How dare you? Get out of here, this is God's house, all that. So we left. Some things you walk away from, you know what I mean? Some things are a no-win situation.”
"Then what?”
"Then what what? We went home. That was it.”
"Did you see anyone else in the church? While you were there?”
"No. Just Father Michael.”
"Hear anyone else?”
"No.”
"You didn't hear two people arguing?”
"No. What two people?”
"Is it true that you made a blood vow to get both Hooper and Father Michael? For what happ...”
"What are you talking about? What blood vow?”
"For what happened on Easter Sunday.”
"I don't even know what a blood vow is. What's a blood vow?”
"You didn't swear to get them, is that right?”
"For what? Did Hooper come back to the neighbourhood since then? He didn't. Has he been hanging around the school peddling dope? He hasn't.
So what's there to get him for? We got him good enough on Easter.”
"And the priest? Father Michael?”
"He only did what he thought was right. He figured he was helping a poor innocent kid getting beat up by a gang of hoodlums. I'da done the same thing, believe me. If I thought somebody was in right? The very same thing. So why would we ho anything against him? In fact, I've been to every Sunday since. The other guys, too. Church like a meeting place for us. We go to ten o'clo, mass every Sunday. We go to the C.Y.O. dances Friday nights. We had nothing against F. Michael. In fact, he was like one of the guys what happened on Easter. This was a terrible that happened to him. A terrible thing.”
"When you say he was like one of the guys...”
"He was always kidding around with us, know, telling jokes, asking us about our problems, real nice guy, I mean it, you sometimes forgot he a priest. I still think he did what he did on because he misunderstood the situation. He know the kind of person Hooper really is. In wouldn't be surprised...”
Bobby stopped, shook his head.
"Yes, what?" Carella asked.
"I wouldn't be surprised if it turned out had something to do with his murder.”
"Why do you say that?”
"A feeling, that's all.”
"But what gives you that feeling?”
"I don't know. I just know that when a selling dope, anything can happen. Including somebody. That's all I know," Bobby said, nodded in utter certainty. "That's all I know.”
Willis made the call from the squadroom at a little before three that afternoon. With late afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows, he sat at his desk and direct-dialed first 0-1-1 and then 5-4-1, and then the number listed in his international police directory. He waited.
The foreign ringing sounded somehow urgent. Across the room, Andy Parker was typing up a report, pecking at the keys with the forefingers of both hands. The squadroom was otherwise empty. The phone kept ringing. He wondered what he could possibly say if the lieutenant asked why he'd called Buenos... "Central de Policfa," a woman's voice said.
"Hello," he said, "do you speak English?”
“Perd6neme?”
"I'm calling from the United States," he said, careful not to say America, they were very touchy about that down there. "Los Estados Unidos," he said, "I'm a policeman, un policidt," trying his half-assed Spanish, "un detective," giving it what he thought to be the proper Spanish pronunciation, day-tec-tee-vay, "is there anyone there who speaks English, please, pot favor?”
"Juss a mom'enn, please," the woman said.
He waited.
One moment, two moments, three moments, a full six American moments which probably added up to one Argentinian moment, and then a man's voice came on the line.
"Teniente Vidoz, how can I be of assi please?”
"My name is Harold Willis," Willis said, Detective/Third Grade with the 87th Squad here..
t, senor?
"We're investigating a case you might be able help us with.”
"Oh?”
Warily.
There was not a cop in the world who wante, foreign investigation added to his own already heavy case load. Foreign meant anything outside cop's own precinct. It could be the precinct ri next door, this was still foreign. Bahia Blanca, three hundred and more miles south of Buenos was very definitely foreign. Rio Gallegos, all way down near Chile, was practically in a country. And the United States? All the way there?
Don't even ask.
But here was a person who'd identified himself a third-grade detective, which Lieutenant assumed was some sort of inferior in the department, and he was investigating a case, and needed help. Help. From the police in Buenos Norteamericanos were a nervy bunch.
"What kind of help?" Vidoz asked, hoping voice conveyed the unmistakable impression that desired not to help in any way, manner, or What he desired was to go to see his mistress he went home. It was already a quarter to six in Argentina. This was what he desired.
"I have two names," Willis said. "I was hoping you'd be able to run them through for me.”
"Run them through what?" Vidoz asked.
"Your computer. I think they may have criminal records. If so, perhaps you can fax me the...”
"What sort of case is this?" Vidoz asked.
"Homicide," Willis said at once.
The secret password.
Homicide.
No cop in the world wanted to be burdened with a foreign case, but neither would any cop in the world turn his back on a homicide. Willis knew this.
Vidoz knew it. Both cops sighed heavily. Willis in mock weariness after days and nights of working a murder he'd just invented, Vidoz because satisfying this request was a supreme pain in the ass but an obligation nonetheless.
"What are the names?" he said.
"Ramon Castaneda and Carlos Ortega," Willis said.
"Give me your fax number," Vidoz said.
Willis gave it to him.
The information from Buenos Aires came through on the fax at a little past seven that night, which made it a bit past eight down there in Argentina, Where Lieutenant Francisco Ricardo Vidoz was feeding the photocopied records into the and cursing over having missed his evening cita one Carla de Font-Alba. In the Clerical Office at 87th Precinct, Sergeant Alfred Benjamin Mi: pulled the pages as they inched their way out of fax machine, remarked to his assistant Juan Portoles that they were in Spanish, and then that they were earmarked for "Det/3 Harl Wallace" who he guessed was Hal Willis. at the pages there were eight altogether Portoles whistled and said, "These are some hombres, Sarge.”
He was probably referring to several words had caught his eye, words such as... Robo ... Asalto con Lesiones... Violaci6n... and especially Homicidio.
VIII
The call from Kristin Lund came as something of a surprise that Monday morning. On her doorstep Saturday night, when she'd pointedly held out her hand for a goodnight handshake, Hawes figured that was the end of that. But here she was now, bubbly and bright, asking if he'd had lunch yet.
"Well, no," he said.
"Because I'm cleaning out some things here at the church, and I thought since I'm in the neighborhood anyway...”
“I'd love to," he said. "Shall I pick you up there?”
"Why don't I come by the station house?" she said. "Maybe you can take my fingerprints again.”
"Maybe," he said, and wondered why the handshake Saturday night.
Actresses, he thought, and shook his head.