Godtown was again empty under hazy, yellow skies. Westermann’s detectives split into three pairs, fanning out over the two square blocks. Grip tracked the progress of the other two pairs of detectives, thinking that it was like watching people moving around an empty movie set, knocking on the doors of prop houses. No one was out. The whole neighborhood was functionally deserted. The knocks on doors sounded like rifle shots. Grip was tense, the heat suffocating.
Grip and Morphy started with Mary Little’s row house. Grip fought to stay focused on the canvassing at hand, but his mind kept drifting to the scene from the previous night: Westermann touching Jane Morphy’s hip—a comfortable, familiar gesture; Westermann’s disappearance into Morphy’s house. Grip was exhausted. He’d been unable to sleep last night. What he’d seen troubled him, as did the question of what, if anything, he should do about it. He felt pulled in opposite directions by his loyalties to Morphy and to the lieut, neither of whom he was eager to betray, either through acts of commission or omission. Did Westermann’s actions forfeit his claim to Grip’s loyalty? Where did his, Grip’s, best interests lie? In the end, those two considerations had led him to decide that he had to tell Morphy, because Westermann didn’t deserve Grip’s silence, and because if Morphy found out about his wife and found out that Grip knew and hadn’t told him … Grip didn’t want to spend much time ruminating about what that would lead to. Now he had to find the right moment to let Morphy know.
With this distraction, Grip banged on Mary Little’s door; hard, but not intimidating. No answer. Grip put his ear to the door, heard nothing. He banged again, identified himself as police. Still nothing. Morphy played with the window to the right of the door and found it locked. Grip turned, shook his head, and they descended the steps.
They walked up the next set of steps, Grip wondering if maybe the best time to tell Morphy was now, when they were busy; when maybe Morphy’s reaction would be tempered by being in public and in the midst of his duties. Grip banged on this new door. Again no answer. Again he put his ear to the door and was met with silence. Again, he yelled that he was police and to please come to the door and open up. But nobody was home. Grip watched a stray German shepherd weaving down the street, a dead rat hanging limp in his jaws. Grip noticed Morphy watching, too, the dog dripping red foam from his mouth. Grip pulled his gun from its holster, but Morphy put a hand on his arm and Grip put it back.
They looked up the block to see that the other two pairs of detectives had encountered similar results. No one was on the streets in Godtown; no one was home.
Morphy waited for the big dog to turn a corner, put two fingers in his mouth, and let out a piercing whistle. The other detectives looked their way, and Morphy pointed to the street, calling a meeting. Grip pulled a pack of cigarettes, shook two free, gave one to Morphy.
“Morph,” he said, “we need to talk for a minute when we get done here.”
“Okay,” Morphy said, seeming unconcerned.
They met the other detectives in the street and talked things over, though there wasn’t really much to say. The houses were empty. The people had to be at the church. Grip thought that with Koss and Maddox down at headquarters, they might be able to bully their way in past whoever was minding the door.
They walked back to their prowl cars and drove them around to the front of the church. It was quiet on the street, though when the last engine was cut, Grip thought he could hear a low murmur, as if people were murmuring hushed prayers inside.
Morphy and Grip went to the huge double doors while the other detectives took places behind their squad cars, guns drawn but not visible from the church. Grip pounded on the door. People were definitely inside. He put his ear to the door, but didn’t hear approaching footsteps. He banged again and yelled, “Police,” but still no footsteps. Instead, the murmuring ended, replaced by a moment of silence and then by a burst of noise, like dozens, if not hundreds, of people screaming. Grip felt the chill on his back. He looked at Morphy, who was chewing on his lip, eyes narrow, as if he was pondering some moderately difficult riddle. The detectives behind the cars shifted around, nervous and antsy.
Morphy grabbed the door handle and shook it. Locked. The volume seemed to crest. They didn’t have a warrant; the only windows were stained glass.
Grip and Morphy returned to the cars.
“What the hell is going on in there?” Dzeko asked.
“The fuck does it sound like?” Grip responded, edgy. “There’s a boatload of people in their screaming their asses off.”
“Why?”
Grip rolled his eyes and made a disgusted noise.
“I’m just asking.”
“There’s nothing here for us,” Morphy said. The other detectives nodded, eager to get out of there. They got back into their cars to make the trip back to Headquarters, having failed in their modest goal to talk to somebody—anybody.
Grip drove several blocks in silence, waiting for Morphy to ask him what they needed to talk about. But Morphy didn’t say anything. He seemed lost in his thoughts, whatever those were. Grip realized that he could just let the whole thing drop, that Morphy might very well never ask him about it. But he’d made his decision and had enough conviction that he wouldn’t drop it just because it was going to be hard as hell.
“Larry,” Grip said.
“Yeah?”
“About what I had to tell you?”
“Okay.”
“I shadowed the lieut last night.”
Morphy looked at him, surprised. “You did what?”
“Shadowed the lieut.”
“Why’s that?”
“Long story. Ed Wayne’s got some bug up his ass that the lieut’s a commie.”
“Is he?”
“Don’t know. Maybe. He met with Carla Bierhoff …”
“She’s a Red, right?”
“Yeah. He met with her and that reporter Frings. Maybe others. I don’t know.”
“I know, but that’s not the thing. I followed him after that meeting, you know, to see where he went next. So I did, and he ended up at your place.”
Morphy looked over at Grip. “I wasn’t there last night.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“So what? What happened?”
“He knocked on the door, Jane answered.” Grip paused, dreading the next part.
“And?”
“He went in. Didn’t come out in the half hour that I stuck around.”
Morphy’s gaze kept steady. “Am I hearing you right?”
Grip nodded.
“That’s interesting,” Morphy said, sounding as if he’d just heard that someone had eaten his sandwich.
“What are you going to do about it?” Grip asked. But Morphy was back to staring out the windshield, lost in thoughts that Grip was happy not to know.