After a bloody fight, each boy had won his cuts and bruises. And after too many beers, they had ended the night blind drunk, arms wrapped round each other for support, one musically discordant creature in a four-legged stagger walk.
How he had loved those days.
Startled pigeons flew up in the wake of a passing boom box. Riker put out his cigarette and returned to the church, where he discovered that Mallory’s plan to torture a priest had somehow gone awry.
The church was no cathedral, but it held all the trappings of stained-glass windows, a giant crucifix and rows of votive candles blazing at the feet of plaster saints.
Mallory had laid out twenty dollars for a disposable camera just to rattle the priest, and the man’s laughter was a disappointment. He liked the idea of taking part in a photo lineup of murder suspects. ‘No, don’t smile, Father,’ she said. ‘So Sparrow belonged to your parish?’
‘Now how did you manage to make that sound like a guilty thing?’
Father Rose was having entirely too much fun sparring with her in this novel departure from a priest’s workday. She doubted that he would make her short list for a double hanging. She glanced at Riker, who sprawled in the front pew, waiting to play his role of the easygoing policeman, everybody’s friend.
Mallory lowered the camera so the priest could see her slow grin. She had a repertoire of smiles, and this one made people nervous. ‘A witness can place you at the crime scene last night.’
‘Yes, there was quite a crowd – even before the fire engine showed up.’ The priest turned to the side. ‘Want a profile?’ He froze in position, waiting for the flash. ‘Your witness is an old woman. Am I right? Very thick glasses? She was sitting in the window across the street, watching the whole show, and – ’
‘A show? Is that how you saw it, Father?’ She shot him again. ‘Why were you at the crime scene? Forget something?’
‘So I am a. suspect.’ He seemed almost flattered.
‘You were out of uniform last night.’
‘I leave the collar home when I work at the neighborhood clinic. I donate my time three nights a week. Mostly bandaging cuts, dispensing aspirins – that kind of thing.’
She looked up from the camera so he would have no trouble reading distrust in her eyes. ‘I want names. Who can vouch for your time – say an hour before the fire?’
‘The nurse who runs the clinic. We were leaving together when we heard the fire engines. Is this – ’
‘When did you talk to Sparrow last?’
‘Sunday, but I didn’t – ’
‘Did she mention any enemies? Somebody out to get her?’
The priest shook his head.
‘No? You don’t know or you won’t say? Want to lawyer up, Father? You have the right to an attorney during – ’
‘That’s enough, Mallory.’ Riker rose from the pew, acting the part of an annoyed superior. ‘Go check out his story.’
She walked down the altar steps, passing her partner as he climbed upward in dead silence. Riker was already departing from the script. There was nothing amiable in his face as he squared off in front of the priest. Mallory stayed to watch.
‘I know you tried to get access to that crime scene,’ said Riker. ‘My witness is no old lady. He’s a big hairy fireman.’
‘Yes, he must be the one who told me Sparrow was dead. Well, she’s Catholic. She was entitled to last rites.’
‘The fireman said you knew her name before the cops identified her. You knew that was her apartment. So you’ve got what – two hundred people in your parish?’
Father Rose wore a slightly pained expression. He understood that this was a test. ‘I recognized her face when – ’
‘So you had a good view of the show, right? Front row – close to the window. Notice anything unusual?’
‘The hair jammed in her mouth?’ The priest was rallying, almost smug. ‘No, too obvious. That made headlines, didn’t it?’ He folded his arms. ‘You must mean the candles. I don’t recall any mention of them in the newspaper.’ Father Rose waved to a nearby alcove that housed a plaster saint and a few small flames burning among tiers of candles. ‘Like those. Yes, I saw them in the water.’ His smile was wider now. ‘But Sparrow’s were red. Mine are white.’
So Father Rose had failed to notice a thousand dead flies spread on the water. At least one crime-scene detail was secure.
The priest was smiling, triumphant.
‘Having fun, Father?’ Riker moved closer, forcing the other man to back step. ‘Sparrow is a friend of mine, and I’m not enjoying this much. So do me a favor and stop grinning at me.’
Father Rose’s head snapped back, as if the detective had sucker-punched him – and he had. Riker backed off a few paces to reward the priest’s more somber attitude. ‘Maybe we have a religious connection. How would you explain all those candles?’
‘Well, they weren’t for ambience.’ And lest Riker take this for humor, the priest hurried the rest of his words. ‘All the lights were on in Sparrow’s apartment before the firemen broke the – ’
‘Why do you light candles?’
‘Ritual.’ The man was not so sure of himself anymore. ‘Burnt offerings. A light in the darkness. Hope?’ This last word waned to a whisper as he watched the detective descend the stairs.
Riker’s back was turned to the priest when he asked, ‘Did you know Sparrow was a prostitute?’
Mallory watched the priest’s stunned reaction. He opened and closed his mouth like an air-drowned fish. And she knew he could tell them nothing more, not even if he violated every secret of the confessional. Sparrow had never confided in him. The two detectives walked down the wide center aisle, then paused at the sound of running footsteps.
The priest called out, ‘Wait!’ He hurried from statue to statue, lighting all the wicks. ‘Just another minute. Please.’ He lit every candle on the altar as well. ‘I’m sorry.’ The priest walked toward Riker. ‘So sorry. Sparrow is a special person to me.’ His face showed deep contrition. ‘She has a good heart – better than most. She’s better than she knows.’
Riker nodded and cracked a smile, raising his opinion of this man who could admire a whore.
‘And I was wrong about the ambience,’ said the priest. ‘Maybe that 15 your angle. Candles make for great theater – even when all the electricity is turned on. Look around you.’
Candles flickered beneath the crucifix. The man on the cross writhed in an illusion of lights. And all along the wall, flames beneath the other figures created animation, action – actors.
‘Thank you, Father.’ And Mallory meant that. His idea was worth consideration, but from a different angle. What if religious candles had the same significance as a jar of dead flies?
CHAPTER 7
Autopsy – autopsia - seeing with one’s eyes.
When Mallory was a child, she had learned her essential Latin from Chief Medical Examiner Edward Slope.
A refrigerator and sinks gave the doctor’s dissection room the character of a large kitchen. Long tables were laid with tools for slicing and dicing meat. A small metal platform the size of a butcher block held intestines in a shallow tray, and another body part lay in the bed of a hanging scale. Dr Slope called out the weight, then switched off his recorder. ‘Hello, Kathy.’
‘Mallory,’ she said, correcting him as she always did. She approached the steel table and looked down at the gutted remains of a woman her own age. A wide red cavity ran from the breast bone to a mound of blond pubic hair, and the smell of chlorine mingled with the reek of meat gone bad.