Unholy City Page 6

  “What about Rose Bartruff?”

  “Oh, yes, Rose was there.”

  “And the rector?”

  “She was around but not in the lounge.”

  “Did you see Susan Bentley?”

  Vivian paused. “I don’t remember where she was when I came back from the kitchen, but I do recall seeing her in front of the coatrack when Rose came in from the garden and got her.”

  Haggerty considered the warden’s words. If Claire were here, she would be disturbed by the vagueness of Vivian’s answers and the many small folds of undocumented time hidden in the chaotic choreography of the night. He knew as well as Claire did that the solution to the night’s mystery likely lay in those invisible gaps of time. He massaged the back of his neck. The complete sequence of events would never be reconstructed unless he and Claire could dislodge and piece together all the truths tucked into these multiple minds. He felt Vivian Wakefield’s eyes study him. Could she read his suspicion? He switched on a smile. “What happened at your vestry meeting tonight?”

  “We always start with a prayer by Mother Anna,” said Vivian. “After that, we spend a few moments pouring tea and coffee, and then we get down to business.”

  “And what exactly was the business tonight?”

  “It’s always the same. Roger—Roger Sturgis—gives a finance report. That’s our reality check.” She smiled. “Then there’s a report on the church grounds—we had some very expensive boiler issues this winter—and after that, Peter gives a cemetery update, and the other committee chairs have the opportunity to take the floor.”

  She still hadn’t told him what had happened tonight, he thought. “Did Emily Flounders take the floor?”

  “Emily doesn’t speak very often,” Vivian answered. “She’s the secretary. She’s usually very focused on taking the minutes.”

  “And you?” Haggerty asked.

  “In addition to serving as the junior churchwarden, I also run the outreach committee, and I’m the lay historian.”

  “I didn’t know churches had historians.”

  “Two-hundred-and-twenty-five-year-old churches often do.”

  He nodded. “Tell me about the outreach committee.”

  “We oversee programs that serve our community.”

  “What kind of programs?”

  Vivian narrowed her eyes. “Over the years, Detective, I’ve launched three programs here at St. Paul’s. Saturday Supper feeds about two hundred homeless people a nutritious meal once a week. Weekday Beds shelters ten homeless men in our church basement on Monday through Thursday nights so they can attend a job-training program in Midtown during the day. And the St. Paul’s Pantry collects food for the working poor—families who don’t earn enough to pay their rent and put food on the table.” Vivian paused and stared at him.

  Haggerty wondered if she expected him to comment on her good works. “Did you speak on behalf of the outreach committee tonight?” he asked.

  She nodded. “I want St. Paul’s to do something for the children in this neighborhood, children who are growing up in poverty. The Frederick Douglass projects are only blocks away from our doors. Most of the children who live there leave school every afternoon only to spend long hours alone while their parents work, or look for work, or succumb to drugs and alcohol because they feel so hopeless about their lives. No one helps these children with their homework. No one reads to them, makes them dinner, or even bothers to ask about their day. I proposed a volunteer alliance between these children and our seniors who have time on their hands and want to feel purposeful.”

  “And? Was the vestry receptive?”

  “Sadly, no.”

  “Why not?”

  Vivian shrugged. “We live in dark times, Detective. The hope I once felt is gone. Self-interest and bigotry have regained legitimacy. You see it even here on the Upper West Side. Haven’t you experienced an uptick in crimes of hatred and intolerance? Even our church is less interested in serving the needs of those less fortunate than ourselves. I remember when St. Paul’s was a model of how people could bridge racial and economic divides. May I tell you a brief story from our past, Detective?”

  Haggerty didn’t see how church history was going to shed any light on two dead bodies, and yet he was curious. “Sure, go on.”

  “Are you familiar with Seneca Village?”

  Haggerty shook his head.

