6:18 P.M., THE PINK PUG, LUDLOW STREET,
Lower East Side
McAvoy has taken care to position himself as far away from the large mirror on the bare brick wall as he can. He is horribly aware that he looks as though he has been recently excavated. Dirt and dust cling to his clothes, and despite washing his hands and face continually in the restroom, he feels that a miasma of soil and pulverized bone still encases his skin. He has found a table at the rear of the small, stylish bar and wedged himself into the angle created by two walls. Nobody can approach him from behind. From where he sits, peering over his laptop, he can see the entirety of the Pink Pug. The vantage point offers him some comfort. He hates the thought of people laughing behind his back, but at least from here he can see their sniggers unimpeded. He does not begrudge them their smiles. He knows how he looks—this huge, dirt-streaked, red-haired behemoth who whispers into his computer and sips a cocktail from a coconut shell packed so full with straws, umbrellas, and sparklers that it is less a beverage and more of a cry for help.
McAvoy stares at the computer screen and listens to the sounds of the dozen or so drinkers and diners who are knocking back tequila slammers or nibbling on olives, cheeses, and meats presented on planks of wood. It’s a fun bar and painfully cool. The barman flips bottles and shakes cocktails with the grace of a circus juggler. He wears a stripy shirt without a collar, round glasses, and a bowler hat. The ends of his mustache have been waxed into little tips. Here, on the Lower East Side, he is the absolute pinnacle of sophistication. McAvoy cannot help but think that back home, in Hull, the man would be found in a wheelie bin with a cocktail shaker wedged somewhere invasive.
“It’s never simple with you, is it,” says Pharaoh, suddenly filling the screen. “‘A few days off,’ that’s what you said. ‘Going to see if I can track down my brother-in-law,’ you said. I’ve checked my notes, Hector, and there was absolutely no mention of cremated remains in swanky loft apartments or lawyers cutting their balls off. I’d remember that sort of thing. I’ve got a good memory for balls.”
Pharaoh drops her head and then gives him a little smile that means the world to him. He can tell she wishes she were with him, that she knows what he is going through and would give anything to help him feel less alone.
“I didn’t want any of this,” says McAvoy quietly.
“Shush. Sip your coconut and be quiet while I read through this lot.”
McAvoy does as he is told and watches as Pharaoh leafs through a sheaf of documents. Her dark hair falls forward like curtains and he knows it will only be a second or two until she pushes it behind her ears. It will slip forward again in moments and she will blow it out of her eyes without thinking about it. Behind her is the familiar sight of the Serious and Organized Unit at Courtland Road Police Station in Hull. The computer that Pharaoh is using to talk to him is on McAvoy’s own desk, and he is experiencing the surreal and disembodied sensation of staring out from the screen at a location where he usually sits. When Pharaoh disappeared to go and pick up some documents from the printer, he had given Detective Constable Andy Daniells a nasty scare—Daniells walking past and seeing his sergeant’s motionless head and shoulders looming out from the screen. When McAvoy had muttered a “Hello, Andy,” the pleasant, corpulent young detective, who had elected to stay late and catch up on paperwork, had made a noise that McAvoy had previously associated with mating foxes.
“I think the Yanks expect me to eat this when I’m finished with it,” says Pharaoh, looking up. “I thought we were all supposed to be friends these days. ‘Special relationship,’ isn’t that what Blair called it?”
“They’re worried about jeopardizing an undercover operation,” says McAvoy, even though he has already told her this several times. “We’d be just the same.”
Pharaoh shrugs. “He seemed okay, this Redding bloke. Sounded very New York.”
“Of course he did,” says McAvoy. “He’s from New York. He probably thinks you sound very Mexborough.”
“What did he make of your accent?”
“I haven’t spoken to him,” says McAvoy.
“And yet he’s calling your colleagues in little old Hull and risking his neck to share information with us,” says Pharaoh accusingly. “You do have a way with people. Why is he doing that, by the way? Just asking, you understand.”
“Like I said, he’s friends with Ronnie Alto—the detective who’s been helping me. Alto and his colonel were the only ones at the Seventh who knew the feds had an operative in the Chechen organization. Alto has a good relationship with the Italians, and he was brought into the circle of trust when Brishen and Shay were attacked to see if he had anything he could share. When I turned up, he was the poor sod tasked with keeping me out of it and then making me go home. He feels bad at not telling me the truth. So he’s sticking his neck out and sharing information with me. Or at least with you.”
