50.

Kirsten put the phone down. She felt a ball of fear form deep in her belly, then felt it expanding like a tumor. And now the fear itself frightened her. She had to get rid of it before it got so big it made her explode. She wanted to scream … at Debra Morelli, at Cuffs, at Larry Candle. Even at Dugan, for God’s sake! How could he have been so—

The phone rang. It was their cable service, wanting to tell her how to save money by spending more. She listened, declined, and hung up.

Maybe it was the plainness of it, this unknown person out there spending his Saturday at his thankless job, but somehow the call calmed her. There was no ball growing inside her anymore. She was on her own and she was scared. That was all. And she still had her idea. She needed to talk to Polly Morelli, and she’d have to make her own introduction.

*   *   *

She drove down a street lined with large homes under a canopy of trees, in a suburb west of the city. She’d called a former crime reporter she did a favor for once, and he directed her here, to a world deceptively bright and early-autumn peaceful. It was Saturday afternoon and three boys chased each other on in-line skates down the sidewalk. A man ran beside a little girl on a bicycle with training wheels. Everyone was laughing. No one was thinking about monsters who would snatch up their loved ones and peel off their skins. No one but Kirsten.

Two blocks later the street dead-ended and she turned left into a cul-de-sac that led, some twenty yards ahead, to a tall iron gate set between brick pillars. She pulled close and parked. Beyond the gate an asphalt driveway, lined with evergreen trees, curved to the right, presumably toward a house that was hidden from view. Set into one of the pillars was a metal plate with a push button, and beside the button was a set of five horizontal slits.

She walked over and before she could press the button a man’s voice came from a speaker behind the slits. “State your business, miss.” Firm, not quite hostile.

She leaned toward the intercom and stated her name, then added, “I’m a private investigator and Mr. Morelli wants to talk to me.”

There was a pause, and then, “You don’t have an appointment. You can’t—”

“I didn’t say I had an appointment.” Not backing off. “I said he wants to talk to me. It’s about his nephew … and his niece. I know Carlo’s getting out, and I’m … I’m in contact with Debra. Mr. Morelli wants to hear what I have to say.”

“You can tell me, and I’ll—”

“You know what?” she said. “You’re absolutely right. I could tell anyone. You, or the FBI, or the Department of Homeland Security, or—”

“Hold on.”

“—or the cops, or Channel Nine, or Larry King, or Oprah, or—”

“Hey, shut up!”

“Just give him my goddamn message.”

“Yeah, well, wait there a minute.”

It was more like ten minutes, but finally she heard a small whirring noise, and a slip of paper came sliding out through the bottom of the five slits, like a receipt from a self-serve gas pump. She tore it off and read the computer-printed message: SEVEN O’CLOCK. HOLY NAME CATHEDRAL.

She leaned again toward the intercom. “Is that tonight, or tomorrow, or what?”

There was no answer.

*   *   *

It was a cool, clear evening so Kirsten chose a sweater, boot-cut jeans, and her brown suede jacket. Her cell phone had been on all day, and there’d been no further calls. Her cab headed west on Chicago Avenue from Michigan Avenue, and she got out at State Street at six-forty-five. On a Saturday night she was surprised to find limos lining the curbs in front of the cathedral on both sides of State for the whole block. There were lots of blue and white patrol cars around, too, and uniformed cops directing traffic, and a few in plainclothes standing around talking to one another.

People were arriving from every direction, the women in furs and ankle-length gowns and the men in tuxedos, heading up the cathedral steps toward the three sets of ornate bronze doors. Feeling more than a little conspicuous, she joined them. The vestibule was crowded, with guests maneuvering past whispering, primping bridesmaids and family. Kirsten went through another set of doors and into the church itself. It seemed a strange time for a wedding, seven o’clock in the evening, but whoever it was obviously had enough money and clout to write their own schedule.

It was a large event, certainly, but the cathedral could have held three or four times the number of guests, and they were all being ushered up to the pews in the front, near the altar. The place hadn’t been closed to the public, though, and there were maybe twenty other people—people not dressed for a wedding—scattered around the rear section, kneeling or sitting. Kirsten had been in here before, and she immediately noticed one group that was not present. Obviously evicted for this event was the usual assortment of shabbily dressed—often rather pungent—street people.

Now what? Was Polly Morelli a wedding guest? Did the note mean seven P.M. or seven A.M.? Or had it just been something to make her go away from his house? She moved to the wall on her left and then forward along the aisle. About five rows up from the back she slipped into an empty pew and sat down. She waited, listening to a gentle Bach cantata on the organ and watching elegant people be ushered forward to their seats. She had no idea what Polly Morelli looked like. No one looked back at her. No one paid any attention to her at all.

At five after seven the music faded and the sudden silence caused the murmuring crowd to grow still. A group of three priests came out from somewhere and stood at the front, facing down the center aisle. The one in the middle she recognized as the cardinal. Even from this distance he didn’t look especially happy, and she wondered how often he thought about the little flock of priests who had disgraced his church and now wouldn’t go away.

The priest to the cardinal’s right gave a nod and the organ, joined by a trumpet, launched into a ceremonial piece familiar to Kirsten from other weddings. She couldn’t have cared less about this event, but the bridal party was about to start down the aisle, and she automatically shifted around to watch.

“Come with me, miss.” The soft voice and the tap on her shoulder made her heart stop.

“What?” Twisting around.

“I said come with me.” It was a tall, black, female police officer.

“This is a public place of prayer,” Kirsten whispered, “and I’m not going anywhere.”

The uniformed woman glanced this way and that, obviously startled by the response, then leaned in. “If you came in here to pray, then fine. If you came for something else, let’s go.”