Repairman Jack [08]-Crisscross (47 page)

Next stop was Hurley's. If Cordova had snatched her, chances were slim that he'd be hanging out at his favorite bar. Then again, if he'd killed her and dumped her body, he might feel the need for a few drinks, and maybe an alibi as well. But Jack couldn't find him at Hurley's either. Even checked out the men's room. No Cordova.

Last stop had been the office: same story.

Jack had made another swing by Cordova's house—just in case he'd returned in the interim—but it looked as empty as when he'd left it. He'd parked down the street and watched the place.

Where
was
the fat slimeball? Jack's mind shied away from imagining what he'd done to Maggie. If Jack could find him, Cordova would tell him where she was. Jack would see to that.

But after an hour of sitting, Cordova hadn't shown. Good chance he might not show at all.

So Jack decided to pay a visit to the third woman who'd entered his life this week.

Esteban wasn't on the door and his late-shift coworker, a brawny black guy, wouldn't let Jack into the lobby.

His arm blocked his name tag as he opened the glass door six or seven inches and eyed Jack's wrinkled jeans and sweatshirt. "Are you on Mrs. Roselli's visitor list?"

"I don't know about the list, but she's expecting me. Just call her and say Jack's here for a follow-up chat."

"I don't know. This is pretty late for her."

"Just call her and see. I'll wait out here."

He nodded. "I know you will."

He closed the door and went to the lobby phone. Jack leaned close to the gap between the glass door and glass wall. He blocked his street-side ear and listened.

"Mrs. Roselli? Sorry to bother you, but there's a man here. He says his name is Jack and that you're expecting him… Pardon me?… Oh, I see… I'm sorry to hear that… is there anything I can do?… Are you sure? I can call a… Yes. Yes, I see. I'll tell him. And remember, if you need anything, anything at all, I'm right here… Right. Good-night. Feel better."

Jack backed off a step as the call ended. Sounded like the old lady was sick.

The doorman returned to the door. Jack saw now that his tag read
Louis
. He opened it wider this time. Apparently his talk with the old lady had reassured him about Jack.

"She's not feeling well. Says to come back tomorrow."

"She okay?"

"She doesn't sound too hot, but she didn't want a doctor, so…" He shrugged. "I'm here if she needs me."

"Good. I don't want anything happening to her."

Jack turned and walked off. Half a block away he hunched his shoulders against a sudden chill. He'd met three new women this week. Now, in the space of twenty-four hours, one was dead, one was missing, and the other was sick. Was he carrying a curse? Had he become some sort of Jonah?

What the hell was going on?

SUNDAY

1

The news came a little after nine.

With nothing better to do with his pent-up energy, Jack had been cleaning his apartment. He yearned for a cleaning service, but they might come across things they weren't meant to see. Gia sometimes helped, but today he was on his own.

He had the tuner set to 880 AM, an all-news station. Usually he cleaned to the gentle refrains of ZZ-Top or the Allman Brothers, but today he was looking for updates on the missing nun story. The morning papers had nothing new. If news hit, the radio would have it first.

Jack was mopping the linoleum floor of his kitchen when it came. It wasn't good.

The body of Sister Margaret Mary O'Hara had been found in Flushing—a guy chasing his runaway dog had discovered it. No other details were available. Police would not discuss the state of the body or anything else.

Sickened, Jack put down the mop and dropped into a kitchen chair. Two of the three women were dead. He knew each of their killers. Brady and Jensen had buried Jamie Grant alive. And Cordova… Jack wasn't an eyewitness, but he didn't have to be. He knew.

Question was… what should he do about it? How should he deal with these two without exposing himself?

He closed his eyes and rolled the people and the circumstances around and around in his brain… like a concrete mixer.

Brady, Jensen, Cordova, Blascoe, the temple… Blascoe, Brady, the temple, Cordova, Jensen…

And slowly, painfully, a plan began to form.

2

Goddamn stupid dog!

Richie Cordova sat in Hurley's and wanted to rip the TV off the wall and boot it through the front window.

He'd stashed the nun's body where no one would find her—at least no human—until she began to stink. He hadn't counted on no runaway dog.

He sat at a corner table and stuffed another donut into his mouth. Hurley's put out coffee and donuts and bagels on Sunday morning. Of course the bar was open too in case you wanted a Bloody Mary or something. But Richie had been feeling so good he didn't need no drink. Not anymore.

Shit, he thought as he washed the donut down with black coffee. This complicated things. The Jack guy she'd told him about already had the advantage of knowing what Richie looked like, while Richie didn't know him from Joe Blow. Richie's one advantage had been surprise—Jacko wouldn't have had a clue someone might be looking for him. But now he'd be on guard. That was, if he connected the nun's death to Richie. If he didn't, well, that would be great, but Richie had to assume the worst.

He'd awakened this morning feeling lots better than last night—over the shakes and actually feeling kind of good. Almost like he'd feel after a night of sex. Kind of peaceful inside. At ease. Like he could go for a Sunday morning drive and not get pissed at the other drivers.

But all that was ruined now. The stink of spilled beer cut through the smell of the coffee and Richie lost his appetite. Hurley's wasn't so inviting no more.

Richie paid up and stepped out into the bright morning sunlight. Now what?

He thought about heading for the Upper West Side and finding this Julio's. The nun had said she'd met Jack there twice, both times in the day, and that the guy had been alone at a table near the back wall.

So why not check out Julio's? Hang out on the street and watch the comers and goers, maybe peek through the window and see who's got a table by the back wall.

