Unholy Order Read online

  WILLIAM

  HEFFERNAN

  UNHOLY ORDER

  A PAUL DEVLIN MYSTERY

  For my brother, Terry

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  ALSO BY WILLIAM HEFFERNAN

  Praise for Edgar Award-winner

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  They followed the vested priest in long lines, two abreast, first the men, then the women, all of them young, all looking as though they had just stepped from steaming baths—every one so clean and fresh and seemingly innocent. Next came the nuns, also young, each one dressed in the black-and-white habits you seldom see anymore, large rosary beads wrapped around their waists, the crucifixes at the ends hanging to their knees. Brothers followed in black suits, each distinguishable from the handful of priests who brought up the rear only by the black neckties they wore in place of clerical collars.

  Paul Devlin watched as the coffin was placed over the open grave. Watched as the young men and women divided, each sex moving to opposite sides of the bier, the nuns then stepping in front, closest to the coffin, the brothers and priests forming a rank at its foot.

  Sharon Levy leaned in to Devlin and whispered, “God, all those kids. They look so freshly scrubbed. It’s scary.”

  Devlin glanced at his tall redheaded sergeant. “You have something against clean?” he asked.

  “I love clean,” Sharon said. “It’s uniformed clean that makes me nervous.”

  She was right, of course. Devlin had noticed it too. All those pink-cheeked kids, all in their late teens or early twenties, all with faces that looked almost angelic. Every bit of it so out of place, considering the corpse.

  The mutilated body of the young nun they were burying had been found three days ago, gutted and stuffed in the trunk of a car at Kennedy airport. It was late summer, still oppressively warm, and the car had been abandoned in the long-term parking lot. There hadn’t been much left by the time the nun was found—at least for forensic purposes. But there was enough to tell she had been carrying heroin in her body. A lot of heroin, packed in condoms she had swallowed.

  The detectives who first caught the case initially speculated that the young woman had only been posing as a nun when she came through customs. It had proven a false assumption. The woman, Maria Escavera, was a naturalized U.S. citizen whose parents had emigrated from Colombia. She was also a postulant in The Holy Order of Opus Christi, where she had chosen the religious name of Sister Manuela.

  So far the media hadn’t tumbled to the drugs. That part of the forensic report had been buried. They only knew that a nun had been viciously murdered, and that was how Mayor Howie Silver wanted it to remain.

  We don’t need a goddamn media circus, he had said, when he had handed Devlin the case.

  Devlin looked down the long winding cemetery road all the way to the main gate. Uniformed cops were there now, holding back the newspaper reporters and television crews.

  It was already a circus, and it would be an even bigger one once the newshounds got wind of the drug angle. Then it would become a full-scale three-ringer. Of that Devlin had no doubt. There was no way to avoid it. Sooner or later word would leak out—a cop hoping to curry favor, someone in the ME’s office. He only hoped it came after they had found the killer. If it came before …? He didn’t even want to think about it. He shook his head, annoyed by his thoughts. Stop whining, he told himself. It’s part of the job, the one you wanted, the one you agreed to do.

  Devlin was inspector of detectives, a rank that had lain dormant for many years until the mayor had cajoled him into returning to the force from an early disability retirement. The promotion that went with the job gave him unusual power in the New York Police Department, a fact that he enjoyed more often than not. He worked directly for the mayor, with the right to supersede even senior commanders, under Howie Silver’s umbrella of protection. It was Silver’s way of escaping the political intrigue that permeated One Police Plaza, the headquarters building better known to working cops as the Puzzle Palace. It allowed the mayor to put Devlin in charge of the high-profile, politically dangerous cases that so often battered, and occasionally broke, any man foolish enough to become mayor of New York.

  But the power of the mayor might not be needed for this case. The NYPD brass seemed more than willing to step aside.

  Devlin considered the gathering again. Everyone present was a member of Opus Christi: The Holy Order, as it was known to its members. It was one of the most influential factions within the Catholic Church—some said the most influential, even surpassing the Jesuits. The mayor had made his position clear. Devlin was to find the killer and keep the press at bay—not only to cover Hizzoner but also to avoid any embarrassment for the Archdiocese of New York. Devlin understood. He had already clashed with the archdiocese on an earlier case, and the mayor had borne the brunt of its wrath. It was with good reason that New York’s Catholic prelature was known as the Powerhouse to the city’s politicians, a distinction not lost on NYPD’s senior commanders.

  The priest began the final prayers, driving away Devlin’s thoughts. The prayers were in Latin, something he had not heard since childhood, when he spent every Sunday morning sitting with his sister and his parents at Saint Joseph’s Church in Queens. During the intervening years, the long-dead language had been abandoned by all but a few Catholic sects. Hearing it now, he recalled how mysterious it had seemed to him all those years ago, a tongue known only to those initiated in the sacred rituals of Holy Mother, the church. A faint smile flickered on his lips as he thought of that term and how the Dominican nuns who had ruled his earliest years of school had used it over and over again to elevate those in Rome who ruled the lives of every Catholic.