  “It was the oldest community of free blacks in our city’s history. It was founded in 1825 only blocks from St. Paul’s, and our church archives tell us that between 1826 and 1828, the affluent white congregation of St. Paul’s helped the black residents of Seneca Village build a church.”

  Haggerty nodded.

  “In 1856,” she continued, “the city reclaimed Seneca Village by eminent domain so that Central Park could be built. The villagers had to move, and St. Paul’s helped them build a new church, St. Augustine’s Chapel.”

  Haggerty now regretted that he’d let Vivian go down this road. He frowned, and the junior churchwarden read his impatience. “It’s all about community outreach, Detective. St. Paul’s has always had the community in mind—with no concern for the color of people’s skin, their economic status, or any other differences.”

  Haggerty ran his fingers through his hair. “And you’re telling me this because . . . ?”

  Vivian stretched her arm across the rector’s desk and pressed her hand over his. “Because none of us can hope to understand the present without understanding our past.” She pulled back her hand and crossed her arms. “I assume you’re familiar with Mark 3:25, Detective? ‘And if a house be divided against itself, that house cannot stand.’”

  Haggerty nodded. Everyone knew that quote thanks to Abraham Lincoln, even if they didn’t know it came from the Bible.

  “The St. Paul’s I once knew was committed to the community we served. But that is changing. While some of us remain dedicated to serve as the collective social conscience of our neighborhood, others now see that role as unsustainable—or no longer worth the sacrifice required to sustain it. It’s the sad result of the times we now live in, Detective. I’m afraid I can’t tell you what happened here tonight, but I do know that these deaths should be a warning to us all.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Codella was reentering the Blue Lounge with a glass of water when Sergeant Zamora stopped her. “The ME’s with the body, Detective.”

  She removed her hand from the doorknob. “Which body?”

  “Philip Graves.”

  She pointed to the door. “Susan Bentley’s in there. Make sure she stays put, and don’t let her talk to anyone.”

  Codella handed him the water glass and headed out of the parish house. She followed the stone path through the garden and grabbed booties from the officer stationed in front of the crime scene. Rudolph Gambarin was holding a rectal thermometer as she approached. He glanced at her but offered no greeting before he returned his attention to the digital display. This was part of calculating the time of death, she knew, and she had to stop herself from asking him what the body temperature was. Gambarin worked his death scenes slowly and methodically, and he didn’t share his insights until he was good and ready to. She stood next to Banks, and together they watched the small, meticulous man complete his visual inspection of the body.

  Banks nudged her arm. “You scored a big one here,” he said in a low voice as he looked at his watch. “Shit, it’s almost one thirty. We won’t even get to the minivan body for another hour. Get this, Codella. It’s Parents’ Day at my son’s school tomorrow. I get to tell them all about the exciting life of a crime scene investigator.”

  “Please tell me you’re going to spare them these details.”

  He grinned. “You and me, Codella, we always end up at the same scenes, don’t we? You think it means something?”

  She rolled her eyes.

  Ten minutes later, Gambarin signaled her over, removed his thick black glasses, and folded them slowly. His disposable jumpsuit rustled as
he pocketed them. Under the superbright flood beam of a scene light, she noticed that a few gray hairs in his eyebrows badly needed trimming. “I have no doubt that the manner of death was homicide,” he said.

  “A head blow?”

  He nodded. “Or two or three.” He looked around. “Though I don’t see any objects around here that a killer could have used.”

  “What sort of object are we looking for?”

  “Something hard and flat, I think. But you can’t expect me to say much more based on what’s here, Detective. This is a significantly altered scene. Many hands have touched this body before me.” His words were an obvious chastisement. “I’ll have to get him on my table.”

  “But you did calculate a time of death,” she said.

  He nodded. “Assuming the victim was ninety-eight point six before he died, then we’re looking at a time of death between ten thirty and eleven PM.”

  “That’s around when he left the meeting. Can you be any more precise?”

  “Come on, Detective. You know there are too many variables for that.” Gambarin peeled off one set of nitrile gloves only to put on a second. “I’ll go see the other body now.”

