Blind Sight (A Mallory Novel) (23 page)

The boy held up one hand to shush him, the better to hear the priest introduce a speaker, Harold Quill.

“Hey,” said Iggy. “That’s your uncle?” Sure it was. The guy even looked like the kid.

The boy left the sofa to stand close to the TV screen on the wall, his hands cupped to catch only that voice in the church. When the uncle began to speak—to beg for help—the boy hugged himself, bending at the waist, as if he had taken a hit, and he slowly folded to the floor. Head low, arms wrapping round his legs, he was all knees and elbows now. When the uncle was done talking, the kid’s voice cracked on the words, “I want to go home.”

Ain’t gonna happen, kid.

At that moment, the boy lifted his face, his attention called to an empty chair, and he nodded to no one there.

“Stop it!” Damn kid and his games. The boy turned to stare at him,
glare
at him with Angie’s big gray eyes, like he could
see
—or she could.

Jesus
.
What the
— Iggy heard the tiny muffled sound of bells. From the hallway?
Naw.
He turned back to the TV. A
church.
Yeah, churches had all kinds of bells. But still, he pressed the mute button on the remote control, and he strained to catch that sound again. All he heard was the dog’s heavy breathing on the floor at his feet. No jingling.

—

WHEN THE CHURCH
had emptied of all but the clergy, the monastery choir gathered in the nave with their small bags of belongings, saying their good nights and preparing to leave under the protection of the teaching sisters from the parochial school. The visiting nuns would be their guests tonight. A small child of the parish approached the gathering, not on the run, which was her nature, but stepping softly on best behavior. She reached up to give Father Brenner a folded paper, and he opened it to see the letterhead of Cardinal Rice.

The priest thanked the little girl and shooed her away to join her parents, who waited on the steps beyond the doors. Turning to the monastery’s prioress, he said, “Reverend Mother, the
cardinal
is here.” Father Brenner pointed to the confessional, a small, freestanding structure with three doors. A light glowed above the center compartment in invitation to the Sacrament of Penance. “He’d like a word . . . in private.”

The prioress nodded and excused herself from a conversation with Father DuPont, asking, “Wait for me? I have a few more questions.”

—

HER BLACK ROBES
flowing, she walked to the end of the aisle and opened a door to enter a closet-size enclosure. Arthritic legs were slow to bend as the prioress lowered herself to the cushioned kneeler. Before her was the metal weave of a lattice, all that separated her from His Eminence, but the prioress kept Custody of the Eyes, looking down at her veined and wrinkled hands clasped in prayer upon a worn wooden ledge. She began the ritual words that must open every conversation in this intimate space, “Forgive me, Father, for I have—”

“The cardinal’s busy,” said a woman’s voice, and a gold badge was pressed to the lattice. “But there
will
be a confession.”

 
13

Mallory leaned close to the metal grille and spoke softly so her words would not carry beyond the flimsy wooden door of the confessional. “I know your family was loaded with money. . . . and you got a law degree from Georgetown.”

“That sounds a bit like an accusation, my child. So my background doesn’t fit your idea of a monastery prioress?”

The old woman was a backlit shadow, but her voice gave away attitude, and the detective could hear a smile on the face of this glorified nun.

“No,” said Mallory, “it
does
fit. Thirty-five years ago, you were a public defender. Your caseload would’ve been heavy on street trash. Lots of hookers like Angie Quill. You don’t want to lie to me. I’ve already talked to DuPont.”

Hesitation? Was the prioress still smiling? The detective thought not.

“Sister Michael had a difficult life.”

“I’ve already heard that story,” said Mallory. “My interest begins when she was just a hooker knocking on your door. No education—rough trade for a monastery. DuPont says you signed her up as a nun because you thought she had a true calling.
I
say you gave her sanctuary.”

“Can’t both things be true?”

“Don’t jerk me around.” There would be only one warning.

“From our point of view, Sister Michael’s life began when she entered the—”

“I don’t have
time
for this!” Mallory pounded the grille.

Oh, too violent?

