Unholy Order Read online

  Devlin glanced out the window, his irritation seeping away. “I was thinking more along the lines of having him neutered,” he said. He watched the lunch-hour chaos that filled the sidewalks as their car sped through the garment district. Boom Boom wouldn’t be the only candidate for castration, he thought. Not when the mayor heard how his two pet cases were going.

  They met at six o’clock in the squad bullpen, and the reports from the other detectives offered little encouragement. Everyone seemed to be hitting one solid wall after another.

  Ollie Pitts flipped through his notebook with thick, angry fingers, almost as if the book itself had frustrated his efforts.

  “It’s the same story with both murdered priests,” he said. “If they had any regular or full-time boyfriends, they’ve either left town or are still hiding in their closets.”

  Sharon glared at him but said nothing. Pitts ignored her stare.

  “Both of these guys were favorites among their parishioners.” There was a Who-can-tell-about-people? tone in his voice. “In both parishes, everybody I talked to described these guys as the person they’d go to if they had a problem.” He gave a slight shake of his head. “Now, Donovan, the first victim, he worked openly with gays. But, hell, in the Village, what choice did he have, right? But nobody, outside of the people he saw at the gay bathhouse, had a clue he was part of the fruit brigade himself.”

  “All right, Ollie,” Sharon snapped. “Enough!”

  Pitts looked up, feigning shock at the rebuke. Devlin saw a small smile creep to the corners of his mouth.

  “Let’s not try to get a rise out of Sharon,” Devlin warned. “Just make the report … minus the editorial comments.”

  Pitts went back to his notebook, the grin growing slightly. “Okay. As far as any connection between the two priests, we got zip. If they ever met each other, even they probably didn’t remember. So we’re drawing a blank on suspects we can tie to both of them. Neither one had been threatened. Neither one had any arguments with anybody we know about. The only connection is that they both had AIDS, and both of them were diagnosed over the last six months. But they even went to different doctors, and to different hospitals for their tests, so we got no connection there either.”

  He raised his eyes, shrugged, and flipped through his notebook again.

  “Right now it looks as if AIDS was only a coincidence. The ME confirmed that they both had it, but I can’t find a way that any one perp could have identified each of them as a carrier. Forensics came up with all kinds of stuff that we’re checking through now. I got fingerprints up the wazoo, but nothing the computer picked up any matches on. We got some especially good prints on the second priest. They were on the pipe where the rope was tied off. But again, zip from the computer. Right now, we’re having everyone who had any access to the church basement printed so we can eliminate any legit matches, but that’s gonna take some time. Right now I’m stuck, so I got the dicks who caught the cases going back over the same ground to make sure we didn’t miss anything.” He looked at Devlin. “If it was the same perp, boss, it was a pro. This guy didn’t make any of the usual mistakes.”

  Devlin shifted his gaze to Stan Samuels. “All right, tell me what you found out about Opus Christi.”

  Samuels shook his head. “This is quite a group, boss. Even their money has money. They operate—at least behind the scenes—a handful of pretty successful businesses. They got an advertising agency, a PR firm, even a group of political consultants who work mainly with antiabortion and pro-family candidates. They all bring in some heavy bucks. But they’re all privately held companies, so there isn’t a helluva lot I can get on them. The order itself also holds a lot of stock, mostly financial—banks, insurance companies, even a couple of brokerage houses. Their financing on this new office and housing complex they built on Second Avenue is like walking through a maze. It comes from a series of loans made to corporations they control. The money is borrowed by one corporation, then that company lends money to another company, then in at least one case to a third company. Finally it gets lent to Opus Christi to finance their project. The interesting thing is that none of it comes from the Catholic church. It’s all private, and it’s all washed from one company to another. It’s like they don’t want anybody to know where it all comes from. But it’s all legit, so it doesn’t make any sense to do it that way. I’ll tell you one thing. They spent a lot more money on their building than they had to spend, and most of it went into security. And some of that security seems to be run against themselves.”

  “What do you mean?” Devlin asked.

