re here tonight,” I said.

  “I’m here every night. My mother won’t let me be at her house. She got a boyfriend who don’t want me there.”

  “And Amos?”

  “He don’t have space for me. Him and my grandmother live in a studio. Ain’t no room.”

  “How do you get in here?”

  Luther fidgeted with the belt loops on his pants. “Amos. He the last one to leave every night, first one to come in the morning.”

  “Your friends, he lets them crib here too?” Mercer asked.

  “Not exactly. He don’t like most of them. Used to be you could sleep on the steps of almost any church. Even get food and all. Now every one got bars on them.”

  The city’s religious institutions had long been havens for the homeless. That situation, neither safe nor sanitary, had ended with the gating of most of them when a homeless man who had lived outside a church on the Upper West Side for three years froze to death just feet from the entrance.

  Luther described the habit that had developed because of his grandfather’s affection for him. Those nights that were too cold and raw, he called Amos and asked for shelter. His crew knew he would let them in later, when alone, and they’d leave at daybreak, before Amos arrived. In exchange for a warm place to crash, they would bring drugs to feed Luther’s habit.

  “What time did you get here last night?” I asked.

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Don’t mess with her, Luther,” Mercer said. “She’s got more juice than I do.”

  Luther closed one eye and studied me with the other.

  “What time did your grandfather let you in?”

  He didn’t like it when we brought Amos into the mix. “It was, like, midnight. A little earlier than that.”

  There was no watch on either of his skinny wrists. “How do you know?”

  “ ’ Cause of the bells. I was in here when they rang, when they done twelve times.”

  “And the others?”

  “I texted them when he left. Maybe fifteen minutes later.”

  “Give me your cell phone,” Mercer said, holding out his hand.

  Luther frowned.

  “Give it up.”

  The messages he sent to his friends, and their responses, would be captured in the memory of his phone. He drew the razor-thin machine o
ut of his pocket and placed it in the large palm of Mercer’s hand.

  “What did you do?” I asked.

  “Nuthin’.” He was watching Mercer scroll through the messages.

  “What did you do, Luther?” I asked again.

  “Me and them, we always hang in the basement. They brung me some food, is all.”

  “And crack?”

  He blew me off. “I don’t do that shit.”

  “Coke?”

  “L’il bit.”

  “So these guys you don’t know,” Mercer said, reading the name off the cell history, “which one is Shaquille?”

  Luther bit his tongue.

  “Shaquille, the one you texted.” Mercer leaned in closer. “He one of the dudes inside, or is he the one who skipped out on you?”

  The answer was slow and deliberate. “Inside.”

  “Which one deals?”

  No answer this time.

  “Must be Shaquille or you wouldn’t have been so anxious to invite him to join you.”

  Luther had nowhere else in the room left to look but at Mercer.

  “Go talk to him, Alex. I’ll get Luther here up to speed.” Mercer handed me the phone. “What else did you hear besides church bells last night?”

  “She gonna ask Shaquille. I don’t know nuthin’ else.”

  As I turned the corner into the sanctuary, I noticed another kid was gone. The remaining one was still cuffed to the end seat of a pew. His knee was bouncing up and down, nervously, at a furious pace, and when Mike stepped away from him, I could see that tears were streaming down his cheeks.

  “What happened?” I asked. “Where’s—”

  “Scotty took the tall one back down to the basement for a once-over.”

  “What’d you do to make this guy cry?”

  “He’s fifteen, Coop. Wants his mama, I think.”

  “Which one’s Shaquille?” I asked.

  The knee jerked and the kid shook his head.

  I held up Luther’s cell and texted a few words. I could hear the noise of the vibrating phone in his pocket over the insistent tapping of his foot.

  “I guess you’re Shaquille,” Mike said. “That solves that piece of the puzzle. Now, why don’t you tell Ms. Cooper what you saw last night? And remember, she doesn’t believe in ghosts.”