Father Arpie and Father George sat together on a sofa in Howie Silver’s office, looking, Devlin thought, like a pair of grand inquisitors. The mayor and Devlin sat opposite in two chairs, both very much hot seats at the moment.
“What you did, what your people did, was unconscionable,” Father George said, his heavy jowls shaking with anger. “First you used deception to get inside our facility in Westchester County—which was out of your legitimate jurisdiction, I might add—and then you turned it into a shooting gallery that placed the lives of our people in serious jeopardy. Now we find out you also infiltrated our headquarters in New York and placed one of your men in a position to spy on our most sensitive computer files. But even that was not enough. When our people discovered your spy they were viciously attacked and held at gunpoint.” He shook his head angrily. “I must tell you, Mr. Mayor, that I am astonished by these unwarranted Gestapo-like tactics, which I regard as a complete violation of our rights of religious freedom.”
“I fully agree,” Father Arpie chimed in. His face was red and angry—and just a bit pleased, Devlin thought.
The mayor turned to Devlin, his eyes pleading for something that would ease the situation.
“I don’t agree,” Devlin said.
Both clerics seemed surprised by the terse, unrepentant response.
“You don’t?” Arpie said. His voice dripped with sarcasm. “Would you care to explain why?”
“I’d be happy to, Father,” Devlin said. He leaned forward and raised one finger. “First, the man your people discovered in your headquarters was, as you say, a detective who worked for me. It is also true that he went there on my orders. But it is not true that he attacked your people. They in fact attacked him and he defended himself. We can prove it. He was wearing a wire—a recording device—for his own protection at the time, and we have both a tape recording of their attack and the testimony of the officer who was monitoring the wire to back that up.” Devlin paused and looked at each man in turn. “That’s a crime, by the way—assaulting a police officer—but it’s something we don’t intend to pursue … at present.”
Both men had stunned expressions on their faces, and Devlin hurried on before they could regain their composure, raising a second finger. “Next, on the question of your Westchester facility. We repeatedly asked officials at Opus Christi headquarters to tell us where we could contact Sister Margaret. She traveled from Bogotá with Sister Manuela and was one of the last people to see her alive. It was imperative that we interview her. However, we were repeatedly told that Sister Margaret was not available, her whereabouts not known. All the while that information, we later learned, was right there in the order’s computer files.”
A third finger joined the first two. “Next, when we finally learned where Sister Margaret was—”
“And how did you learn that?” Father George demanded.
Devlin blew out a long breath, letting the priest know he did not appreciate the interruption. “The officer we placed in your organization found that information in your computer records.”
“Private records, I might add,” Father George snapped.
Devlin ignored the comment and went on. “That officer was brought into your organization voluntarily by one of your people, and there was no pressure, no threat of any kind, made against the person who brought him in. That officer was then assigned to your computer room by you. He never requested the assignment. His sole job from our standpoint was to see if he could learn where Sister Margaret was by talking with other members of your order. Any information he got from your computer system was purely accidental.” He hurried on before Father George pressed the matter further.
“When we did learn where Sister Margaret was, Sergeant Levy and Detective Cunningham were sent to conduct this crucial interview. When they arrived at your Westchester facility, Sergeant Levy identified them as police officers, and a young nun let them in and told them where they could find Sister Margaret.”
“Your sergeant told the nun she had been sent from our headquarters,” Father George snapped. “A deliberate fabrication that violated our religious sanctuary.”
“Not so,” Devlin said, shutting him off. “Sergeant Levy—and this has been confirmed by Detective Cunningham—told your nun they were from headquarters, that’s true. But she meant our headquarters.” The lie flowed easily from Devlin’s lips, so easily it almost surprised him. “Technically,” he added, “we are a headquarters unit, even though we work directly for the mayor, so she was simply explaining where they were coming from.” Again he hurried on before Father George could press the issue.
“And it was fortunate that we found out where Sister Margaret was and got there as quickly as we did. We’ve since learned that Sister Margaret was the only person who had seen Sister Manuela’s killer—both in Bogotá and again when they returned to the United States. She was also the only person who knew that Sister Manuela left the airport with her killer. She could both identify him and testify to those facts.”
Father George started to speak, but Devlin raised a hand, cutting him off. “This man, Emilio Valdez, was sent there to kill Sister Margaret. He had already attempted to kill Sergeant Levy because he feared she would reach Sister Margaret before he did. And if Sergeant Levy hadn’t been there—and hadn’t recognized him—there is no question in my mind that Sister Margaret would have been murdered.”