Pharaoh shakes her head, licking her lips. “We’re all quite enjoying this, anyway. Ben has got a twenty-quid bet with Sophie Kirkland that you’re going to be deported by Monday afternoon.”
“What does Sophie say?”
“Monday morning,” says Pharaoh distractedly as she looks again at the information Detective Hugh Redding sent her at Alto’s request. She looks up at him and her expression softens. “I know that a big part of you wanted to keep this all to yourself. I appreciate the fact you asked for help.”
“Keep it to myself?” asks McAvoy.
“Not for the glory, Hector, not anything like that. I just know you’d want to shoulder it all, like it’s all your responsibility. It’s not. You were right to share.”
McAvoy looks away. She knows him too well. As he stood at the lip of the loft and stared at that landscape of earth and ash, something inside him felt a personal connection to the scene. It evoked something intangible, some hazy sense that it had been laid out just for him. It was a vista that held an undeniable power. Almost an allure. McAvoy wanted to thrust his hand into that damp soil. The desire had been close to overwhelming. It took self-control not to disturb the scene. Much as he wanted to cross the floor and take detailed notes of all the names on the brass leaves, he knew to do that would leave footprints that could betray his presence. He wanted to lift the urns and the cardboard boxes and examine each for identifiers that could help him make sense of his discovery. But such action would be detected. So McAvoy did what he could. He took pictures from the doorway and then scurried back down the ladder and out into the light. He made sure not to leave footprints and as he closed the door behind him, he felt as though he were shutting something inside. It was only as he emerged onto the cold, snow-blown street that he realized he had been sweating so profusely that his clothes were clinging to his skin. The cold air caused the perspiration to turn to ice, and he was soon shivering so badly that he struggled to key in the right buttons on his cell phone. Any thoughts he had of keeping his discovery secret disappeared the moment he heard Pharaoh’s voice. He told her what he had found. She listened, and told him what to do. He did as he was ordered. Got himself something to eat and sent her all the images from his phone. He sent a text message to Alto and received two letters back in response: OK.
For the past couple of hours McAvoy has been trying to make sense of his thoughts, while back home Pharaoh and Ben Neilsen have been ignoring the lateness of the hour to sift through the pictures and try to find a pattern amid the different names. Half an hour ago, Redding e-mailed Molony’s psychiatric history to Pharaoh and told her that McAvoy had helped his buddy catch a serial date rapist and would never have to buy a drink in his town ever again. McAvoy would have taken more comfort in the prediction if he had not been spending $12 on a Tropical Scream.
“You’ve got that look on your face,” says McAvoy, turning his attention back to the screen. “You look like you’ve got the scent in your nostrils.”
“Are you calling me a hunting dog?”
“No, you know what I mean. You’ve got something.”
“Hector, if I handed this report to one of the ladies in the canteen, they would be able to see that this is not a guy you would want babysitting. It’s interesting reading, that’s for sure.”
“Well?”
Pharaoh looks at the paperwork again. “We’ve got a lot of stuff here. It worries me how much stuff we’ve got, if I’m honest. I don’t even know if these records would have been digitized as a matter of course. Alto was right when he said he only scratched the surface. How much do you trust him, Hector? He got close to this guy and then the next minute he was ordered off and the whole thing was dropped. And then next thing he’s trying to tie your own bumbling investigation into something that’s been eating away at him. Sounds fucking fishy, my lad. I know they do things differently but you don’t become a cop unless you want to lock up bad people. Am I being horribly naïve?” She stops, and appears to file the thought away for further analysis when she has the time. “Point is, he might be a corrupt lawyer or a money launderer but this is something else. Why’s he got a room of ashes in his loft? Why is Ronnie not there right now with squad cars raiding the damn place?”
McAvoy massages his hands. He has a headache at his temples and his eyes are stinging.
“He’s using you,” says Pharaoh tactfully. “The feds—and I warn you, I feel like a prick just saying the phrase ‘the feds’—are going to go bananas at him for getting in the way of a bigger investigation, so he’s letting you be the fall guy. I thought it was all too easy, the way they agreed to help, the way they let you wander around like a bear at a model village. You heard what that cow said in the restaurant, the daft bitch with the purple hair and the tramp stamp on her arse. They’re letting you shake the tree to see what falls out. None of this feels right, and I can’t make up my mind whether to drag you home or buy a bucket of popcorn.”
