A Cruel Season for Dying (36 page)

D
id my invitation get lost in the mail?”

“You’re up early, Counselor.” Sakura secretly congratulated himself on his prediction. He figured Faith would corner him before
he’d had time to brew his first cup of tea. “Tea?” he asked as he stood.

“Why wasn’t I called in for those interviews?”

He smiled. “They’re not suspects.”

“Don’t get technical with me, Sakura. The Mancuso girl was murdered in the priest’s church. Paladino was her favorite uncle,
and Shelton is a probable pedophile.”

“And what about their connection to the other victims?” he asked.

“Lucia Mancuso is a good enough starting point for me.”

“We’re checking alibis.”

This time Faith smiled, something cold and unfriendly. “Good.” She extended her arm. “I want the tapes.”

He looked down at her open palm. “I was planning to send them over this morning.”

“I just bet you were.”

He turned to his desk, reaching in a drawer for a copy of the videotaped interviews. He placed the cassette in her hand, closing
her fingers around it.

“Thank you, Detective Sakura. The D.A.’s office always appreciates the NYPD’s cooperation.”

Rozelli’s badge glinted in the fluorescent lighting falling on Sakura’s desk. “It’s yours. Take it,” he said. Then he unholstered
his weapon, laying the.45 next to the shield. “This too.”

Sakura looked up.

“I’m your leak, Lieutenant.”

Sakura shifted in his seat, leaning forward so that the lower half of his face was cast in a cold blue glare, his dark eyes
in shadow. He touched the badge, then stood, walking to the single window in his office. The morning had risen in a thick
milky-white haze, the air pregnant with the promise of snow. He turned. “Ms. Kahn?”

Rozelli’s laugh was humorless. “Yeah.”

Sakura moved back to his desk and sat. “Sit down, Detective Rozelli.”

The detective took one of the chairs in front of the desk. “My dick got in the way,” he said flatly.

Sakura reached out and picked up the jade piece. “It seems your penis has compromised this investigation.”

Rozelli looked down at his feet. “For what it’s worth, it wasn’t intentional.”

“How was it, then, Detective Rozelli?”

“Just small talk between the sheets. Nothing significant.”

He kept silent, the jade moving smoothly between his fingers.

“I have no excuses. I knew what Zoe was.”

“You underestimated Ms. Kahn.”

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” he said quietly. “There’s nothing else I can say.”

“St. Sebastian?”

Rozelli ran a hand through his hair. “She was at my place when the call came in. She followed me. Got in the church somehow….
I swear, Lieutenant, I didn’t know.”

He nodded, letting the jade slip from his hand.

“I expect IA will have to know,” Rozelli said.

“Do you think anything productive can be accomplished by informing Internal Affairs?”

“Sir?”

“Keep your mouth shut, Detective Rozelli.”

Rozelli stared. “Yes, sir.”

“And, Detective, your weapon needs cleaning.”

Snow hung, blue-gray, high in the sky, a mountain yet to fall—a frightening imminence that was also exhilarating. Hanae was
glad to be in the park today, the redness of her wool coat vibrating in the white air, like an extra layer of warmth. It felt
good to be outdoors and moving. The headache that had plagued her seemed at last to be in retreat.

“This has been fun,” she said to Adrian. “I am glad you called and got me out.”

“I was worried when you and Taiko missed class yesterday. I thought you might have caught a cold last week.”

She shook her head. “I am used to cold weather. I grew up with it.”

The wind, which had been silent, began to stir. Leaves skittered like bones on the pathway.

“I saw your husband’s name in the paper again,” he said.

“Oh … yes.” She frowned. “Jimmy was unhappy the press revealed so much about his case. And, of course, it is so terrible about
the little girl.”

“I suppose they can’t call him the gay serial murderer anymore.”

“No,” she agreed. “It is very puzzling.”

“What does your husband say?”

“Jimmy does not talk very much about the case. But I know they are trying to understand how the killer chooses his victims.”

A couple passed them on the path, young voices laughing.

“I really miss my wife this time of year,” Adrian said. “She has her faults, but she really loves Christmas.”

“Perhaps you will get back together.”

“I know that’s what Christopher wants, but it’s never going to happen.”

A complex of feelings colored his words. Longing, certainly … and bitterness.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She felt suddenly trapped, her headache again threatening. He had sensed his emotion embarrassed her. He reached out and briefly
touched her shoulder. Taikoi’s harness jingled as he lifted and shook his head.