The silhouette of the prioress went rigid, tensing. Feeling less protected now? Mallory whispered a little poison through the metal screen. “Angie’s nephew is just a little boy. I have to find him before a freak cuts out his heart—while it’s
still beating.”

The prioress lowered her head, and her form in shadow appeared to be cut down in size—not quite chopped off at the knees yet, but given time—

“I know the girl didn’t trust cops,” said Mallory. “But you
better
trust me. I’m all that boy’s got. Angie loved him—that much I believe. Now you tell me something that isn’t a lie. Were you
hiding
her? Was she
scared?”

“My first impression of Angie . . . she was beaten down by her life and very tired.”

Too tired to run. Too tired to fight.

“Go on,” said Mallory, and the prioress did go on—and
on.

—

WAS HE LOOKING
at Angie Quill’s killer? Probably not. Riker sat down next to the suspect and gave him a hey-how’s-it-goin’ smile.

The cop on the other side of the table did not pull up a chair. Detective Washington liked the advantage of looking down at the young man, who was surprisingly clean-cut from the neck up, lacking the beard and long hair of their sketch for the tattoo artist. Washington had taken the lead, though he had yet to say one word. He only sneered while eyeing the suspect’s torn jeans, the raggedy T-shirt—and tattoos that covered both arms.

Joey Collier was quick to guess that he had just been assessed as lowlife scum, and now he wanted it known that, sure, he made the punk scene by night, but he wore a suit and tie in the workday hours. “When I quit inking skin, I went back to school for my CPA. I’ve got a job in a big accounting firm. Lots of corporate clients. I’d rather the news media didn’t—”

“No worries, pal,” said Riker. “When you got grabbed off the street, all the reporters were inside the church.” He stared at the accountant’s arms of red roses, snakes and daggers. “Bet that wouldn’t go over well at the office. So you gotta wear long sleeves to work all summer, huh? Damn.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” said Washington, a genius in the game of Bad Cop, a rough-talking, I’m-gonna-getcha,
bastard
of a cop.

And Riker, a friend to all mankind tonight, asked, “How long did you know Angie Quill?”

“Three years, maybe a little longer,” said Joey Collier. “She came in once a month for a tattoo. But that was years ago.”

“How’d she pay?” Washington looked like he was about to crawl across the table and do some damage. “Did you get that girl to spread her legs?”

“No, she wasn’t like that. Angie was a nice kid.”

Riker laid the old mug shot on the table, the picture of Angie Quill punked out with purple streaks and goth-black fingernails. “She was a hooker. You know it. We know it.”

“She never came on to me.”

“Yeah, right,” said Washington. “And you never made any moves on
her?
Gimme a fuckin’ break.” Alongside the mugshot, he set down the medical examiner’s photographs of the tattoos on Angie Quill’s thighs. “So she’s standing there, her skirts hiked up.
Great
legs.”

“She wasn’t
like
that,” said the former tattoo artist to the angry cop facing him—disbelieving him.

“Okay, Joey,” said Riker, the smiling detective. “I’ll buy that. How’d she pay for all those tats? You didn’t say.”

“Cash. But she didn’t pay for the first one. That time she came in with this guy. He paid for the first rose.” Joey pointed to the roses on one arm. “She liked my tats. So the boyfriend told me to start a vine on her thigh. That’s why I think he bankrolled the rest of them.”

Riker pushed a pad of yellow-lined paper across the table. “We need a name and address for this guy.”

“Are you kidding me? I only saw him once, and that was ten years ago.”

“When Angie Quill was fifteen,” said Washington, “a minor
child.”
And his face said,
I got you now, you little pervert.

“We can work this out.” Riker lightly rested one hand on Joey’s shoulder. “You didn’t screw her for the roses? Okay, we find this guy, he backs up your story, and you’re outta here.” The detective tapped his watch. “You need your beauty sleep, pal. You don’t wanna show up for work tomorrow with bags under your eyes.”

“I never got his name, but he’s the memorable type—a bruiser. And he pulled out a big wad of a cash—big as my fist.” The tattoo artist jammed a thumb in Washington’s direction. “Big as
his
fist. . . . After that, Angie came in alone, always paid cash. Brand-new bills, just like the boyfriend’s money. My guess? Every time he got laid, the guy marked her with another rose.”