  “Well, the building is divided into offices and dormitories, right? Men and women. But even the dormitories are sealed off from each other, based on sex. Separate staircases and elevators for the men and the women. It’s like the building is physically divided in half. Even the ductwork is separate, like they were afraid somebody was gonna crawl through from one side to the other. I showed the building plans to an architect I know, and he said he never saw anything like it. He said it boosted the cost by a good twenty percent. The same thing’s true about the section where all the offices are. Separate access, separate ventilating systems, plus a security system the Pentagon wished it had. It’s like they don’t trust anybody, not even themselves.”

  Devlin turned to Red Cunningham, whose three-hundred-pound bulk overflowed his chair. “What does that do for a chance at phone taps—assuming we can eventually get a court order?”

  Cunningham ran a hand through his red buzz cut. “It’ll be tough. All the phone lines are tied into a very sophisticated computer system. The only shot we’d have is if I could get inside and get access to that system. Then it’d be a piece of cake. But getting inside’s the trick.”

  That brought Devlin to Ramon Rivera—Boom Boom to his fellow cops, who had given him the nickname owing to his endless claims of sexual prowess. He leaned back in his chair and studied the short slender Hispanic cop.

  “You feeling particularly religious these days?” he asked.

  Boom Boom blinked at the question. Then he grinned nervously. “Hey, boss. God is love.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Devlin smirked. “And love is your middle name, right?” He paused a beat. “The reason I ask is that I’ve got this feeling you’re about to have a religious crisis and a sudden overpowering need to reach out to the Lord.”

  Boom Boom blinked again, and his eyes filled with suspicion. “I am?”

  “You are. At least I think you are, providing you volunteer.”

  “Uh-oh, watch yourself, Boom Boom,” Ollie warned. “The last time I volunteered for something, I ended up in Cuba using my vacation time.”

  Rivera shifted in his chair. “What’s this all about? I mean, like, you’re gonna tell me, right? Like, before I say yes or no, right?”

  A smirk came to Devlin’s lips. “No. First you volunteer, then I tell you. Just like always.” Devlin steepled his fingers in front of his face. “Of course, if you don’t like the idea, you have the option of requesting a transfer to another unit.” Devlin leaned back in his chair and waited. Like all the other members of the team, Boom Boom was regarded as a misfit in the NYPD, an unconventional cop in a department that despised the unconventional. Any of them, if returned to normal police duties, would find themselves working one of the many shit assignments that no cop wanted.

  “Okay, okay, I get the point,” Boom Boom said. “I volunteer. You happy?”

  Devlin smiled at him. “I’m happy.” He turned to Sharon. “Since you’ll be running this little undercover job, you explain it to our little Spanish Romeo.”

  Sharon did, her words punctuated by snickers and guffaws from the others. As she concluded, she leaned forward, bringing herself as close to Rivera as possible. “The important thing here, Boom Boom,” she said, emphasizing the nickname, “is that you keep your pecker in your pants. As far as anyone in Opus Christi is concerned, sex is the last thing on your mind. You don’t even know what your little di
ng-a-ling is used for. Got it?”

  Boom Boom’s eyes took on a look of someone deeply offended. “Hey, first, it ain’t little, and second, you’re asking for a fucking miracle here.”

  “Yeah? Well, from now on, we call you Saint Ramon. You got it? Once you’re inside you don’t even look at any of the women, let alone give any of them your line of Latin bullshit. So, first off, lose the tight pants and the open-neck shirt and the gold chain.” She glanced at Devlin. “I also wanna get those curly locks sheared before we send him in.”

  “Hey, hold on there. I ain’t gonna go that far,” Boom Boom threatened.

  Sharon ignored him. “Maybe get him fitted to a pair of phony glasses, too.”

  “Sounds about right,” Devlin said. “You’re the boss on this. You do what you think is best.”

  “Hey, come on.”

  Sharon turned back to Rivera. She was enjoying herself fully now. Over the past two years, ever since she had joined the squad, Rivera had repeatedly suggested that she could be “cured” of her lesbian tendencies if she’d only put herself in his hands. She smiled at the memory. “Yes, indeed. We are gonna have us a new Boom Boom,” she said.

