Bless the Child (12 page)

M
aggie?” the voice on the phone said, and it took her a moment to recognize that it was Malachy Devlin’s.

“Lieutenant Devlin?”

“I was wondering if you’d have dinner with me.”

“You were?” The invitation was so out of context with everything on her mind, Maggie didn’t field it very well.

“Is this about Cody?”

“I do have some information for you, Maggie,” he said good-naturedly, “but that’s not entirely why I’m asking. Please say yes. It would mean a lot to me.”

As she could think of no decent reply to that except an affirmative one, Maggie agreed. That was when she realized he wasn’t calling her Mrs. O’Connor anymore.

The restaurant on Minetta Lane was small and cozy. There were tables in a pocket-sized simulated garden and an air of downtown intimacy about the place. Couples laughed or whispered over wine glasses, and everyone seemed pleased to be there. The proprietor obviously knew Devlin and greeted their arrival.

“Put us somewhere out of the traffic pattern, Dominic,” the detective asked over the handshake. “We need to talk business.”

“Monkey business, I hope for your sake, Malachy,” Dominic said with a grin. “Such a lovely signora . . .” He winked at Maggie conspiratorially. The table was in the far corner, a candle flickered and Maggie’s chair backed into an explosion of multicolored flowers.

“I’ve never been here before,” she said when they were seated. “It’s a sweet place. Dominic’s a pal of yours, I take it?”

“We grew up together in the South Bronx,” Devlin answered. “You could grow up to be a cop, a restaurateur, a priest, or a gangster. Any choice would get you out of the neighborhood.”

Dominic brought a bottle of wine without being asked and Maggie realized Devlin was watching her closely as they spoke; as if memorizing the details of who she was. She wondered if all detectives did that by instinct.

“Why did you come to my rescue at the precinct, when I was with that other detective,” she asked after they’d ordered.

“Hank’s a good guy, really, “ Devlin answered protectively. “You just caught him after three nights with no sleep.” He smiled before continuing.

“I recognized something in you, I guess . . . like going through a door and finding an old friend unexpectedly. I don’t know exactly. It wasn’t just that I thought you were pretty—which I did—and terribly out of place, in the station house. It was something else.” He laughed a little. “My mother made her living as a psychic, maybe I inherited her gift. A little of it anyway.”

Maggie was surprised. “What did your father think about that.”

“I never got to find out. He died when I was seven, so I don’t have too many clear memories of him. We lived in a pretty poor neighborhood, so after he died, Mom had to figure out how to put food on the table. Reader and Advisor is what she called herself. She wore this great turban . . . pretty funny, actually, with her Irish face, and freckles. But she was good at what she did. Not infallible, mind you. Like all psychics, she had days when the antenna was down, but for the most part her gifts were genuine, so I grew up knowing there was more to life than met the eye. The veil between the worlds is thinner for us Celts than for others, I suspect.”

What a surprise he is, Maggie thought, as she watched and listened. All rough and smooth textures; more interesting and more vulnerable than he’d seemed in the station house. He had nice eyes.
Don’t be dishonest with me
, they said.
I’ll know
. She liked the fact that they never wavered when they looked at you.

“What were you like as a child,” he asked, evidently interested. “Were you anything like Cody?” She could see he was trying to put her at ease.

“Oh, I don’t know anymore, really. It’s so long ago. I think I was an odd little person, rather bookish and mystical.” The wine was beginning to take the edge off her constant anxiety; it seemed surreal to feel momentarily safer, in the middle of a nightmare.

“I always had a love affair with empty churches when I was small, and we lived near St. Joseph’s” she said. “So, I used to stop by every afternoon on my way home from school, to say hello to God.” He smiled encouragement, the look said he found her strange and interesting, so Maggie continued.

“I’d kneel there with the candles flickering and the incense making me feel holy, and have some of the most spectacular fantasies . . .or maybe they were visions of some sort. I would transport myself to Saint Teresa’s cell and hold very long convoluted conversations with her about God . . . I even helped Saint Francis feed the birds.” She laughed a little at herself. “I must have had the knack for slipping into some altered state of consciousness pretty early, because occasionally, time would seem to suspend itself, and I could sense the presence of angels, just on the periphery of my gaze . . .” Maggie smiled self-deprecatingly. “I guess we’re all mystics of one sort or another . . . we just don’t talk about it much.”

Devlin was watching her speculatively. Hers was a face that didn’t keep secrets out of subterfuge, only out of fragility.

“No,” he said. “Not all. Just some, like you and me. It’s why I write poetry, I suppose—to touch that other sphere where most can’t follow.”

“You’re a poet?”

“It’s not something I’d like the guys at the precinct to know . . . but, yeah, I’ve had a few things published. Surprised?”

“Astonished,” she said genuinely. “Or maybe not as astonished now as I would have been an hour ago.”

His forearms were resting on the table in front of him, the sleeves of the much-washed sweater pushed up to the elbows, baring arms with latent strength. Muscles trained, but not dwelled on, she thought. Veins made prominent by testing. It was a ruggedly handsome, lived-in face and body; the kind that took itself seriously where competency was concerned, but stopped short of vanity. Devlin pulled out a pocket notebook and brought the conversation back to Cody.