  Codella told Banks, “Find me whatever the killer used to bang this body over the head.” Then she returned to the parish house and told Zamora to get Haggerty. When he appeared, she said, “Tell me everything you’ve learned before I talk to Susan Bentley.”

  CHAPTER 18

  The doorman at the West End Avenue building was asleep at the front desk. Muñoz rapped on the ledge and the man’s head shot up. Muñoz showed his shield. “Which apartment belongs to Emily Flounders?”

  The doorman wiped drool at the edge of his mouth onto the back of his hand. “7C.” He looked from Muñoz to Officer Dunn as he picked up the house phone. “You want I buzz her?”

  “No. Just point us to the elevator.”

  As they waited for the car to descend from an upper floor, Muñoz stared at the petite uniformed officer in the bright lobby light. Her cap was a little too large for her head. They had talked amiably on the walk over, but now they were silent. She was flexing her slender fingers by her sides, and he guessed that she’d never done a death notification either.

  The elevator doors opened, they got in, and Dunn pressed seven. She was biting her lower lip. “You watch cop shows on TV?” he asked.

  “Never,” she said.

  “Me neither. Can’t stand them.” He smiled, and she smiled back.

  The doors opened.

  He let her step out first. They walked down a carpeted hall to 7C, and Muñoz rang the bell. On the other side of the door, light footsteps approached. The feet were bare or slippered, he guessed. The bolt clicked. The doorknob turned. And then a woman in her early thirties was staring at them across the threshold. Her eyes dropped to the shield in his hand. She took a step back and shook her head. She was ready for bad news, he realized, and this came as a relief to him. His task would be slightly easier if she already expected the worst.

  She wiped away a tear. “My mother should have been home three hours ago. I don’t know where she is.”

  Muñoz placed his hand on her forearm. “I’m Detective Muñoz, and this is Officer Dunn,” he said gently. “May we come in?”

  CHAPTER 19

  Codella positioned a chair in front of the couch where Susan Bentley sat. The doctor’s legs were crossed and her right hand rested on the hem of her pencil skirt. Her calves were lean and muscular, but her knees were scraped and speckled with dirt—from kneeling on the hard stone path hours ago, Codella imagined. “What kind of doctor are you?”

  “A pediatric endocrinologist.” Susan pushed hair behind her ear. She wore a perfume Codella couldn’t identify.

  “So you’re not the sort of doctor who performs emergency CPR very often.”

  “As a matter of fact, I haven’t had to perform it since my ER rotation twenty years ago. But I’m trained.” She looked relaxed and composed.

  “And you’re a vestry member.” Codella’s eyes panned the room. On the wall to her left were three framed photographs of St. Paul’s Church at different periods in the church’s history. The oldest, a sepia-toned picture, showed parishioners stepping out of a horse-drawn carriage in front of the church’s south gate long before that gate was made of wrought iron.

  “That’s correct.” Susan’s tone was affable, but she offered no extraneous information. She was like a well-coached witness on the stand.

  “How long have you attended St. Paul’s?”

  “Seventeen years now,” answered Susan. “Since my oldest son was three.”

  “So you live in this neighborhood?”

  “No, I live on East Eighty-Seventh and Park Avenue, closer to my office and hospital.” She placed her well-manicured left hand on the edge of the frayed blue couch.

  “Then why St. Paul’s?”

  “I like it here.” Susan shrugged. “It’s relaxed and diverse. You won’t find many churches in Manhattan with so many black, white, and Hispanic parishioners worshipping together.” Codella heard obvious pride in her voice as she said this. “And we’re not just racially diverse,” Susan continued. “Many of our parishioners are refugees from less tolerant religions. Divorced Catholics who couldn’t remarry. Gay people shunned by the faiths they grew up in. Former evangelicals. Mormons. We even have a family of recovering cult members.” She sounded as if she were reciting promotional copy from a St. Paul’s welcome brochure. “St. Paul’s allows people to define their faith however they see fit,” she concluded, “which is why our parish is filled with so many caring people.”