Again, Devlin raised a hand, even though no objection had been made. “I would like to point out, gentlemen, that Detective Cunningham was wounded by this killer when he used his body to shield Sister Margaret. Frankly, I think you should be thanking both these brave officers, rather than condemning them for their actions.”
“But … but …” Father George stuttered.
“No buts about it,” Devlin said. He kept his eyes hard on the man. “This man, Valdez, works for a Colombian drug cartel. His sole job for them is killing people. We have this directly from Colombian authorities. Somehow, he got Sister Manuela to smuggle drugs into this country inside her body, and when that went wrong he killed her to recover those drugs.”
“That’s only supposition,” Father George snapped.
“No, it is not, sir,” Devlin countered. “It is a fact of forensic evidence—evidence, by the way, that up to now we have withheld from the media to protect the good name of your order and of the Catholic Church.” Devlin paused, allowing the implied threat to linger in their minds.
“It is also a fact,” he continued, “that had we known what we do now—that Sister Margaret could positively identify Sister Manuela’s killer—we would have insisted that she be placed in protective custody, and this whole incident at your Westchester facility could have been avoided.” Devlin hardened his stare. “Your organization kept that information from us and, in doing so, jeopardized that nun’s life and put my detectives at risk.”
“I … I …” Father George stuttered again.
Devlin jumped on him immediately. “What I want now,” he said, “is the ability to protect Sister Margaret from another attempt on her life. Because these people won’t stop. She’s a threat to them, and in their minds that means only one thing: She has to be eliminated.”
Father Arpie had been silent, avoiding Devlin’s onslaught. Now a small sneer came to his lips. “You haven’t done much of a job protecting the priests who are being murdered,” he snapped. “Or have you placed a spy in the archdiocese as well to accomplish that end?” He turned to the mayor. “The inspector has a very facile tongue, but his tactics are still inexcusable. I think you know what we want, Howie.”
Devlin turned to the cardinal’s secretary before the mayor could answer. He kept his voice almost unnaturally soft. “The answer to your second question is no, Father. None of my men have been placed in the archdiocese. The answer to the first is that I expect to have those murders solved within days. Providing you continue to cooperate.”
Arpie stared at him; he too was now flustered. “What are you asking?” he said at length.
“I’ll contact you about that in the next forty-eight hours,” Devlin said. “If you agree to do as I ask, we’ll have the person behind those killings as well.”
When the priests left, Howie Silver let out a long ragged breath. “You’re a good tap dancer, Paul. I’m just hoping it’s not all flash and no substance. If it is I can’t back you.” He gave Devlin a regretful look. “They want you off this case—the archdiocese and Opus Christi both. That’s what they expected to get when they came here.”
Devlin held his eyes. “I’m not walking away from the case, Howie, and I’ll fight any attempt to force me out.”
The mayor stared at him. “Don’t threaten me, Paul. If I decide you’re out, you’re out. I can’t excuse what you’ve done. It was a stupid move, and now it’s coming back on me.”
“It was the only option I had, Howie. You closed off everything else.” He continued to hold Silver’s eyes. “This case has become personal to me. I won’t leave it without a fight.”
The anger seemed to flow off Silver in waves. “Personal how?” he snapped.
Devlin told him.
“They threatened your daughter?” he said, when Devlin had finished.
“That’s right, Howie.” Devlin paused briefly, giving the mayor time to digest the information. “And I’m going to nail the sonofabitch who called me. It’s the only way I can be sure my kid is safe. I intend to get them all, every last sonofabitch who’s involved.” He paused again, wanting his final words to weigh heavily on the mayor. “I’m going to do it, Howie, even if I have to fight you.”
Devlin could see the political wheels turning in the mayor’s head. It wasn’t that Silver lacked concern for Phillipa. Devlin knew him better than that. It was just the way his mind worked. Like any politician, he was a survivor first and foremost, and this case was a time bomb. The mayor knew it, and Devlin knew it. If that bomb exploded it would tarnish everyone—especially a mayor who was publicly fighting with the cop he had put in charge of the investigation.
Silver sat back and let out a long breath. “All right, Paul. You’ve got forty-eight hours to make good on the promise you made to Arpie. Don’t push it beyond that.” He gave Devlin another hard, cold stare. “And don’t ever threaten me again.”