“I’ve got a little more info for you on Jenna’s husband,” he said, shaking his head eloquently. “Your daughter seems to be filthy rich, among other things. Or, at least, her husband is. This Vannier is an interesting character, Maggie. His family banking business is a privately held corporation, so there’s no public access to its records. All everybody agrees on is that its holdings are enormous. He has a law degree from Harvard, but has never practiced. What he told you is true—he administers the funds of the Vannier Foundation, an international philanthropic institution with mega-bucks. The Vannier money seems to be old and Middle Eastern, precisely where or how it was accumulated, I don’t know, yet. He has entrée into top society on several continents. The guy’s an accomplished yachtsman, horseman, sportsman, you name it—if it’s expensive and dangerous, he excels at it, so don’t go trying to punch his lights out, because he’s probably in super shape.

“He knows only the greats and near-greats, but—here’s weird fact number one . . . he’s never married before, and far as I can tell, his name has never been linked romantically with any other woman, and that’s very strange in his circles. I can’t think of a way in the world he and your daughter could have crossed paths unless he ran over her in his Rolls.

“And weird fact number two might tie in with your problem,” he continued, looking troubled. “Eric’s best friend, ever since they were at Choate together, is Nicholas Sayles . . . the talk show host.”

Maggie blinked, surprised. “A cross between Geraldo and Mike Wallace, yes? But gorgeous.”

Devlin nodded. “Nicky’s a wild guy . . . very charismatic, very complicated. From a prominent Boston Brahmin family with tons of maybe-not-so-impeccable money. He has a law degree form Harvard, same year as Eric’s and enough brains for a battalion, but made his fortune in show biz.” He paused significantly.

“I probably shouldn’t be telling you any of this, Maggie, since it’ll only scare the bejesus out of you, but here it is: there have been tightly guarded, but persistent rumors that he’s into Satanism.”

“But how can that possibly be? Doesn’t he spend his life exposing cults and other garbage on the air?”

“Yeah, he does, but there are those who say it’s just his means of getting some pretty ugly stuff into the public consciousness. You know, promoting evil in the guise of exposing it. Telling the world, ‘Hey, it’s all out there if you want it, folks. Just write in for a list of vampires, sex offenders, and serial murderers who eat their victims, and we’ll provide it.’” Devlin glanced back at the notes and continued.

“Sayles’s father is a munitions manufacturer, not necessarily squeaky clean, but rich as Croesus. The company dates back to Revolutionary times. Nicholas was a whiz kid at the best boys’ schools in the East, but was always known as a behavioral problem. Because he kept his grades up easily, and because his father’s endowments could have fed Afghanistan, he was never unduly harassed by teachers. When he graduated from Harvard, he started to claw his way up in the TV journalism trade, but his real success was behind the cameras, not in front. Like Merv Griffin, Nicky was a behind-the-scenes genius, producing shows with an uncanny instinct for what the public would gobble up, and with enough money to fund production. So, he made another fortune to add to the one he’d inherited.

“Nicky and Eric were roommates all through boarding school, and have maintained their friendship to a marked degree, ever since. Each is a frequent visitor at the other’s home . . . they share common interests, common investments, and common friends, despite the apparent difference in their professions.”

Maggie listened attentively. “How could anyone ever connect such a paragon to Black Magic?” she asked puzzled. “It seems pretty farfetched that such a prominent media figure could escape being found out, if it were true, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know, Maggie, “ Devlin said noncommittally. “Success is a great deodorant. And enough money can cover a pretty big trail. For instance, there was a frat house incident in their last year as undergraduates, in which a kid died in a ritualistic manner. The police said it was hazing. Later it was rumored to have something to do with a group on campus dabbling in Black Magic. A certain amount of money changed hands, and all rumors ceased.

“Then later, after Sayles’s rocket ride to the top in TV, rumors trickled out about certain performers in his shows selling their souls to Satan in return for media success, but everyone thought this was just another spectacular PR stunt, masterminded by the brilliant showman. And of course, these allegations seemed so ludicrous, the world simply ignored them.”

“So what do you think the truth is?” Maggie asked, frowning. He thought the vertical lines produced in her forehead gave her an added dimension.

“I’d say these guys are probably dabbling in something dark and ugly—what I can’t figure out is why they want Cody. Or Jenna, for that matter. When a man has all the money in the world, women are generally not in short supply. And if they are dabbling in some kind of satanic garbage, it’s easy enough for those lunatics to get kids for their rituals—they kidnap them off the streets, or buy babies from cadaver suppliers.”

“What?”

“Cadaver companies exist to supply bodies to medical schools, but there are abuses—“

“This is really too much!” Maggie interrupted. The idea of Cody being used in satanic ritual made her physically ill. “I’m so far out of my depth in all this . . .

“Look, Maggie,” Devlin said quietly, “you can’t be in my profession long without learning to read people’s character. My take is with or without help you’re not the type to give up on this kid and go to Bergdorf’s. The reason I’m tying to get information for you is that I wouldn’t like to see you go unarmed against the Philistines.”

“My martial arts teacher would like the way you think,” she responded.

It was Devlin’s turn to be surprised. “You do martial arts? What style?”

“Goju Ryu and Wing Chun. I’ve been doing Karate and Kung Fu for five or six years.”

“So you’re not Bruce Lee, but you could probably defend yourself if you needed to, eh?”

“Provided I choose my opponents skillfully,” she said, and they both laughed.

“I did some Goju in the Police Academy. And I had a pal in law school who was really good. Pak and I used to work out together in the park, when things got hot and heavy in class.”

“You went to law school?” she asked, now genuinely intrigued by his contradictions.

Devlin grinned good-naturedly. “Now, you’re thinking, what’s wrong with this guy? He’s got a law degree and he’s not even bright enough to use it. Probably graduated two hundredth in a class of one hundred and eighty-six.” His eyes were merry and Maggie realized she felt very comfortable with this strange man, who didn’t feel at all like a stranger.