What happened next was unexpected, and yet forever a part of what the two of them had begun. Adrian reached out again and
held her arm, stopping her on the walkway. His face bent over hers, the warmth of him beating at her skin as he moved to kiss
her. Not a chaste kiss. Not a friend’s kiss. But a lover’s.

Without comment or apology, he was gone. She stood, trying out excuses, while she listened for his retreat along the path.
But there was nothing. And no stirring in the leaves on winter grass.

Sakura watched Willie walk out of his office, working on her third cup of coffee this afternoon. Caffeine was high on the
list of his former professor’s dietary vices. He leaned forward over his desk and refocused. He could feel tension building
in fine layers along his shoulders, but he wasn’t ready to pull himself away from his notes on the three interrogations.

“Lieutenant Sakura?”

He glanced up.

“May I come in?” The face looked fortyish, except for the eyes, which could have been a thousand years old.

“Yes.” He rose from his desk.

“Thank you.” The man reached behind and shut the door. “I’m Edward Walsh,” he announced. “Father Thomas Graff’s attorney.”
He extended his hand.

Sakura reached out and shook hands, offering a chair.

“Thanks.” Walsh began to remove a topcoat and a woolen scarf, which circled around his neck. If his visitor was going for
effect, he couldn’t have succeeded better. The stiff white Roman collar against the black clerical suit was a stark reminder
of the immense power of Holy Mother Church.

Walsh caught his stare. “Not many of us wear clericals. I find they serve a purpose.”

Sakura nodded.

“I presume you already know the question I’m going to ask.” His smile appeared like one he’d practiced.

“I’ve had my share of visits from defense attorneys.”

A laugh, only slightly more genuine than the smile. “So why is my client being considered a material witness in the serial-murder
investigation?”

Sakura enjoyed how Walsh had correctly avoided the more incriminating term
suspect.
“His obvious connection to St. Sebastian”—he began the litany—“his relationship to Kellog, his friendship with the Mancuso
family, Lucia specifically.”

“I hope there’s more for your sake.” Walsh kept his tone congenial.

Sakura knew the rules. Knew he didn’t have to say anything to this man. But there was no reason to make an enemy of Walsh.
“As you know, we executed a search warrant for Graff’s rooms at the rectory.”

Walsh waited for him to go on.

“We discovered material that could be incriminating.”

“Care to be more specific?” Walsh knew exactly what was in that secret room of Thomas Graff’s, but he was yielding no ground.

“Photographs.”

Walsh reared his eyebrows, waiting.

“Of nude men,” he said. Then, because it wouldn’t make any difference one way or another, “Our killer may be a latent homosexual.”

“And when do I get copies of those photographs?”

“Give me a day.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant Sakura.” Walsh was standing now, beginning to put the scarf back in place, shrouding once more the
stiff Roman collar.

“A question for you, Father Walsh.”

“Yes?” He turned, an arm sliding into one of the sleeves of his coat.

“What’s the Church’s position on angels?”

“Angels?” Walsh was only momentarily puzzled. Then, “The wings …”

“Serial killers have fantasies. This one has angels in his.”

Walsh nodded. “The Church on angels? I guess Catholics are supposed to believe in them.”

“What about fallen angels?”

“Those too.”

“And you, Father Walsh, what do you believe?”

This time the priest smiled for real.

“Angels … fallen and otherwise. A metaphor for good and evil?” He seemed to be testing the theory. “I recall reading somewhere
that there is a great secret about angels. That the real action is not going on among us puny humans but between the good
and bad angels. The real war, it seems, is theirs.”

Hanae sat in bed, massaging the base of her neck where the pain now seemed to have settled. Her fingers moved across her face,
measuring her features against her fixed internal image. Her hands, as always, were her mirror. The tips of her fingers moved
to the hollows of her eyes. Around the lids there was a subtle tautness that rose to her brows, giving her, she imagined,
a slightly startled appearance.

She allowed her hands to fall to her lap. Her face bore the effect of the war she’d been waging. Her happiness over her pregnancy
fought with a sense of foreboding. The inner illumination had altered. The headaches intensifying from dull to stabbing. What
was most frightening was that she had become a woman of secrets.

And now Adrian’s kiss today embroidered upon the growing layers of her deceit.

The kiss? What did it mean? She was lost in this fresh betrayal of her flesh. There was no understanding beyond the deep pressure
of his lips. Beyond his taste inside her mouth. Beyond the horror that she half enjoyed it.

Her anxiety over the baby seemed less important now measured against that kiss. Especially since Dr. Blanchard had been so
reassuring. Told her she was in excellent health. She would deliver a healthy baby. A baby who could see.