McAvoy sighs. He shares her misgivings but he knows that he has come too far to give up.
“Whatever,” says Pharaoh, waving a hand. “But I warn you, there will be repercussions, and I only have so many aces up my sleeve.” She looks at her documents afresh and huffs her hair out of her eyes. She and Ben have been digging for only a short time, but already they have fleshed out the file that Alto had first shown McAvoy at the hospital. With his mind a whirl of different and conflicting theories, he is grateful to hear her read the details afresh.
“Peter Molony,” she says musically in her best nursery rhyme voice. “Born October nineteen fifty-two. Only son of Orla and Conor Molony, who emigrated to the States from County Wexford in nineteen forty-nine. Dad was thirty years older than Mum. Already in his fifties by the time Peter came along. They lived in an area called Hell’s Kitchen, which is a place I’ve definitely heard of and which, from a marketing perspective, I’ve always thought of as a poor choice for a name. Anyway, Dad worked as a delivery driver for a brewery, Mum looked after her boy at home. Dad died in nineteen sixty-six, leaving Orla and Peter without a great deal of money. Death certificate said he suffered complications following a car accident. Mum remarried within eight months. Gianluca Bucco. I’m only guessing, but he sounds Italian . . .”
“Come on, Trish,” says McAvoy.
“Right, right. Molony started serving as an altar boy at Saint Colman’s Church when he was ten years old. Mum was a regular at Mass. The school he attended was a mix of Irish and Italian. I’ve looked it up on Google Maps and it was a bit of a jaunt from where he was living to get to Saint Colman’s, so I’m guessing he went there because it was popular with the Irish crowd. The priest at the time was a Father O’Flaherty, who, y’know, sounds a bit Irish.”
“Trish . . .”
“He showed interest in joining the priesthood. Went on residential courses upstate. Went on a Catholic retreat with Father O’Flaherty and a group of other boys. In nineteen seventy-two he entered a seminary.”
“That young . . . ?”
“On Father O’Flaherty’s recommendation.”
“And?”
“He left in nineteen seventy-three.”
“What does his report say about that?”
“Unsurprisingly, not a lot. They can be a bit of a closed book, these religious institutions. Anyway, the next thing we know, he was committed to the state hospital for evaluation, having performed a fairly severe act of self-harm.”
“The auto-castration,” says McAvoy with a shudder.
“That’s only the half of it. They found evidence of scarring all over his body. It seems Daddy was a bit free with his temper. Liked to lash his son with a homemade cat-o’-nine-tails. Stuck pins in his legs.”
“Pins?”
“He told this to his psychiatrist on admission and they didn’t believe him until they X-rayed him. Found twenty-seven pins in his thighs.”
McAvoy pushes his drink away, feeling tired and cold.
“Did he tell the psychiatrist why he did it? Cut himself?”
“Atonement. That was the word. According to the report, Molony was a relatively model patient at Saint Loretta’s. He was good at talking with the other inmates, and was especially close with a patient who had previously spent time at a different state facility and was completely mute.”
McAvoy nods, his pulse quickening. “Is he named?”
“No. It says he was a patient at a facility on Staten Island and had been for several years, prior to his being released to the care of his family. I’m thinking it wouldn’t be a terrible guess to assume this was Tony Blank.” She scans her notes and nods. “Aye, he was committed afresh after biting off a dental nurse’s fingers. Saint Loretta’s was good for him, as was his relationship with Molony. They spent a lot of time in the hospital chapel. Within a year, Molony was permitted to leave. There’s no mention of Blank. Like Alto told you, Jimmy Whelan was a regular visitor. Came in plain clothes, not his dog collar. Would pray with Molony and his mute friend. Helped him find himself again. Helped him become the person he became.”
“And then what? Molony becomes a regular model citizen?”
“Released to his mother’s address. Did his degree at night school. Passed the bar in nineteen eighty-one.”
“Quick study.”
