There was an unruly white streak of hair over his left temple, a souvenir from a slashing years ago while he was investigating a burglary. It gave his haircut a somewhat fearsome Bride of Frankenstein look, which, when coupled with the consternation on his face - made it appear as if he might throttle the little housekeeper within the next several seconds, a premise entirely distant from the truth. Side by side, the two red-heads stood, one huge and seemingly menacing, the other tiny and possibly confused, a blazing torch and a glowing ember.
Carella looked at both of them, not knowing Hawes had already explained the sanctity of the kitchen to her . twice not knowing why Hawes was looking at her so peculiarly, and beginning to feel a bit stupid for not understanding what the hell was going on. Outside in the garden, the priest lay on blood-stained stones, his blood still seeping from the tattered wounds in his back. It was such a lovely night.
Getting away from the matter of the goddamn kitchen, Hawes said, "When did you last see Father Birney alive?”
"Father Michael," she said.
"Well, his name is Michael Birney, isn't it?" Hawes said.
"Yes," Mrs. Hennessy said, "but you can have a priest named.., well, take Father O'Neill as used to be the pastor here. His name was Ralph O'Neill, but everybody called him Father O'Neill. Whereas Father Michael's name is Michael Birney, but everyone calls him Father Michael.
That's the mystery of it.”
"Yes, that's the great mystery of it," Hawes agreed.
"When did you last see him alive?" Carella asked gently. "Father Michael, that is." Slow and easy, he told himself. If she's truly a stupid woman, getting angry isn't going to help either her or the situation. If she's just scared, then hold her hand. There's a dead man outside in the garden.
"When you last saw him alive," he prompted.
"The time. What time was it?”
“A bit past seven," she said. "When I come to fetch him for dinner.”
“Yes," Carella said, "but he was already dead by then, isn't that what you said?”
"Yes, God ha'mercy," she said, and hastily made the sign of the cross.
"When did you last see him alive ? Before that.”
"When Krissie was leaving," she said.
"Krissie?”
"Yes.”
"Who's Krissie?”
"His secretary.”
"And she left at what time?”
"Five. She leaves at five.”
"And she left at five tonight?”
"Yes.”
"And that's the last time you saw Father Michael alive?”
"Yes, when Krissie was leaving. He was saying good night to her.”
"Where was this, Mrs. Hennessy?”
"In his study. I went in to clear the tea things.., he takes tea in the afternoon, after he says his three o'clock prayers. Krissie was just going out the door, he was sayin' I'll see you in the morning.”
"Krissie who?" Hawes asked.
"Krissie who's his secretary," Mrs. Hennessy said.
"Yes, but what's her full name?”
"Kristin.”
"And her last name?”
"Lund. Kristin Lund.”
"Does she work here full time?”
"No, only Tuesdays and Thursdays. Twice a week.”
"And you? How often do... ?”
"Who gets the coffee?" a uniformed cop asked.
"Here's your coffee, Mrs. Hennessy," Hawes said, and took the cardboard container from him.
"Thank you," she said, and then, quite suddenly, "It was the Devil who done it.”
The only problem was that Willis loved her to death.
It bothered him day and night that he loved a woman who'd killed someone. A pimp, yes a fucking miserable pimp, as a matter of fact but a human being, nonetheless, if any pimp could be considered human. He had never meta pimp he'd liked, but for that matter, he'd never met a hooker with a heart of gold, either. Marilyn was no longer a hooker when he'd met her, so she didn't count.
She had been a hooker, however, when she'd killed Alberto Hidalgo, a Buenos Aires pimp who by then had been living off the proceeds of prostitution for almost fifty years. In addition to Marilyn, there'd been six other whores in his stable. He was hated by each and every one of them, but by none so fiercely as Marilyn herself, whom he'd casually subjected first to an abortion and next to a hysterectomy performed by one and the same back-alley butcher.
So here was Willis a police officer sworn to protect and enforce the laws of the city, state, and nation in love with a former hooker, a confessed murderess, and an admitted thief, not necessarily in that order. Only two other people in this entire city knew that Marilyn Hollis had once been a prostitute: Lieutenant Peter Byrnes and Detective Steve Carella. Willis knew that the secret was safe with either of them.
But neither of them knew that she was also a killer and a thief. Willis alone had heard that little confession, he alone was the one to whom she'd... "I did. I killed him.”
"I don't want to hear it. Please. I don't want to hear it.”
"I thought you wanted the truth t”
"I'm a cop.t If you killed a man...”
"I didn't kill a man, I killed a monster! He ripped out my insides, I can't have babies, do you understand that? He stole my...”
"Please, please, please, Marilyn...”
"I'd kill him again. In a minute.”
She'd used cyanide. Hardly the act of someone with a heart of gold.
Cyanide. For rats.
And then... "I went into-his bedroom and searched for the combination to the safe because that was where my passport had to be. I found the combination. I opened the safe. My passport was in it. And close to two million dollars in Argentine money.”
On the night she'd confessed all this to Willis, a night that now seemed so very long ago, she'd asked, "So what now? Do you turn me in?”
He had not known what to say.
He was a cop.
He loved her.
"Do they know you killed him?" he'd asked.
"Who? The Argentine cops? Why would even give a damn about a dead pimp?
But, yes, the only one who split from the stable, yes, and the safe was open, and a lot of bread was gone, so yes, they probably figured I was the perpetrator, is that the word you use?”
"Is there a warrant out for your arrest?”
"I don't know.”
And there had been a silence.
"So what are you going to do?" she'd asked, "Phone Argentina? Ask them if there's a on Mary Ann Hollis, a person I don't even anymore? What, Hal? For Christ's sake, I love you, want to live with you forever, I love you, Jesus, love you, what are you going to do ?”
don't know," he'd said.
He was still a cop.
And he still loved her.
But every time that telephone rang, he broke out in a cold sweat, hoping it would not be some police inspector in Buenos Aires, telling him they had traced a murder to the city here and were planning to extradite a woman named Marilyn Hollis.
It was easy to forget your fears on a night like tonight It was easy to forget that some problems might never go away.
At a little past ten o'clock, the city was ablaze with light. For all Willis knew, this could have been springtime in Paris: he'd never been there. But it felt like Paris, and it most certainly felt like spring, the balmiest spring he could ever remember. As he and Marilyn came out of the restaurant, a soft, fragrant breeze wafted in off Grover Park.
Both of them smiled. He hailed a passing taxi and told the driver to take the park road uptown. They were still smiling.
The windows were down. They held hands like teenagers.
Harborside Lane, where Marilyn owned the town house, was within the confines of the 87th Precinct, not quite as desirable as Silvermine Oval, but a very good neighborhood anyway - at least when one Considered the rest of the precinct territory. Number 1211 was in a row of brownstones adorned with ssible spray-can scribblings. A wrought-iron gate to the right of the building guarded the entrance to a driveway that led to a garage set some fifty feet back from the pavement; the gate was padlocked.