Devlin remained silent. He took no pleasure in the small victory. He also knew there still might be a price to pay down the road. He decided to give the mayor something to smooth his ruffled feathers and to keep his courage up. “There’s something you should know,” he said, “but what I’m going to tell you can’t leave this room.”
The mayor raised his eyebrows. “This better be good news, Paul. I’m not a very happy man right now.”
Devlin held his eyes. “Valdez also killed the priests.”
The mayor’s jaw dropped. “You’re sure?”
“We have his prints at the scene of the last murder, the one in Flushing. And I’m ninety-nine percent sure, when we start showing his photograph around, we’re going to be able to place him at some of the others, too.”
“Then it’s wrapped up,” the mayor said, A large smile creased his face, “We can tell the press we’ve got it locked up and get the archdiocese off our backs. How soon can we do that?”
Devlin raised a cautioning hand. “We can’t. Not yet, at least. You’ve got to give me at least forty-eight hours before we say anything.”
“Why?” Silver demanded. Like all politicians he wanted the heat off and the good news spread fast. And he couldn’t wait to take his bows before the public.
“Because whoever sent Valdez to kill these priests is still out there. And we’ve got to nail him before he sends anyone else.” Devlin had a plan for that, but it was something the mayor didn’t need to know.
The mayor pondered what he’d been told. “So the killings are all connected,” he said at length. “What exactly does that mean?”
Devlin had hoped he would not be asked that question. “It means a lot of bad news, at least as far as Opus Christi and the archdiocese are concerned.”
The mayor’s eyebrows furrowed. “Is there a way out of that?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Devlin said. “We’ll have to see how it shakes out. Here’s what I think has happened.”
He drew a long breath. “Somebody—I’m not sure who yet, but I’m getting close—made a deal with a Colombian drug cartel. The deal involved smuggling junk into the country in religious artifacts. The payment for that service was bumping off gay priests.” Devlin shrugged. “Maybe this somebody was getting part of the profits from the drug shipments as well, but I don’t know. It’s something we’re still looking into. It could have been a strictly service-for-service deal.”
“But why, for chrissake?” the mayor demanded.
Devlin shook his head. “Opus Christi is supremely homophobic, from what I gather. They’re fanatical about it. I think—at least for some person or group within their organization—that fanaticism simply went over the top.”
The mayor closed his eyes, as if severe pain were suddenly coursing through his brain. “So how do you get to this person?” he finally asked.
Devlin told him.
“Jesus Christ,” Silver said. “That’s pretty goddamned Byzantine.”
“It’s complicated,” Devlin conceded, “but if everything goes right, I think it will work.”
“No deal,” Devlin said. “I can’t believe this guy. He shoots two of my people, and now he’s looking for a deal.”
Devlin was seated in a small office at the Brooklyn House of Detention with the assistant district attorney in charge of Sister Manuela’s murder. William Gray was a sparrow-thin thirty-something man, and everything about him matched his name, right down to his perception of proper legal ethics.
Gray toyed with his thinning gray hair. He was dressed in a light-gray summer suit that seemed to have wilted on his way to work. His necktie was a mix of gray and white stripes. “Slow down, Paul,” he said. “Let’s not close this door too fast. Look, I’m not going to try to ride roughshod over you on this. It’s too politically hot. But why not listen and see if what he has to say is worth anything?” Gray suggested. “At least then we know. If we don’t get something we want, we tell him what he has to offer is shit. Thanks but no thanks.”
“Uh-uh,” Devlin said. “I want to talk to him, sure, but I don’t want to offer him a thing. This guy killed a nun, period. And I’m ninety-nine percent sure he killed four priests. And when we nailed him he was trying to kill another nun. He also shot two of my cops. What kind of reduced charge could we talk about with this guy, being naughty? The press and the public would have us both for lunch, and they’d be right.” He shook his head. “Besides, I like to be able to sleep at night.”
Gray raised his hands. “All right. Have it your way. But I’m telling you right now, somewhere down the road we are going to plea-bargain this case.” Gray jabbed a finger against the office desk. “I do not want to go to trial and present evidence about a nun swallowing fucking condoms filled with heroin. And I do not want to go to trial and present testimony about a priest who picked up AIDS in a Greenwich Village bathhouse.” Gray tapped the side of his long nose. “And I’ll tell you a little secret, Paul. The DAs in Brooklyn and Queens are not going to want to present that kind of evidence about the priests who got bumped off in their jurisdictions. We’d all like to have some kind of future, thank you very much.”