  “Hey, Sha-ron, wait a minute.”

  “Shut up. We’ve got a meeting tomorrow morning with the guy who’s gonna get you inside.” She paused. “You ever go to Catholic school?” she asked.

  “Yeah,” Boom Boom said. “Grammar school. In Queens.”

  “You have nuns teaching you there?”

  “Yeah, of course.”

  “Who was your favorite?’

  Rivera eyed her. “Whaddaya mean?”

  “It’s simple. Which nun did you like best?”

  He shrugged. “I dunno. Sister Mary Elizabeth, maybe. Why?”

  “Because by the time we have our meeting tomorrow, I promise you one thing. You are gonna look and act just like Sister Mary Elizabeth’s class pet. You got that, Boom Boom?”

  “Hey, Sha-ron. This ain’t fair.”

  “Shut up. Right now you and me gotta find us a barbershop that’s still open. It’s crew-cut time.”

  Boom Boom glanced at Red Cunningham, who was grinning back at him and rubbing his buzz cut.

  “Oh, Christ.” Rivera’s eyes fled to Devlin. “Hey, boss, this ain’t right.”

  Devlin shrugged. “Hey, Ramon, what can I do?” He fought down a smile. “You have to talk to your sergeant on this. I just want you to get us into that computer. You do that, hell, you can take a week off and let your hair grow back.”

  Rivera stared at him. He shook his head, his face filled with disbelief. “Aw, shit, man. Aw, shit.”

  Chapter Seven

  Emilio stared at the front page of the Post. The man had handed it to him as soon as he seated himself on the Central Park bench that had become their meeting place. The headline read: SECOND PRIEST MURDERED.

  He carefully placed the paper on the bench and turned. “I warned you it might not fool them,” he said.

  The man stared at him, eyes like ice. He was such a demanding bastard, Emilio thought. The people he worked for were just as bad, but at least they were capable of doing the work themselves. This one didn’t know shit. This one never had blood on his shoes when he put someone away. He did it with his fucking checkbook, nice and clean and neat.

  “I expected better,” the man said. “I thought the medical tests might reveal the truth after a day, perhaps even two. This didn’t fool them for an hour.”

  Emilio felt his anger rise. “Hey, you know you’re changing the rules here. You want these people put away; they’re put away. Then you want it so it looks like they did it themselves. I tell you it’s tricky, but I try; now you tell me it’s not good enough. Hey, listen up here. The cops, they find themselves one murdered priest. Then they got another, and they think, Hey, what’s this we got going on here? It’s only natural. They’re not stupid, even if you want them to be stupid, right?”

  The man continued to stare at him and then looked away, disgusted.

  Emilio wanted to reach out and grab him, put a knife under his chin, let him feel how close he was. He didn’t even know the bastard’s name, didn’t know anything about him. But this shit he was handing out now changed all that. Now he would find out about him. And maybe later, when he was finished with this job and his own boss was satisfied, maybe then, in a month or two, he’d come back and pay him a little visit.

  “Have you found the third one?” the man asked.

  This time Emilio looked away. “I found him.” He jerked his chin, indicating some unspecified area behind him. “It’s not far from here. A church over on Columbus Avenue.”

  When he turned back the man was staring at him again, his face expressionless. “Today,” he said. “I want it done today.”

  “If I can,” Emilio said. “It depends on what’s happening with him. It’s gotta be safe.” He jabbed a finger into his own chest. “Safe for me.” A small thin smile came to his lips. “You don’t want me caught, right?” He had almost made up his mind. This man here, this big patron, if he said he didn’t care, he’d cut his throat right there, right now.

  “Of course not. But I want it done quickly, and I want it done well.”

  Emilio sneered at him. “If they’re dead, compadre, and if I get away, it’s done well. I can’t give you any better than dead.” He looked down at a pigeon scuttling near his feet. “How many more will there be?”

  “That doesn’t concern you,” the man said. He seemed to think better of his words. “Not that many—not here in the city, at least.”