“But she never screwed
you.”
Washington was playing thick with disbelief. “Not even a blowjob to save herself some money?”

“That was never gonna happen. The boyfriend scared me shitless. It wasn’t anything he said. It was the eyes, I guess. Like he could go medieval on me any second.”

“You’re doin’ good,” said Riker. “You remember if the boyfriend was a smoker?”

“Oh, yeah. Chain smoker. Hard to forget that part. The guy lights
up a cigarette, and he looks at me—scary cold. I figure he’s waiting for me to tell him to put it out. He’s standing right under the no-smoking sign on the wall. But I wasn’t about to say anything. Not to him. I figured that might be worth some broken teeth.”

—

IGGY CONROY
drove through Alphabet City, east of St. Marks Place. He kept a lookout for a parking space in the old neighborhood. His white van rolled by the apartment house where he had once lived with his mother. It had not changed. Same old crack on the second step. But next door was a dry cleaner, and that was not right. The old pizza parlor had closed up shop and gone away. Iggy took this loss personally.

That was where he first saw Angie, his come-and-go girl, the one with the jingling red flip-flops. That day, she had been jailbait in schoolgirl braids and blue jeans. How old? Not old enough. But so pretty. He had not been the only man in that place to watch her for the length of the line to buy a slice and a soda, but he had never thought of approaching her. Only fools and perverts messed with kids.

Half a year later and late at night, he caught sight of her again. No bells, no flip-flops or braids that time. She wore red lipstick and a trashy skirt the size of a low-slung belt. She was otherwise the same kid—until the moment when his van slowed down, when the girl knew his eyes were on her, and
snap—
that fast—the girl grew up. One hip swung out as a high-heeled shoe stepped off the curb. And, curbside, she had negotiated money and terms like an old pro.

Years after that, there were still times when Angie would walk out of his bathroom, her hair damp from a shower, no makeup on, and all alone for all she knew. And then he would see the other girl, the jingling one, but only for the few seconds before she sensed him nearby, watching her, and then—
snap.

She would come and go like that.

—

ANGIE QUILL
’
S
former counselor stood in the hallway. “Sorry I’m late,” said Father DuPont. “I thought you might’ve gone to bed. It’s very quiet in this building. It feels so—”

“Empty? Well, I don’t have many tenants. None on this floor.” Charles stood aside to usher the man into his apartment.

At the end of the vestibule, the priest paused to take in the front room of antique furnishings and paneled walls. “I love the windows.” Tall and arched, they were an architectural detail from a time when this old apartment building had belonged to the factory age of SoHo. The interior had since been remodeled to resemble more elegant private rooms of the same era. And now DuPont focused on the tray of whiskey and glasses set out on a small table between two armchairs. Taking this cue, he took his seat.

When Charles had poured their drinks, he said, “I’m glad you could make it.”

“I’m flattered that you remembered me. There were so many psychologists at that convention.”

“And you were out of uniform,” said Charles. “You wore a gray sports coat over a T-shirt. Faded jeans, right? It was winter in Chicago. You were carrying a topcoat. Camel hair, I believe.”

“Impressive.” The priest made short work of his whiskey. “There were at least a hundred people in the room. After you read that brilliant paper, I’m sure half of them had a word with you.”

“But I only heard one confession that night.” Charles raised the bottle. “Refill?”

—

IGGY LIKED TO TRAVEL
by rooftop in New York City, where security cameras only watched the streets, and the only light tonight was a
waxing moon. Mindful of high windows on the other side of St. Marks Place, he crouched to keep his silhouette low. There was no need for him to pick the crummy lock on this roof door. He turned the knob hard, forcing it until he heard the mechanism break, and then he was through the door and down the stairs to the top-floor landing, where music played in one apartment. Across the hall, there was no sound at all behind Mrs. Quill’s door. The kid’s granny was probably in bed, and now she could kiss her nighty goodbye. His résumé included accidental deaths for insurance money, and he favored bathtub drownings.