  And one of those caring people might be a murderer, Codella thought as she steered the conversation to the night’s vestry meeting and listened to the doctor give a detailed account of everyone’s arrivals and departures. Her chronology closely matched what Codella had heard from Roger Sturgis and what Haggerty had learned from Rose Bartruff and Vivian Wakefield.

  “Did you speak to Mr. Graves after the meeting before he left the church?”

  Susan Bentley smirked.

  “What is it?” asked Codella.

  “He’d correct you if he were alive to do it. He was a PhD, you see. He liked to claim the doctor title.” Her tone was unmistakably derisive.

  “I see. Then did you speak to Dr. Graves after the meeting?”

  “Only to say good-bye.”

  “Where were you when you said good-bye to him?”

  Susan paused before answering. “Between the coatrack and the Community Room. He was on his way to the door.”

  “How did he seem to you?”

  Susan shrugged. “He seemed fine.”

  “Do you remember if Roger Sturgis was nearby?”

  “Roger? No. I don’t remember.”

  “What about Peter Linton?”

  “Peter was in the lounge—I think.”

  “And the rector?”

  “She’d gone to her office to get a book.”

  “What book?”

  “On meditation.” Susan reached to the floor for her cream-colored purse and brought out a slim paperback volume. “She lent it to me.”

  Codella stared at the title—Finding Your Inner God—and tried to envision the blonde endocrinologist cross-legged on a floor with her eyes closed. “How long was she gone?”

  “A few minutes, I guess.”

  “And then what?”

  “We sat at a table in the Community Room. She showed me some pages she’d flagged for me.”

  “I’m curious. What made her lend you that book tonight?”

  Susan tucked the volume back in her purse and shrugged casually. “I happened to be in her office a few days ago. We got on the subject of daily meditation, and I told her I wanted to try it.”

  “I hear it increases the white matter in your brain,” Codella said with feigned interest. “Do you meet with the rector often?”

  Susan frowned. “No. Not often.”

  Codella thumbed a note in
to her iPhone. She could feel Susan watching her closely. She looked up with a smile. “How long would you say the two of you were in the Community Room discussing meditation?”

  “Not long. Mother Anna was eager to get home. Todd—that’s her husband—wasn’t feeling well, and she was concerned about Christopher, her son. He’s two. She was afraid he might be keeping Todd up.”

  “What did you do after the rector left?”

  “I went back to the coatrack. Roger was there. We were chatting.”

  “How long would you say you were chatting?”

  “Five minutes. Maybe a little longer.”

  “And that’s where you were when Rose Bartruff ran inside to get you?”

  “That’s right.” Susan crossed her arms and massaged her biceps as if she were cold. “She was in a panic. Roger and I followed her out to the side of the church, and she pointed out a body on the ground. I had no idea it was Philip until I rolled him over and Roger shined a light on his face. Philip had no pulse, but he was still warm. I knew the chances of saving him were slim, but I felt I had to try.”

  “You attempted to use an AED.”

  The doctor nodded. “Rose rushed inside to get it, but when Roger opened it up, we discovered that it wasn’t properly charged.”

  “Had that ever happened before?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “We only installed the unit six months ago. It seemed like a smart thing to do since we have so many elderly parishioners. We trained five staff members to use it, but there hasn’t been a need—until tonight.”

  “What went through your head when you realized the defibrillator wasn’t going to help you?”

  “Just that I was going to have to do CPR for as long as it took the EMTs to arrive.”

  Codella detected no defensiveness in the doctor’s tone or manner—nothing to warrant her suspicion—but an unexplained fact remained: something had caused the defibrillator to fail, whether it was deliberate human intervention or an unfortunate mechanical flaw, and she would need to find out what it was.