  Again, he studied the gathering of young men and women as they recited the Latin responses to the priest’s prayers. He wondered if they understood the meaning of the words they mouthed, something he had never achieved himself. Perhaps they did. They seemed so intent. Many had their eyes closed; others had raised them to the heavens, all emulating a “Christlike” attitude of devoutness that his own nuns had struggled but failed to achieve with their ragtag collection of New York street kids.

  Devlin’s gaze stopped on one young nun. Tears streamed down her cheeks and her entire body seemed to tremble. He leaned in close to Sharon Levy. “That nun in the first row, the one who’s crying and shaking like a leaf …”

  “Yeah, I already spotted her,” Sharon whispered back. “Looks like somebody we should talk to. Find out what’s got her so scared.”

  Devlin felt eyes burning into his back. He turned and found that two suits had slipped in behind the priest. The older of the pair—a man who appeared close to Devlin’s own age of thirty-eight—was staring at him intently.

  The man started toward him immediately, stopping only a foot away. His voice was low and hushed to avoid disturbing the service, his words blunt
to the point of rudeness.

  “If you’re with the press, you don’t belong here,” he said.

  Devlin reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew his badge and ID wallet. He opened it, flashing the tin. The man studied it intently. “And who are you?” Devlin asked.

  The man ignored the question. “Are you investigating Sister Manuela’s death, officer?” he asked instead. He was a few inches shorter than Devlin’s six feet and painfully slender, except for a slight paunch. His eyes were a soft pale brown, like his hair, and he had a long thin nose and tight narrow lips. His pale-gray suit hung on him like a sack.

  The man’s tone had remained overbearing, and Devlin decided to put a quick end to it. “The rank is inspector, not officer,” he said. He nodded toward Sharon. “And this is Sergeant Levy.” He paused a beat. “I asked who you were?” He held the man’s eyes, defying him to continue his self-important game.

  The man broke eye contact and forced a smile. “I’m Matthew.”

  Devlin waited for more, but nothing came. It was like pulling teeth. “Matthew what?”

  The insincere smile came again. “My last name is Moriarty. In Opus Christi we tend to use only our Christian names.” He held the smile. “As the apostles of Our Lord did.”

  “You’re here in some official capacity?” Devlin asked.

  “Well, of course I’m here to celebrate Sister’s life in Christ and her reunion with Our Lord and Savior. But otherwise, yes, I’m also here for a more official purpose.” Matthew appeared ready to stop with that, then seemed to realize that further reticence might be unwise. “I’m director of public information for The Holy Order,” he said. “I’m here to deal with the media.”

  Or not deal with them, Devlin thought. “Good. Then maybe you can also expedite some interviews for us.”

  “Interviews? Whom could you possibly want to interview?” Matthew waved his hand, dismissing the foolishness of his words. “What I mean is, I can give you whatever information you need.”

  Devlin offered up his own insincere smile. “That’s not how it works, Matthew. We decide who we want to talk to, and we talk to them.”

  “But the members of our order don’t know anything about this tragic business.”

  Sharon Levy stepped forward, moving closer to Matthew. She was a tall willowy redhead, strikingly beautiful. She also was an out-of-the-closet lesbian who had little tolerance for self-important male bullshit.

  She patted Matthew’s arm, instantly unnerving him. “Matthew, Matthew, Matthew. Let me explain. People in your holy order knew the victim, right?”

  “Well, of course.”

  “Good. We need to talk to them.” She hurried on before Matthew could object. “And if I’m right, nuns never travel alone—sort of a custom to go at least in pairs. Am I right there too?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  Sharon cut him off. “So when Sister Manuela flew into Kennedy, there were probably one or more other nuns with her. Am I still on target here, Matthew?”

  “Yes.” Matthew’s eyes had grown severe and suspicious.

  “Then for starters we need to talk to whoever was with her. Then we need to talk to anyone who knew her.”

  Sharon gave him a bright smile that almost made Devlin laugh.

  “So, you see, even though you can probably tell us a great deal, there are still a lot of people we need to talk to. And since some lowlife scumbag viciously murdered one of your sisters, I’m sure you want to do everything you can to help us do that. Am I right again?”

  Matthew had seemed jolted by Sharon’s choice of words, the term lowlife scumbag making him take an involuntary step back. But Sharon had achieved what she was after. Matthew’s little game of Who’s Running the Show had come to a screeching halt.

  He began tentatively. “You must … understand … that life within The Holy Order is very insular … very protected. This is done for the benefit of our members’ immortal souls. Contact with the outside world is … limited.”

  Again, Sharon cut him off. “Hey, we understand. And I promise we’ll be as gentle as possible.”

  Matthew eyed her suspiciously, clearly not believing a word she had said.

  “Certainly you don’t expect to have free run of our complex and all its members.”

  Now it was Devlin’s turn. Sharon had set the tone. He was definitely bad cop to her good. “That’s exactly what we expect,” he said. “We can’t find a killer if we’re told who we can talk to and who we can’t.”

