movement of impatience, pushing himself off the wall. “Whoever did the killing knew Father Pat was a woman—I'd bet a month's salary on that. It was all about either covering up or getting even.”
“Except there was no rape. And the killer crucified him without taking off his clothes.”
Fio rolled his eyes at the ceiling, beseeching the water-marked plaster for divine assistance. “There he goes with that again.”
Malone's gaze, which had been bouncing back and forth between his two detectives, settled on Rourke. “What?”
Rourke shrugged. “Just a feeling I keep getting…People trust priests with things they would never reveal to anyone else. They let priests into the deepest part of their lives. Father Pat wasn't just killed, he was tortured. Maybe someone let him in too deep.”
The crowd below erupted into a roar. Fio went to the window to have a look. “Ol' Sparky has arrived,” he said.
Malone threw his cigarette at the wall. “Oh, swell. That's all we need.” He bent over and yanked open the bottom drawer to his desk. He produced a brown bottle that didn't have a label and three battered tin cups. He filled the cups to the brim with the bootlegged bourbon and passed them around.
Even so early in the morning, the booze tasted good to Rourke. Too good. He made himself quit after one swallow.
Malone up-ended the bottle, topping off his own cup. “This pastor at the dead priest's—Sweet mercy, should we even be calling her a priest? Anyway, this pastor at her parish…”
“Father Frank Ghilotti.”
“Isn't his daddy the Ghilotti of the laundry rackets? Maybe the dicey feeling y'all were getting is that they're all mobbed up there at Holy Rosary. Stranger things've happened, I suppose. There's that scut going 'round that some outfit from the outside is going to try to muscle in on our rackets now that the Maguires are out of the picture. We could start to get all sorts of strange hits from that.”
“We'll round up all of the known goons and jump up and down on their nuts,” Fio said. “See what shakes loose.”
“Yeah, do that. It'll give me something concrete to tell the brass.”
The bell ringer for the telephone on Malone's desk let out a shrill peel. He stared at it while it rang twice more, then he sighed and lifted the telephone's handset off the hook.
“Captain Malone here. Yes, sir, Superintendent. Uh, yeah, there've been some new developments…” He pulled a God-help-me face and waved the detectives out of his office.
They filed out, only to be called back inside a few moments later.
“The papers just broke the story of the murder,” Malone said. “They're selling extras on the street corners right now and they got all the gory details: crucifixion, feet burning—everything but the fact that he is a she. The super's going to get together with the archbishop and talk over what do about this latest wrinkle in this plum-awful nightmare. He wants the meeting done on the hush-hush, and both City Hall and the cathedral chancery are swarming with reporters, so it's going to be at his house on Rosa Park, and he wants you there.”
“Oh, joy,” Fio said, turning on his heel and going back through the door. “There's gonna be enough juice in the room to fry us all.”
“Which is why,” the captain said, “the only two words you need to know are, Yes sir.”
Rourke was about to follow Fio when the captain stopped him. “And that goes double for you, Day,” Malone said. “Don't give them any of your you-can-kiss-my-caboose bullshit. Whatever they tell you to do, you do it.”
Rourke smiled and touched the brim of his hat in a mock salute.
The sawhorse barricades were still up in front of the Criminal Courts Building, but the crowd had surged out into the street to surround a flatbed truck, whose load was covered with a black tarpaulin. The truck driver was leaning on his horn to no avail, and the traffic backing up behind him was honking as well, and the constant,
“Except there was no rape. And the killer crucified him without taking off his clothes.”
Fio rolled his eyes at the ceiling, beseeching the water-marked plaster for divine assistance. “There he goes with that again.”
Malone's gaze, which had been bouncing back and forth between his two detectives, settled on Rourke. “What?”
Rourke shrugged. “Just a feeling I keep getting…People trust priests with things they would never reveal to anyone else. They let priests into the deepest part of their lives. Father Pat wasn't just killed, he was tortured. Maybe someone let him in too deep.”
The crowd below erupted into a roar. Fio went to the window to have a look. “Ol' Sparky has arrived,” he said.
Malone threw his cigarette at the wall. “Oh, swell. That's all we need.” He bent over and yanked open the bottom drawer to his desk. He produced a brown bottle that didn't have a label and three battered tin cups. He filled the cups to the brim with the bootlegged bourbon and passed them around.
Even so early in the morning, the booze tasted good to Rourke. Too good. He made himself quit after one swallow.
Malone up-ended the bottle, topping off his own cup. “This pastor at the dead priest's—Sweet mercy, should we even be calling her a priest? Anyway, this pastor at her parish…”
“Father Frank Ghilotti.”
“Isn't his daddy the Ghilotti of the laundry rackets? Maybe the dicey feeling y'all were getting is that they're all mobbed up there at Holy Rosary. Stranger things've happened, I suppose. There's that scut going 'round that some outfit from the outside is going to try to muscle in on our rackets now that the Maguires are out of the picture. We could start to get all sorts of strange hits from that.”
“We'll round up all of the known goons and jump up and down on their nuts,” Fio said. “See what shakes loose.”
“Yeah, do that. It'll give me something concrete to tell the brass.”
The bell ringer for the telephone on Malone's desk let out a shrill peel. He stared at it while it rang twice more, then he sighed and lifted the telephone's handset off the hook.
“Captain Malone here. Yes, sir, Superintendent. Uh, yeah, there've been some new developments…” He pulled a God-help-me face and waved the detectives out of his office.
They filed out, only to be called back inside a few moments later.
“The papers just broke the story of the murder,” Malone said. “They're selling extras on the street corners right now and they got all the gory details: crucifixion, feet burning—everything but the fact that he is a she. The super's going to get together with the archbishop and talk over what do about this latest wrinkle in this plum-awful nightmare. He wants the meeting done on the hush-hush, and both City Hall and the cathedral chancery are swarming with reporters, so it's going to be at his house on Rosa Park, and he wants you there.”
“Oh, joy,” Fio said, turning on his heel and going back through the door. “There's gonna be enough juice in the room to fry us all.”
“Which is why,” the captain said, “the only two words you need to know are, Yes sir.”
Rourke was about to follow Fio when the captain stopped him. “And that goes double for you, Day,” Malone said. “Don't give them any of your you-can-kiss-my-caboose bullshit. Whatever they tell you to do, you do it.”
Rourke smiled and touched the brim of his hat in a mock salute.
The sawhorse barricades were still up in front of the Criminal Courts Building, but the crowd had surged out into the street to surround a flatbed truck, whose load was covered with a black tarpaulin. The truck driver was leaning on his horn to no avail, and the traffic backing up behind him was honking as well, and the constant,
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