Chapter 45

April’s weather kept improving, a warm, fragrant breath. Lisa won the special congressional election in a landslide and the Ocean Park Gazette published a front-page photo of the victory party. Hector Diaz’s crimes had been fodder for the tabloids for weeks, a new horror revealed every day. As a result, she’d run uncontested, touted as the moral candidate. Conley smiled at the irony. She and Bill McNulty were embracing in the picture, streamers on their shoulders, delirious staffers applauding all around. At least someone was happy. The hug looked platonic enough, like a teammate’s embrace. In two days their divorce would be finalized, though Lisa hadn’t bothered to wait. Funny how few people ever knew the truth behind a news story.

He checked his watch, folded the paper, and dressed for church. The drive to St. Margaret’s took him down winding, tree-lined streets, past cookie-cutter neighborhoods with neat houses and trimmed lawns. He parked in the crowded lot next to St. Margaret’s Chapel, in the shadow of the big main church. The chapel was standing room only.

Familiar faces lined the pews. Most of the congregation of St. Ambrose was there, listening to Father McCarrick’s sermon on the power of faith and the joy of forgiveness. The pulpit was modest and he was barely visible, just a voice from the altar.

After Mass, Father stood on the sun-soaked steps and greeted his flock. He smiled, nodded, shook hands, kissed babies, stood on his toes to hug matrons. When the crowd finally dissipated, Conley joined him.

“Finally found your way to the ʼburbs, Matt. About time.”

“Nice sermon, Father.”

“If the back rows had stayed awake, I might believe you.”

“How’s the new rectory?”

McCarrick shrugged. “Sharing isn’t easy. Mrs. Blodgett is complaining about the kitchen and she doesn’t like Father Starrett’s housekeeper.”

“Shocker. How’s everything else?”

“Metza Metz.” He rotated his hand back and forth. “Crowd’s been good. St. Amby’s whole congregation is here.”

“Okay, so what’s the problem?”

McCarrick’s voice raised an octave and his finger pointed at the big-domed church on the other side of the lot. “St. Margaret’s crew barely makes a dent in that big ark of a church. I’d bet a jug of wine we’re beating that crowd. Maybe a trade’s in order.”

“Father, I don’t like the sound of this.”

“Well, it only makes sense we switch places—for the good of the Archdiocese.”

“Don’t start.”

He closed his eyes. “Wasn’t my idea, Matt. Mrs. Blodgett made the observation. You know how she picks up that sort of thing.”

“Remember, you’re a guest at St. Margaret’s. Be thankful for what you’ve been given.”

“Matt, I’m being thankful…but practical too.”

The last car left the parking lot. A traffic cop in a fluorescent vest was collecting orange cones. Conley held up two fingers.

“Peace, Father McCarrick.”

Father sighed, lifted his cassock over his head, and smoothed his hair with his palms.

“Ah, yes, Matt. Peace it is.”

****

Spring had brought an unusual calm to Ocean Park. The Gang Unit got a tip that the Asian Boyz were stockpiling guns, drugs, and cash in order to grow the drug trade, and Stefanos decided to check it out. Experience had taught him that tranquility was a gift that needed nurturing.

State troopers gathered the boys on the porch of their River Street home. They sat cross-legged on the deck, their dark, puzzled eyes staring at their captors. Conley called them into the hallway one by one for questioning while Stefanos and Mazzarelli searched. The boys denied the drug rumors and cursed Vithu for the carnage that had visited Ocean Park. His death had dissolved their fear and unbridled their hatred for him.

Mazzarelli clopped down the steep staircase holding a cardboard box that contained baggies of marijuana, a broken zip gun, and a bottle of homemade rice wine. He gave his report to Stefanos at the landing.

“Nothing, Captain.”

“You searched everywhere?”

“All except the prayer room.”

“I’m done too,” Conley said. “I think we got a bad tip.”

Stefanos sighed. “Okay, let ʼem go, Conley. You and I will toss the prayer room.”

The room was painted in a riotous purple. Paper prayer flags were strung around the walls on clotheslines. Candles burned, tendrils of smoke rising. Ceramic figures lined narrow tables—offerings to Buddha—along with jewelry, macramé, and knick knacks. The puffy-cheeked Buddha smiled at it all, his golden face content.

Weren’t many places to search. Conley was kneeling, checking the undersides of the prayer benches when a melancholy seized him. Blame it on the memory of Lloyd preaching in that same room, or his haunting voice—which had begun to visit often. The sadness prompted a question, which he regretted as soon as it left his mouth.

“Do you pray, Captain?”

Stefanos was inspecting the offerings, lifting statues, turning them over. He separated a collection of nesting dolls and looked inside. Had he heard the question? Conley decided he hadn’t, and was glad. He wouldn’t ask again.

“Nothing here,” Stefanos said and returned a bracelet to the card table. His eye caught sight of a long knife with a ceramic handle, and he picked it up. One side of the blade was serrated, the other curved and sharp as a razor. The handle was covered with ornate, curling snakes.

“I pray every day,” Stefanos said suddenly. Sunlight poured in through the painted windows and played off the blade. “I pray for Lloyd, for Madie and her kids, and those that are special in my life. Then I pray for me.”

He laid the knife down, walked out of the room, and looked over his shoulder.

“Time to go, Detective Conley. Our work here is done.”