“And got a job as a junior at Dash and Spadaro—a legal firm that got itself a dishonorable mention during the Mob trials of the nineteen eighties. They were hooked up to at least one of the crime families that the FBI tried to bring down at that time. The two senior partners retired and Molony set up a very specialist practice. He was barely in his thirties, but he got a reputation for specializing in wills, probate, and charitable donations. He was very good at setting up charitable funds that circumnavigated a lot of the death duties payable on estates. He also helped rich Catholics establish benevolent organizations for giving to good causes.”
“Sounds like a good man,” says McAvoy cautiously.
“Indeed. He’s been investigated only twice over allegations that he persuaded two very elderly Catholic ladies to give their estates to one of his charitable organizations instead of to their families, but both times the investigations petered out.”
“And now?”
“Wealthy man, very successful. Sacristan at Saint Colman’s Church and pillar of society.”
McAvoy chews on his lower lip. “Father Jimmy Whelan?”
Pharaoh smiles. “Same seminary, different years. That’s how they met. Been associates ever since.”
McAvoy strokes his jaw. As he inspects his hands he expects to see dust and bone upon his skin.
“His mother. His stepfather . . .”
“Mum passed away in nineteen eighty-eight. Cancer. Stepfather the following year. Seems a decent enough sort. Left his money to the Open Hands Missionary Association, which provides help for victims of abuse in the Philippines and Cebu. I’m sure it was a cause close to his heart.”
McAvoy scratches at his head and looks over the top of the computer. The other drinkers have drifted away from him. Through the mass of bodies he can make out the scaffolding that wraps the tall apartment building on the opposite side of Ludlow Street. The fat flakes of snow that billow across the darkened glass look like shredded white feathers.
“The names,” says McAvoy. “On the tree.”
“You’ll never make a photographer,” says Pharaoh. “They’re blurry as hell. But Ben worked his mojo and we’ve got a few names. Alejandra Mota Valverda. You know about her.”
“Only the basics.”
“That’s all there is. Disappeared walking back from Saint Colman’s. Never seen again.”
“Was Molony ever questioned?”
“Only as a witness, not as a suspect. He was working for the legal firm at that time, becoming the respectable lawyer, devoting his free time to Saint Colman’s.”
“Shay’s name was on the wall. I saw it.”
“Yes, you did. What that means, we can’t say. His body’s being flown home, so there’s no ashes. Perhaps it’s a wall of connections—people he’s encountered whose lives have been lost, but then there’s no obvious connection to the majority of the names. Of course, there are others we can say with some certainty he had a link to.”
“Such as?”
“Salvatore Pugliesca,” says Pharaoh, twitching her face into a smile. “I thought I’d tell you that one first.”
“And Tony Blank?”
Pharaoh shakes her head. “If his name’s up there, it’s not clear on the photographs.”
“What about strangers? People with no obvious link?”
Pharaoh consults her notes. “Laura Prime,” she says. “Reported missing in nineteen seventy-eight. Last seen leaving a party in Philipstown, New York. She was nineteen years old. Red hair, fair-skinned, gap in her front teeth. She was a trainee beautician and lived with her large family. Prior to her disappearance, she had reported that she felt as if she were being followed, but made no complaint to the police.”
“Irish family?”
“Yes. Roman Catholic and good churchgoing types, before you ask.”
McAvoy pinches the bridge of his nose between forefinger and thumb. “There’s more?”
“Paulette Obasi. Twenty-four. Student at Columbia University. Nigerian origins, but she was studying there on one of those adorable Christian benevolent grants. Shy, churchgoing girl, according to the reports. Last seen leaving the library to head for the evening Mass at the university chapel. April nineteen seventy-nine. She didn’t arrive. No sign since.”
McAvoy stirs the dregs of liquid at the base of his ridiculous drink. “What have we found?” he asks, shaking his head.
“Maybe nothing,” says Pharaoh. “This guy may be a good Catholic chap who has made his own memorial to the lost. These cases made a few headlines but they weren’t front-page news. Maybe they mattered to him and he’s chiseled their names into his own private church because he feels a connection to them. He wants to atone and it’s clear he takes that stuff seriously.”
The door of the bar bangs open and a swirl of snow follows two girls in their early twenties into the welcoming warmth. They giggle and high-five, pulling themselves out of thick, padded coats, scarves, and hats. There is something somehow delightful about them, with their wide eyes and white teeth, their zeal and their sparkle. McAvoy wonders what their lives consist of. Wonders what they will become. Finds himself growing smaller in his chair as he thinks about the way strangers ricochet off one another, colliding and intersecting, missing one another or slamming together based on the tiniest coincidences of moments and chance.
