“About the case? About something you know that I don’t?”
“About our churches, Mr. Chapman. By the time this is on the nightly news, we’ll both have the same — uh — issues on our hands.”
“Publicity? You got yourself all worried about the PR aspect of things, while me and my buddies just have to think about who killed the girl.”
“We have security problems to consider, and I think it would be tasteful to offer a prayer service in her memory.”
“The bishop know you’re coming?”
“Well, no. I didn’t call.”
“Just hoping to get the bishop in his seat, huh?”
“There’ll be somebody here to help me, Chapman. It’s a church,” Gaskin said, snarling at Mike as he kept glancing over his shoulder as though expecting someone to appear.
“Why don’t we take this walk together? You must know the way to the office.”
I could see Gaskin hesitate before turning to start down the long nave. “I think I do.”
I was twenty steps or so behind the two men as they passed through the center of the church, having walked at least the length of an entire football field in silence.
Out of the corner of my eye, as I glanced over my shoulder, I could see a flash of movement in the ornate choir loft that ran half the distance of the nave, built out as though suspended above the end of the pews to my far left.
I cocked my head and turned to see whether we had company. Mike said something to Gaskin and I swiveled back to try to hear their conversation at the same time.
I couldn’t shake the sense someone was moving in that space overhead, and though I continued forward to keep up with Mike, my eyes swept the choir loft again.
Now I could see the figure — a tall, thin young man with a clerical collar visible beneath his overcoat, weaving a path to the rear of the loft, closer to the massive church door behind me. His head was bowed and he seemed to be talking to himself. His skin was a ghostly white, blurring into the bleached collar beneath it.
I tried to get Mike’s attention, but the man had slipped behind one of the colossal columns that extended from the floor of the church up to the great ceiling. Not a sound accompanied his fluid movement.
I slowed down for another look just as Mike turned to wave me forward to him.
The man looked familiar to me, just as Wilbur Gaskin had. But this time I wasn’t so sure. Maybe I was spooked and looking for quick solutions when there wouldn’t be any.
“Put a move on, Coop,” Mike said.
“Excuse me, sir,” I called after the silhouette, shimmying my way across one of the long pews to get closer to the area below the choir loft, looking down so as not to trip over any of the prie-dieu kneelers along the way.
There was no response.
I picked my head up again and leaned back, but the loft above was empty.
Only seconds had passed, but off to my left the church door opened, and though the man was farther away from me now, the feature that was most prominent in my memory showed clearly as I viewed his back. The long hair, bunched together like a ponytail, was tucked into the rear of his coat — just as it had been in the courtroom that morning.
I broke into a trot to get to the door before it closed behind him, struggling to remember from earlier visits to the cathedral whether there actually was a staircase in that corner of the loft. Even if there was one, how had this man descended it so quickly and silently? I’d have to figure that out later. Now all I wanted was to find out who he was and why he had twice crossed my path.
I dashed out and gasped as the wind whipped at my face while I continued the hunt for this fast-moving apparition. The CSU detectives were still working off to my left, so I ran down the steps and around to the right — the north side of the great cathedral.
Against the blue-black sky and the dark gray stone of the old building I could barely see more than a few feet in front of me. I came to an abrupt halt as the walkway ended fifty yards from the corner I had turned. I found myself pressed against the waist-high railing that formed a balcony over the steep incline toward Morningside Drive.
No one there. I thought for a second that I heard a sound coming from below the ledge on which I stood, but that didn’t seem possible. I was sure it was just me, panting to catch my breath before turning back to go inside.
SIXTEEN
GASKIN was fuming about being intercepted in the cathedral, and even more annoyed when Mike left him to follow me out onto the church steps. Darkness had overtaken the streets, and we looked in vain for any sign of the elusive cleric.
“Is there a staircase that leads down from the choir loft?” I asked.
“Not on that end, Coop.”
“Then he must have moved even faster than I thought he was going.”
“Or he sprouted wings,” Mike said, exasperated with me. “Let me get this right. You didn’t recognize his face.”
“I didn’t really see his face in court this morning.”
“But it was well-lit there.”
“Yes, but he had on a big pair of sunglasses. I didn’t see any of his features, except that his face was long and angular, and his skin was unusually white with irregular red scabs or something.”
“So, you’re giving me a make on a tall, thin guy with a ponytail?”
“I told you he was wearing a collar. And I said a gray overcoat.”
“Detail on that?”
“Generic.”
“One of retail shopping’s best consumers and you can’t detail the coat? Would you buy this scrip from a witness, Coop? ‘Oh, yeah, Ms. DA. Ask the man to turn around so I can see the back of his head. Bingo! That’s the guy who did it.’ Come in out of the cold, Madame Prosecutor. I think you’re having a brain freeze.”
“I’m not exaggerating, Mike. See if that’s who Gaskin was here to meet. Maybe there are connections between this murder and the trial of the defrocked priest, but I’m just too thick to make them. It’s almost like Battaglia wished this on me.”
Mike pushed open the door and practically rammed it into Gaskin’s chest. “I asked you the nicest way I know to stay right where you were, didn’t I?”
“I thought you’d gone off and left me, Detective. You’re correct about my calling the bishop first. I should have done that. I’ll go back to my own church and make a plan.”
“You happen to see the young man who just left the cathedral?” I asked.
“I’m sorry? I didn’t notice anyone,” Gaskin said.
“He must have been waiting in the choir loft when you entered.”
“Waiting for what? Are you implying?…”
“He only started to move when Mike and you got halfway down the nave, closer to him.” I was creating a scenario that had the two men planning an assignation in the cathedral.
“You were off base last night when I came to my own church to try to help, and your techniques of information-gathering are even more preposterous today. What young man are you talking about?” Gaskin said. “Who is he?”
“Ms. Cooper was hoping you could tell us that. Might be a man of the cloth, Mr. Gaskin. Caucasian. Tall and thin, hair in a kind of ponytail, hasn’t outgrown his acne.”
“I’ll sleep on it, Chapman.” Wilbur Gaskin pulled on the door handle and let himself out as the cool evening air rushed in, the chill attaching itself to me like a second skin.
Mike’s fingers were riffling through his hair, and when his eyes wouldn’t meet mine, I knew he was trying to curb his annoyance with me.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nice job, Coop.”
“Hey, I told you I saw Gaskin—”
“And then you freaked him out so he wouldn’t even wait to talk to us.”