  Matthew shook his head. “I’ll have to consult my superiors.”

  “You do that,” Devlin said. “And you explain that we’re looking for their cooperation. If we don’t get cooperation voluntarily, we’ll have to do it with a court order.” He hurried on before Matthew could speak. “Now, I’m running this investigation at the request of Mayor Silver. And the mayor has asked me to do everything in my power to keep the press deaf, dumb, and blind about certain particulars of the case—namely, the heroin that was found in Sister Manuela’s body, and the facts that she was smuggling it in condoms she had obviously swallowed and that somebody gutted her to get the heroin back.” Matthew’s eyes had widened in horror. “Now, I’ll do my best to do what the mayor wants and keep your group and the archdiocese from being embarrassed by all this.” Devlin shook his head, imitating Matthew’s earlier reaction. “But if I have to start getting court orders and hauling people downtown to talk to them, it’s going to make that part of the job very hard. The press isn’t stupid. And they find out about court orders very quickly. You make sure your superiors understand that, okay?”

  Matthew seemed stunned. “I’ll do what I can,” he said. He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a business card. “Call me at this number later.”

  “I’ll do that,” Devlin said. “By the way, what was Sister Manuela doing in Colombia?”

  Matthew seemed momentarily flustered. “I’m told she was visiting her family,” he said.

  Devlin watched Matthew walk away, a slight slump to his shoulders. Then he turned back to the gathering around the grave, taking in the nuns who stood closest to the coffin, wondering which of them had been with the murdered nun on her family visit. It was a hot steamy day, and Devlin noticed that despite the humidity the nuns seemed crisp and fresh. In all the years he had dealt with nuns, going back to his childhood, he had never seen one perspire. He wondered now, as he had many times, how they managed to do that.

  Back in the office, two rooms in a city-owned building two blocks from city hall, Devlin sat behind his desk; Sharon Levy perched on its edge. Devlin only used his office for private conversations, preferring a vacant desk in the outer bullpen where he could work more closely with his team of five detectives.

  “How do you want to handle this?” Sharon asked.

  “With speed.” Devlin raised his hands and let them fall back to his desk. “There’s no way we’re going to keep the press in the dark, no matter what the mayor thinks. They’re already circling the carcass, and sooner or later they’re going to be all over our collective ass. So first I want two people handling the interviews at Opus Christi. Get as much as we can, as fast as we can. You head that up. I think those kids, especially the young women, might talk more openly to you.” He grinned. “Besides, I think Matthew likes you.”

  Sharon rolled her eyes. “Who should I take with me?”

  “Ollie Pitts.”

  “Oh, Christ.”

  “Exactly. But I think a dose of Ollie will keep Matthew and everybody else in line.”

  “Do I get combat pay?”

  Devlin laughed. “Because of sweet, lovable Ollie? How can you even suggest such a thing?”

  The telephone interrupted them. It was the mayor. Devlin had been expecting the call. He listened for several long minutes as an unusually nervous Howie Silver rattled on. Sharon watched him. There was a scar on Devlin’s cheek, a gift from an earlier case, and it whitened whenever he became angry. His team of detectives had learn
ed to watch for it—a sign they had pushed the boss too far. Now, as Devlin listened to the mayor, Sharon saw the scar grow whiter with each passing second.

  The mayor paused for breath and Devlin jumped in. “Howie, here’s the bottom line. I can’t promise you the press won’t find out about the drugs, or that this nun was gutted to retrieve them. My people and I will do the best we can, but there are too many mouths, too many people who know what happened. Second, our best shot is to get this killer before they find out, and we sure as hell can’t do that if you’re telling me we have to tiptoe around these Opus Christi clowns. And finally, limiting our ability to investigate this case the way it has to be investigated defeats the whole purpose of having this squad. If you insist on it, you have to accept the fact that it’s a prescription for failure—”

  Sharon could tell the mayor had cut him off. She watched as Devlin listened and stewed. But he wouldn’t have it any other way, she thought. She had worked for this man for two years now, and she had learned he was a truly complex character. First he was a detective, deep down into his personal core. He loved the challenge of finding the answers to something that seemed unsolvable. But even that wasn’t enough. He seemed to need more. He reveled when obstacles were thrown in his path by outside forces. She hadn’t been with him on his last case in Cuba, where a combination of the Castro government, Afro-Cuban voodoo cults, and a faction of the U.S. Mafia had been aligned against him. Ollie Pitts had been there and told her about it. It was the type of case that brought out Devlin’s best, just like the Roland Winter case. She had been at his side throughout that bit of madness, as the city’s most powerful real estate magnate had tried to end Devlin’s career and, when that had failed, his life.

  Devlin’s voice roared back as the mayor paused again. “Look, Howie, you’ve got plenty of people at the Puzzle Palace who can handle this case. Pick one and give them the scenario you’re giving me. Then sit back and watch the walls come tumbling down. Because their chances of finding this killer are just about nil if they can’t interview everyone they need to interview.”