Devlin grinned at him. “What, were you scared by some nun when you were a kid?”
“Ha-ha. Very funny,” Gray said. “Like the boys up at the archdiocese don’t scare a big bad police inspector like Paul Devlin. Like Paul Devlin thinks they only call those boys the Powerhouse because they’re trying to be clever. I tell you, my friend, those people eat their young. Fuck with them at your peril.”
Devlin raised his hands. “I’ve already had a run-in with them. I also had a run-in with them a few years back. I’m not a novice at having my ass handed to me by fat old men in dresses. That’s part of the reason I’ve been tiptoeing around them ever since this mess got dumped in my lap. I knew how they play the game. And I knew if I didn’t watch my step I’d be out, and the case would get handed to one of the hear-no-evil see-no-evil clowns at the Puzzle Palace, because Howie Silver has been shitting bricks ever since he heard the word archdiocese.”
“Howie Silver’s a smart man,” Gray said. “I hope you are too.”
Devlin nodded. “Let’s go talk to this little prick and see how smart I am.”
Emilio Valdez lay in a bed in the hospital wing. His lawyer, a public defender named Walter Shultz, sat in a chair at his bedside. This surprised Devlin. He had expected a high-priced narco attorney who would shut the door in the DA’s face and then pull out his bag of expensive and time-consuming tricks. What Valdez had instead was a tired middle-aged guy in a rumpled suit, who looked like he hadn’t slept in a year. He also looked like a lawyer who was very used to losing in court. On the surface, at least, it appeared as though the Colombians had kissed Emilio Valdez goodbye.
“So what have you got for us?” Gray began.
The public defender gave Gray a weary look, as though he knew he was wasting time he didn’t have. “Mr. Valdez is fearful for his life,” Shultz began. “He would like an opportunity to enter the witness protection program in exchange for information about Colombian drug dealers.”
Gray smiled at the idea. “That’s a nice thought. But your client is forgetting something, isn’t he? We’re here to talk about the murder of a nun, the attempted murder of two police officers, the attempted murder of a second nun”—he paused for effect—“and, according to what I’ve just learned from Inspector Devlin, the murder of four Catholic priests. All of which we believe Mr. Valdez was involved in. We’re not even talking drugs here, except how they might relate to the murder of Sister Manuela.”
Shultz turned to the bed and had a whispered conversation with his client. When he turned back the weary look had not improved. “Mr. Valdez says he’s willing to talk about those things, but only after he’s guaranteed immunity and has a written guarantee that he’ll be placed in witness protection. He insists he has a lot to offer.”
Devlin folded his hands across his chest. “Like what?” he asked. His eyes remained fixed on Valdez. “Are you going to tell us about Charles Meyerson?” He watched a twitch come to Valdez’s eye. “Or maybe you’re going to tell us about his little deal with your friend Estaves?” A second twitch. Devlin smiled at him. “But we already know those things. So what have you got to offer?”
Valdez stared at him. Devlin noticed his hands were now balled into fists. “I can testify,” Valdez finally said.
Shultz turned to him, ready to warn his client not to speak—to let the attorneys do all the talking. Valdez held up a hand and waved him off.
“You’ll testify against Meyerson?” Devlin asked. “That he set up the drug deal that got Sister Manuela killed?”
Valdez nodded.
“You’ll testify that, as part of the deal, he wanted certain priests dead because they were homosexuals?” Devlin saw William Gray wince at the suggestion.
Another nod from Valdez. “I’ll also testify that he got some of the profits and it wasn’t no chump change.”
Devlin nodded, storing away that unexpected bit of information. “You’ll testify that you killed the priests—all of them—on his orders?”
Valdez shook his head. “I’m not gonna admit I killed nobody unless you promise I’m gonna walk,” he said. “And until I walk I wanna be protected.” He waved his hand, taking in the hospital cell. “Not like this shit here.”
Devlin looked around the hospital cell. “This is the best we’ve got,” he said. “You were supposed to go to the prison ward at Bellevue, but I vetoed that. The place is like a sieve. Here you’re inside a secure prison.” He inclined his head toward the door behind him. “You’ve got a solid steel door between you and the corridor, and two barred doors locking down both ends of that.”