  Emilio’s head snapped around. “Hey, you expect me to do this other places too?”

  The man glared at him. “Your employer and I are discussing that now. I don’t know if it will involve you or someone else. That hasn’t been determined. You needn’t worry yourself about it. Just do the job here.”

  Emilio looked back at the pigeon. There were two now. He kicked out at them halfheartedly, making them scatter a few feet away.

  “You don’t seem very pleased with the work,” the man said. “Does it offend you?”

  “It bothers me I don’t get respect for the work.” He looked back at the man, held his eyes.

  “You’re doing the Lord’s work. Be satisfied with that.”

  Emilio’s eyes widened. God wanted priests put away? He smiled for the first time. The man was loco. Or he was on something. He looked at his eyes more closely. Nothing. Just crazy.

  “Tell me. Why are we doing this to these priests? I’m just curious.”

  The man seemed to think about his answer, then dismissed it. “It’s irrelevant. The important thing is to get the work done quickly.” He paused a moment. “I have special instructions for you with this one. I want you to follow them exactly.”

  “Again?”

  The man shook his head. “It’s not what you think. Faking a suicide is pointless now. The police will be looking for that. But I want a message sent, so listen closely.”

  Emilio left first, as he always did. But this time he ducked behind a portable bookstall on Fifth Avenue, where he could watch the man still seated on the bench. Five minutes later the man rose and followed the same path out of the park. He exited on Grand Army Plaza, crossed the avenue, and headed east on 60th Street.

  Emilio let him go and dropped in about fifty yards behind him. The man was tall, and his silver-tinged hair stood out above the other pedestrians, making him easy to follow. He continued across Madison Avenue to Park, where he turned south.

  Foot traffic was heavier now, and Emilio shortened the distance between them until he was only twenty yards back. The man turned into a large glass-fronted office building, and Emilio watched him as he strode past the security desk unchallenged and went straight to a bank of elevators. Another rare smile came to his thin lips. Now I know where to find you, he thought. The sun broke through the clouds, and the sudden warmth on his shoulders soothed his entire body. He stood quietly for a moment, enjoying it. He hadn
’t decided yet whether or not he would kill this man. It was enough for now to know that he could.

  “You have no idea how hard the press is coming down on me.”

  Howie Silver paced behind his desk. The morning sun filtered through the bulletproof glass in his office windows, giving his sallow complexion a sickly green tint. Devlin sat in a leather club chair well away from the desk. He watched as Silver stopped to jab a finger in his direction.

  “Maybe I should let you find out. Maybe I should put you up there next to me when I have to face those bastards an hour from now.”

  Devlin looked down at the tips of his shoes and then raised his eyes slowly back to the mayor. “I’ll go if you want me to, but I think it’s a bad idea.”

  Silver’s jaw tightened. “They’ll ask to talk to you, you know that. They’ll even bitch that you always refuse.”

  Devlin shrugged. “It’s the way we’ve set it up. Just refer them to the public information office. I can’t do the job if I spend half the day fielding questions from the media.”

  Silver sneered. “But you think I can, right?” The sneer grew. “Those bastards. I’ll spend the rest of the morning listening to them. First at the press conference, then on the phone with their goddamn editors.” He stared at the blank expression on Devlin’s face. “Don’t say it,” he warned.

  “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

  “Yeah, but you’re thinking it. You’re thinking that I asked for it. That I love every goddamn minute of it.” He turned around and went to his chair but didn’t sit. “The whole idea of this special squad you run is to keep me out of this shit.” He turned back to Devlin as if challenging a response.

  Devlin shook his head. “No, it’s not, Howie. You formed the squad so you wouldn’t sit here holding the bag every time a high-profile case hit the papers; so you could keep those humps who run the Puzzle Palace from playing political games behind your back.” He shook his head. “That’s all the squad gives you. It lets you know what’s really going on and keeps the brass at One Police Plaza from sticking it to you every time you bend over to tie your shoes. It gives you that, it gives you me, and it gives you my people. All of us working directly for you. But that’s all it does.”