Richie liked the idea. Sort of preliminary surveillance. Get to know the lay of the land.

He turned and headed toward the subway.

3

Ron Clarkson twitched like an ant who'd found coke in a sugar bowl. If he'd had antennae he'd have been hovering a couple feet off the ground.

"I gotta be crazy for letting you in here," he said as he led Jack down a fluorescent-lit corridor. Tiled walls, drains in the concrete floor. "I'm gonna lose my job, I just know it."

Ron was rail thin with pale shoulder-length hair and a goatee. He earned his daily bread as an attendant at the City Morgue in the basement of Bellevue Hospital. He didn't owe Jack any favors, he simply liked cash under the table. Every so often—rare, but it happened—Jack had need of a body part. He'd place an order with Ron and they'd agree on a price. They'd usually meet off campus, say at a McDonald's or a diner, and make the exchange.

Today was the first time Jack had asked for a viewing. And he'd handed over a stiff price for it.

He didn't want to be here. He simply knew he had to be. He felt he owed it to Sister Maggie.

"You're not backing out, are you?" Jack put a menacing edge on his voice. "You took the dough, you do the show."

"Never should have said yes. Man, this is so crazy."

"Ron…"

"All right, all right. It's just…"

"Just what?"

"It's just that this case is hot—I mean it's steaming. Cardinal Ryan is all over City Hall, the mayor's all over the commish, the commish is all over the ME and crime scene crew. We got maybe a half hour before they start posting her—on a Sunday, can you believe it?—and here I am bringing you down for a look-see. I must be crazy."

"If you'd have gotten it done instead of running your mouth, I'd be on my way out by now."

"Yeah, but—"

"Just one quick look. A peek. That's all I want."

"I never figured you for getting off on something like that."

They passed some empty gurneys, and one not so empty. A green sheet covered a still form. Jack was about to ask if that was her but Ron wasn't slowing. Guess not.

"I knew her."

"Oh, shit. Then maybe you don't want to see her. I got a glimpse and…" He shook his head. "It ain't nice."

"All the more reason."

But he didn't want to see her. He felt as if his legs were slowly turning to stone, refusing to move him down the hall. He forced them forward, one step after the other after the other…

"I don't get it. Why?"

Because I need to do this to make sure I don't hesitate when I do what has to be done.

"None of your business, Ron."

"Okay. But you'll be sorry."

I know, he thought. But not as sorry as someone else.

Ron pushed through a set of steel double doors into a green-tiled room where a guy who looked like Malcolm X was studying a chemistry book.

"Crime lab," Ron said, jerking his thumb at Jack. "Needs another look. She still in 12-C?"

The black guy nodded and went back to his chemistry.

Through another set of double doors and into a big white-tiled room that felt like a refrigerator. Latched drawers lined the walls. Ron made a beeline for a drawer near the floor. The rollers screeched as he pulled it out.

"Needs a little lube," he said with a quick, weak smile.

A black body bag lay on a steel tray. Ron made no move. Jack looked up and found him staring at him.

"Well?"

"You're sure?"

No. Not sure. Not sure at all. But he nodded.

"Do it."

Ron grabbed the zipper, pulled it halfway down, and spread the flaps.

Jack caught flashes of a crimson mosaic of torn flesh, then turned away.

"Jesus God!"

Probably could have stared indefinitely if he hadn't known her. But he had. A sweet woman. And someone had turned her into… a thing.

"Told you, man."

Jack spoke past the bile collecting in his throat. "Close her up."

"What? That's it? I risk my neck bringing you down here and—"

"Close. Her.
Up
."

After he'd heard the zipper, Jack turned around and stared down at the glistening surface of the body bag.

You poor woman…

He tried to imagine how she must have suffered before she died, but it was beyond him. He felt the blackness he kept caged in a far country of his being break free and surge through him.

He looked up and Ron jumped back.

"Hey, man! Don't blame me. I didn't do it!"

Jack voice was a metallic rasp. "I know."

"Then don't look at me like that. Shit, for a second there I thought you were gonna kill me."

"No… not you."

4

"You locked the door?" Abe said as Jack approached the rear counter.

Jack nodded.

The Isher Sports Shop was otherwise empty, but it could have been any day of the week. Traffic in Abe's store was never exactly heavy.

The darkness still suffused him, but he had it under control. At least for the moment.

Abe was leaning on the counter, wearing what he wore every other day.

"I need some hardware."

"So you said. Hardware I got. What kind?"

"A Beretta 92."

It would have been so much easier to discuss this over the phone, but one never knew when the Big Ear might be listening. And the code Jack and Abe had developed wouldn't cover the specifics of this particular purchase.

Abe frowned. "You've already got a PT 92 Taurus. It's the same pistol. Except for the safety, of course."

"I know, but I need a Beretta."

"Why?"

"I'll explain later."

Abe shrugged. "Okay. You're paying. I'll call around tomorrow and see who—"

"I need it today, Abe. And in stainless steel."

"Stainless steel?
Gevalt
! Impossible! You're asking me to move mountains, and believe me, my mother didn't name me Mohammed. You want a Glock 19, fine; you want an HK-MP5, that I can do. But a stainless-steel Beretta 92 on a Sunday? As my Italian neighbors in the Bensonhurst of my boyhood used to say, Fuhgeddaboudit."

"Got to have it before tonight, Abe. Really important. I'll owe you."

"Already you owe me." When Jack said nothing, Abe shrugged again. "All right, and I owe you too, but…"