“The tooth,” says McAvoy quietly.
“Oh, there’s no doubt that’s fucking odd,” says Pharaoh brightly. “He needs to be questioned on that, though how your friend Alto will explain his presence in that apartment is for him to decide. It seems pretty damn clear that Valentine was there at some point—unless there was a bare-knuckle bout that Molony attended and he took himself a souvenir. My advice to Redding was to come up with a good cover story, but Molony needs to be questioned. Don’t forget, Valentine is what you’re there for.”
McAvoy considers this. His head drops to his hand. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“You never do.” Pharaoh smiles. “Anyway, this might cheer you up. Ben’s blown up your terrible photos and managed to make out a name on the lip of one of the urns in Molony’s creepy loft. It’s for a funeral home in Baltimore.”
McAvoy looks at his boss and enjoys the little frisson of devilment that crosses her face. “You called them?” he asks.
“Not me. Ben. Played the deferential English detective part perfectly. Spoke to the funeral director himself. Described it in all of its glory, including the silver flower that’s etched into the side of the urn. He said it was from their Sacred Chalice range, and that it had been discontinued in the early eighties. Only sold a handful of them because the price was prohibitive.”
McAvoy waits for more. “And?”
“Went through his records and called us back with a list. We didn’t recognize any of the names but we’ve passed them on to your friend Redding.”
McAvoy frowns at the screen. “I know there’s more . . .”
Pharaoh grins. “Of course there’s more. The funeral director warmed to Ben. Explained that two years ago, he published an article in the Baltimore Sun warning that the funeral parlor had reached critical mass in terms of unclaimed remains and they were going to be disposed of. Turns out it’s a real problem. Funeral parlors the world over end up with a mountain of unclaimed ashes. They’ve recently agreed on a feasible amount of time that they should keep them for before they are respectfully disposed of.”
“And this urn was among those unclaimed?”
“Shush,” says Pharaoh testily. “The funeral director remembers receiving a telephone call from a Christian organization that said it would be happy to take the ashes so that they could be scattered on holy ground. The Christian organization said they would make a sizable donation to the funeral parlor’s outreach programs—and I’d say that’s code for a bribe—if they would send the remains to a postal box.”
“Where was the postal box?”
“Cairo,” says Pharaoh, looking at him intently. “The one upstate, not the one with the sphinx.”
“Where Brishen, Shay, and Savoca were found?”
“I do wonder whether our American cousins have ever considered joined-up thinking,” muses Pharaoh. “They might actually be good at it, if they gave it a shot.”
McAvoy’s head is reeling. He wants to run outside into the snow and let the cold caress of each snowflake lift the ash and dirt from his skin. He did not ask to be involved in any of this. He closes his eyes as he talks, rubbing his hands together softly and wishing the skin that stroked his belonged to somebody who loved him.
“Trish, I’m so lost. I don’t even know what to do next.”
“You tell all this to Alto,” she says firmly. “You let him bring in Molony. If you’re lucky, he’ll spill his guts and tell you he knows where Valentine is. If you’re very lucky, he’ll also cough to being a serial killer and money launderer and you and me will be invited stateside to receive medals from George Clooney. Until then, you need to get some rest, change your clothes, and tell Roisin she’s fabulous. Don’t let all of this stuff climb inside your head. You know how you get.”
The door bangs open and McAvoy stops listening. Ronnie Alto pushes his way through the crowd, brushing snow from his hair and rubbing moisture from his amber spectacles. He looks tired and old.
“I have to go,” says McAvoy. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“Hector, hang on, I’ve got to—”
McAvoy closes the lid on the laptop and looks up at the detective. “I’ve so much to tell you,” he says.
“Likewise,” says Alto, removing his still-foggy glasses.
McAvoy looks into his eyes, as if searching for answers. “Valentine,” he says, and his voice cracks as his lips form his name. “You’re going to tell me he’s dead.”
Ronnie shakes his head, taking a breath, as if preparing to run.
“He’s not dead,” he says at last. “But he wishes he were. And in a moment, you’ll wish that for him, too.”