“It’s shit,” Valdez snapped. “Hey, I give you what you want, you give me what I want. It’s simple.”
Devlin smiled at him. “There is one thing I want. Maybe you can buy yourself something if you give me that. It involves my daughter.” He waited, offering Valdez nothing more.
Valdez’s face broke into a broad grin. “She got the tickets, huh?” he said.
Devlin stared at him, his eyes ice. “Tell me all of it.”
Valdez shrugged, still grinning. “Hey, man, I don’t know no more. I was supposed to do it—like, give the tickets to her, you know? But you busted me before I could.”
“Who told you to give her the tickets?” Devlin asked.
“Hey, a little bird.” He was smirking now.
Devlin turned to the door. “Let’s get out of here,” he said to Gray.
“Okay, okay,” Valdez called, stopping him. “It was Estaves. He’s the one who told me to give them to her. All right?”
Devlin looked back over his shoulder. “You gave me what I want, Emilio. We’ll be back when I check it out.”
Shultz joined Devlin and Gray out in the corridor. He was a soft, slovenly man who gave off the aroma of someone who knew he had chosen the wrong career. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I told him it wouldn’t fly, but he wouldn’t listen. I do think he’s desperate enough to give you whatever you want. He’s convinced if he stays in prison, he’s dead. What’s this about your daughter?” he asked.
“Nothing you need to know,” Devlin said. “It doesn’t relate to any of the charges.”
Gray put his arm around Shultz’s shoulders and shook his head. “Look, I’m not going to kid you. The guy tells what he knows, he’s a good witness. Maybe a perfect witness.” He glanced at Devlin. “I’m just not sure we’re going to need him.” He shrugged. “But don’t close the door. Maybe we’ll be back.”
Shultz seemed to sense a glimmer of weakness, something he was obviously not used to in his practice. He puffed himself up slightly. “I can’t guarantee his offer will hold past today,” he said.
Gray stepped away. “Listen to me, counselor. Your client is a first-class scumbag. I wouldn’t count on his testimony until he gave it in court and then repeated it four times. And then I’d be worried he’d recant. So let’s not even go near any so-called one-time offers, okay?”
As they drove back to Manhattan in Devlin’s car, Gray was still shaking his head. “Okay, now tell me what this stuff is about your daughter,” he said.
Devlin told him.
Gray stared at him, incredulous. “This guy Estaves threatened a police inspector’s kid? Who the fuck does this cowboy think he is?”
“He’ll know who he is when I get my hands on him,” Devlin said. He gave Gray a long look. “You still looking to make a deal with Valdez?” He tried not to laugh as he asked the question.
“Yeah, sure,” Gray said. “I just can’t wait to put that little shit on the witness stand. I can’t wait to hear him tell a jury how he turned a little twenty-something nun into a fucking drug mule and then gutted her to get his product back. Or how he hooked up with some lunatic who hates priests who take it up the ass and how he offed them too. It’ll make all the newspapers and all the networks; especially the part about how I gave him immunity. I’ll have the biggest win of my career. Then, when it’s over, I can start applying to dental schools.”
“You should have listened to your mother and become a dentist years ago,” Devlin said.
Gray turned to him, sneering at the suggestion. “And what did your mother want you to be, Paul?”
Devlin grinned back. “She wanted me to go to law school,” Devlin said.
“;So where do we go from here?” Sharon asked.
They were in Devlin’s office, together with Ollie, Stan Samuels, and Boom Boom. Red Cunningham was gone for the duration, nursing his leg wound.
“First,” Devlin said, “we need to find out everything we can about Charles Meyerson. Everything about his past, his present circumstances, right down to the type of toothpaste he uses.” He turned to Samuels, “the mole.” “I’m going to lay most of this on you, Stan. Use everything Boom Boom downloaded—everything about Meyerson that Opus Christi has on its computer and everything we found on Meyerson’s computer—including that new list of people we don’t know anything about yet. In the meantime, Boom Boom will keep searching both computers until they change the passwords.” He turned to Boom Boom. “We need everything the bank has in its personnel records, no matter how insignificant it seems. In the meantime, Stan, use your connections at the newspapers and see what they have on Meyerson, then find some people who know him, both personally and from a business standpoint. See what they can tell us. We need to get a lot on him fast. We need to know what makes this guy tick, what buttons he has we can push.” He smiled at his own language. “You got enough metaphors there to get an idea of what I want?”
