"Do you have any dates on this?"
"Gee, let me think. We're pretty sure he was recruited into a militia when he was eleven or twelve, but before that he lived with a gang of boys, hiding out, for several years. His parents may have been killed when he was nine or ten. It's hard to put dates on anything. We can only piece together their histories from their own accounts. If he's eighteen now, we might be able to correlate events in his village nine years ago."
"Did you hear any accounts of an attack during a wedding? Maybe someone from his own family?"
Something he might be reliving a world away,
Mike didn't say out loud.
"Gee, I wouldn't know, but two of his brothers are with us out here. Maybe they would know."
"What about violence?"
"I don't know what you mean."
"You said he was recruited into a militia when he was eleven. I assume that doesn't mean he was a mascot."
"Ah, Lieutenant, we try to rehabilitate them; we don't ask them to relive their tragedies."
Very preachy. Mike glanced at April and Poppy. Their faces showed their dismay.
"You don't do any psychological testing before you let potential killers loose over here?"
"I don't like the sound of that. We don't take that view. Let me remind you that soldiers throughout the ages have returned to normal life when their wars were over. Our mission is to help these people do that through Jesus Christ."
"You think of Mr. Natzuma as a retired soldier then."
"A kind of solider, yes. As he was a member of a rebel militia group, we know he was a witness to the torture arid killing of dozens of civilians on many different occasions. But as a participant... ?"
"But he can shoot a gun," Mike interrupted.
"Oh, that, certainly. Is there anything else I can help you with?"
"Oh, yes, this is just the beginning. We need to pin down if he shot any of those civilians, if he witnessed, or participated in, violence at a wedding. And if he hates Jews."
Dody was silent for a while. "He's had a sad life."
"Does that translate into a man too violent to take with you to your church in Minneapolis?"
"No, no, not violent, more like a management problem."
"Why didn't you send that management problem home?"
Dody was silent for a longer time. "We don't think in terms of sending them home. Our mission is to get them out. Bring them to safety, teach them the ways of Christ, our Lord."
"Mr. Dody, will you get those names and addresses for me? We're going to be sending someone out there to talk to you and Ubu's brothers. We'll be following up on this immediately."
Mike recited the squad number and his cell phone number and said, "Thanks, we appreciate your help," before hanging up.
He tried to frown and winced as his stitches pulled.
Thirty-three
L
ouis the Sun King knew the drill. For the Hay wedding, St. Patrick's would be closed to the public for only two hours. He would not be allowed to work after the doors were closed for the night or before they were opened in the early morning. In fact, he was not allowed to work there at all. All he could do was deliver finished product. Same thing with the St. Regis. There was an event in the ballroom that night, so he couldn't get in there undl Saturday morning.
Coordinadng the two sites took master planning. Louis had to get the ten thirty-five-foot, gardenia-plugged dcus trees in place in the cathedral, the massive arrangements down at the altar, and the ribbons and baskets along the pews as soon as the cathedral doors were open Saturday morning. The trees had to be brought in by cherry pickers. The cherry pickers had to disappear, then reappear as soon as the bride and groom walked back down the aisle and out of the building. Everything related to the Hay wedding had to be out of the cathedral before two o'clock, then delivered immediately to the designated not-for-profit for the tax deduction.
What it meant was that the ten ficus trees had to be plugged with five thousand blooming gardenias. Twenty-five giant seashells filled with perfectly blooming Hawaiian Sunset cats and other tropical and marine-type fauna. Twenty-five large umbrellas decanvased, palm fronded, and set with twinkling lights. Four arrangements for the altar and the baskets and ribbons for the pews had to be constructed. All this had to be done before nine. Saturday. The umbrellas had been done before the rain started. The police had stopped bugging him, Wendy was off his case, and he was feeling better.
Louis loved the magic of the party and missed the old days when only the richest people in the world could have what anyone could have now—masses of hlies, roses, lilac, orchids, tulips, hydrangea—anything at all any time of the year. Twenty years ago only the designers had real access to the growers and shippers and suppliers. He felt his business had been destroyed by Martha Stewart do-it-yourselfism coupled with the excessive wealth of the 1990s.
These days it was tough to make events truly unique when anyone could get what he could get. Rower growers had fields all over the world. FedEx flew in every day. Bloom-a-Million on the Internet. Call 1-8OO-FLOWERS. Roses of every hue, six dollars a dozen at every corner Korean market in the city.
At one time Louis's former partner had employed forty-five people full-time. Back in the day more than a hundred people might be involved in an event for hardly more than a hundred people. All that was gone forever. Now everything was canned, nothing was new. He'd done this before. He was bemoaning his difficulties made worse by the rain when his buzzer rang and he saw that the two detectives were back.
Groaning, he buzzed them in and pushed through the crush of extra helpers he'd hired for the day. "Morning," he said. "We're a little crowded in here today."
The Chinese nailed him with a look. "Ubu didn't really come home with you in the truck last Sunday, did he, Louis?" Respectful of his shop, she stood dripping on the doormat.
"I don't know what you mean," he said.
"Yes, you do. Three of you went to Riverdale, but only two of you came back."
Louis closed his eyes, then shook his head slowly. "He didn't want to be in the back of the truck. He wanted to walk home."
"You left him there, up in Riverdale all alone, a stranger to New York? How did you expect him to walk home to Brooklyn?"
Louis sighed. "It's complicated. We didn't just leave him on Independence Avenue. We took him to the subway. I told him, van or subway—you can't walk to Brooklyn. He chose subway. I haven't seen him since." He grimaced at the lieutenant's purpling cheek but didn't ask how he got it.
"Why didn't you tell us this before?"
"We left the synagogue before three. He didn't know the area. He couldn't have gotten back in time anyway. Why complicate things for everyone irrelevant?" Louis argued. He patted his hair nervously. He was sorry, okay.
"Does Andrea Straka complicate things for everybody, too?" the Chinese said suddenly.
"Jesus." Louis stopped being sorry and took a deep breath. This was getting out of control. "I've never been on a subway in my life. I didn't have anything to do with Tovah's death. You now know everything I know. If you want to arrest me, arrest me. Otherwise, leave me alone. I have a wedding to do."
Thirty-four
I
t rained all Friday night, and it rained Saturday morning. A stranger sat in St. Patrick's, warm and dry at the long information table piled with pamphlets touting Catholicism in different languages. The long table, skirted with green felt, was set back far behind the front doors in the space before the pews began. A TV screen was mounted on a column nearby. Throughout the year different countries had their chance to disseminate at this coveted spot. Now it was the Philippines. Sometimes nuns in gray habits sat at the table with laywomen. Sometimes no nuns. Today there were none.