“What about us?” Sharon asked, inclining her head toward Pitts.
“Ollie’s going to arrest Estaves.” He turned to Pitts. “Take some uniforms with you and bring him in.”
“What’s the charge?” Pitts asked.
“Conspiracy to commit murder, for starters. We’ll add on other charges as we need them. Anything we can dream up to keep his lawyers hopping. When you bust him, grab any records you find in his apartment. I’ve arranged to have some narcs there with a search warrant. They’ll also have one for his office, and they’ll check that out after we bag him. I’m also asking our Colombian friend at the UN to get the feds involved if we need them. We want to be sure we can hold this guy for the next forty-eight hours before some sharp ambulance chaser cuts him loose. After that it won’t matter. What I have in mind is going to have to work within that time frame, or it’s not going to work at all.” He held Ollie’s eyes. He had already told all of them about Estaves’s threat against Phillipa. “It wouldn’t break my heart if this guy fell down a couple flights of stairs,” he said.
Ollie grinned at him. “Hey, you know how these Colombians are,” he said. “Clumsy little fuckers.”
Devlin nodded and turned back to Sharon. “In the meantime, you’re going to an impromptu press conference with me. It’s time for you to become an official hero.”
“Really?” Sharon said. “A real-life hero, huh? Long overdue, if you ask me. But maybe you should tell me why I’m a hero. Specifically, that is.”
“We’re going to announce the capture of a prime suspect in Sister Manuela’s murder,” Devlin said. He paused. “We’re also going to tie him in to the murder of Father Halloran, and let the press know, without coming right out and saying it, that we believe he was involved in the murders of the other priests as well.”
“I thought we didn’t want to do that,” Sharon said.
“Now we do. It’s time to put a little pressure on Mr. Meyerson.” Devlin leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers in front of his face. He stared through them, as if looking into the future. “We’re going to tie it all together: the attempted hit on you, the attempt on Sister Margaret, you and Red capturing Valdez in Westchester, the whole ball of wax. We’re also going to tell them we’ve taken Estaves into custody as a possible co-conspirator.”
“What about motive?” Sharon asked. “I mean, that’s a little touchy … politically … right? What are we going to tell them about that?”
“We’re not. But we’ll imply very strongly that we’ve been dealing with a religious lunatic. We’re going to give the press enough to run wild, while we go after the real lunatic.”
Sharon smiled at him. “You’re going to panic Meyerson. That’s it, isn’t it?”
“We’re going to do more than that. We’re going to make him believe that his big dream is evaporating. His plan to rid the archdiocese of gay priests is headed straight for the toilet, and there’s nobody left to help him.”
Sharon’s smile widened. “You’re going to ruin that poor man’s day.”
“Could be,” Devlin said. “But that’s just for starters. Charles Meyerson’s life is about to become a real nightmare.” He turned to Ollie again. “After you lock Estaves up I need you to make some phone calls to set up something else.” And he explained what he wanted.
John Barger moved along the corridor with his medications cart, a corrections officer trailing closely behind. He was a large man in his mid-twenties, with a shaved head and a badly trimmed goatee. The medications he dispensed were nothing special, mostly Advil and other over-the-counter painkillers. There were also fresh dressings and a bottle of alcohol on his cart so bandages on wounds could be changed, all treatments that did not require the assistance of a doctor or a registered nurse. Barger was neither. He was a prisoner who, off and on, had spent a total of nine years behind bars.
Barger’s criminal history went back to his early teens, when he had specialized in mugging elderly women who had just cashed their Social Security checks. Within a few years he had graduated to petty stickups and then to the street sale of narcotics. Soon he had expanded that business by running a handful of addicted whores. His “women”— mostly teenage girls—worked the low end of the trade, offering themselves on the dark, seedy avenues west of Times Square. Barger had killed two of those young prostitutes when they had failed to meet his financial expectations. He had also killed a rival pimp who had tried to lure one of his women away. He had beaten all three to death with a metal pipe. It was his preferred method of violence; he had often told other inmates about the pleasing sound the pipe made on the fourth or fifth blow—a soft wet splat, like hitting a ruptured melon.
Barger had never been charged with the three murders. NYPD investigations of crimes against prostitutes and pimps were cursory at best. His last arrest had involved an assault against an undercover cop, for which he had received a severe beating and a two-year sentence. Within months of his incarceration, the New York City Department of Corrections had decided to make him a trusty.
Barger moved down the hall, dispensing Advil and Tylenol through small openings in the solid steel cell doors. Most of the patient inmates on the hospital ward were ambulatory, those needing more serious medical attention being housed in the less secure prison ward at Bellevue.
The young thief, pusher, pimp, and murderer had come to the attention of Ricardo Estaves when he had put out feelers among the drug dealers housed in the prison. Using one of those men, he had offered Barger five thousand dollars, along with the guarantee of a job when he completed his current sentence. Barger had no idea who his benefactor was but had been assured by his fellow inmate that the offer was “money in the bank.” He was also assured that the corrections officer now following him along the corridor had been paid “to take a walk” when they reached the cell occupied by Emilio Valdez.
Valdez lay on an ancient hospital bed that was bolted to the floor. Unlike beds used in regular hospitals, this one was raised and lowered with a hand crank at its foot. Since orderlies only visited the ward to deliver meals and medications, this meant that the position of his bed could be changed only at those times. Inmate patients could, of course, operate the beds themselves if they were physically able. Emilio was not. The hip-to-ankle cast he wore on his left leg, together with the pain in his smashed femur, made it impossible.
Now, as he lay in his eight-by-eight-foot cell, Emilio anxiously awaited the arrival of the orderly. He had been flat on his back since breakfast, when he had cajoled a corrections officer into lowering the bed again to ease the pain in his leg. Now his back was getting stiff from lying in a fixed position, and he wanted the bed raised to ease that pain.
Emilio heard voices outside his door, then a voice explaining that Emilio’s cast had to be checked. He heard a key rasp into the lock and another voice saying that something had been left behind but the speaker would be right back.
When the door opened, only the orderly entered the cell. This was unusual, since a guard had always been present when anyone entered his cell in the past. Emilio, intent on the repositioning of his bed and the easing of his pain, paid no attention to that anomaly. He also failed to notice that the orderly had closed the solid cell door behind him.
“Hey, man, I need this bed up,” Emilio said. “My fucking back is killing me.”
Barger nodded and moved forward, the hint of a smile on his lips. He liked it when people trusted him. He liked the sense of power he felt when he knew he had fooled them into complacency. He liked it even better when they realized their mistake, that sudden awakening that came into their eyes just before the fear set in. He liked the fear, too, of course. That was always the best part, the icing on the cake—that and the cries of pain. The cries of pain were good, too.
“You want an aspirin or anything?” Barger asked as he reached the bed.
Emilio shook his head. “Just the fucking bed, man. My back feels like somebody hit me with a bat.”
Barger placed a hand behind Emilio’s head, raised it slightly, and removed the pillow. “It’ll just take a minute,” he said. He smiled. “They told me it should be fast. No unnecessary pain.”
Emilio didn’t seem to hear the words at first. Then they registered, and his eyes darted to the closed door. “What are you doin’?”
The sudden realization of what was happening came to his eyes now. Barger smiled again. Then the fear hit full force, and Barger’s smile widened. He jammed the pillow down on Emilio’s face and pressed his considerable weight against it. Emilio’s body began to thrash wildly, and Barger placed a knee against his chest to hold him to the bed. Muffled cries came through the pillow; Barger wished he could hear them more distinctly. He couldn’t tell if they were curses or a plea for mercy. He liked the latter better. The concept of mercy denied appealed to him.
After three minutes Emilio stopped moving, but Barger held the pillow in place for another thirty seconds, just to be sure. Five thousand bucks was a nice piece of change. So was the promise of a job with a major drug dealer. He didn’t intend to screw up and lose either one of them.
Barger removed his knee from Emilio’s chest and placed the pillow behind his head again. He used two fingers to close his partly opened eyes and rearranged the bedsheets. It was only then that he noticed he had an erection. Later, back in his own cell, he would think about the killing again and satisfy himself.
Barger left the cell and went back into the corridor to await the corrections officer, who was already headed back in his direction.
“Everything okay in there?” the officer asked, when he reached Barger.
“He’s sleepin’ like a baby,” Barger said. “Didn’t even have to give him a fuckin’ aspirin.”
The officer slid his key into the lock. “Let’s finish this medications tour,” he snapped. “I go off duty in half an hour, and I’m takin’ my old lady out to look at new cars.”