Speak of the Devil

15

IF ONE MORE PERSON HAD TRIED TO SQUEEZE INTO GERALD SMALL’S tiny office, the floor would have buckled. It held three comfortably. Four in a pinch. Five was not going to float. I dispatched the undercover cop. He was the largest of the five, and from where I sat-on a corner of Gerald Small’s desk-the most expendable. What he knew, I knew, and I knew more.

The cop still had a chip on his shoulder about being drawn on by wiry Jigs Dugan. Jigs was leaning against a file cabinet with his arms crossed, taunting the cop with his best Irish smirk. The cop swore under his breath as he lumbered out of the room.

“Okay. Now there’s a little more oxygen for the rest of us,” I declared.

The woman who had arrived with claim number 16 was seated in the office’s only chair other than the one behind Gerald Small’s desk, which was occupied by its owner. She sat erect, with her hands in her lap. Once all the artillery had been put away at the coat check, I’d cautioned her, “This is a police matter. I’m going to ask that you remain silent for the time being.”

She repeated what had already become abundantly clear: “I’m confused by this whole matter.”

Gerald Small was huffing and puffing like an old Stanley Steamer. I demand to know this, I demand to know that. I will not put up with people waving guns all over my museum. This and this and that and that. A wavering finger took aim at Jigs, along with a wavering voice. “Who is that man?”

I answered matter-of-factly, “He’s a friend of mine. Francis Dugan.”

Gerald Small sputtered, “He could have killed somebody.”

I stole a glance at Jigs. “True. Or he could have saved somebody.”

“Or both,” Jigs threw in.

“I demand an explanation.”

“Mr. Dugan is my responsibility,” I said. “I asked him to come to the museum. Philip Byron knows nothing about him.”

That was when Gerald Small delivered his provocative bombshell.

“Philip Byron is missing.”

“Missing?” For no logical reason, I looked to the woman as if she might be able to offer some illumination. But unless she had mastered the Queen of All Poker Faces, she was as clueless as the chair she was sitting in. I turned back to Gerald Small. “Who says he’s missing?”

“I got a phone call. I was coming down to tell you. Philip never showed up at that officer’s funeral. His car was found on Fort Washington Avenue, not more than a quarter mile from here.”

“Who called you?”

“The mayor himself.”

The woman in the chair brought her fingers to her throat. “My goodness.”

Small went on, “The mayor asked about the money. He wanted to know if it had been picked up.”

The woman opened her mouth to speak, but I raised a silencing hand. I knew that this was exactly what Philip Byron would have wanted had he been here. Containment. Gerald Small knew as little as possible about why a million dollars had been delivered to his museum’s coat-check room for pickup. There is no record, Gerald. Whatever the woman would have to say about why she had shown up with claim number 16 in her purse, I didn’t want her blabbing it here.

The backpack was sitting next to me on the desk.

“Why don’t you stow that somewhere?” I said to Small. “We’ll be back for it.” I slid off the desk.

Small stared at me as if I’d just spoken in a rare Senegalese dialect. “Where are you going?”

I turned to the woman. “May I have your name, please?”

“Mary Ryan.”

“Mary Ryan and I are going to get some air.”

Small was on the verge of full apoplexy. “I need to speak with my staff! I need to tell them what’s happening!”

“Nothing is happening,” I said. “The police were running an emergency drill. The museum was cooperating. The drill was a success. You may thank them for their professionalism.”

“I demand to know what this is all about! Who is this woman? What is she planning to do with all this money?”

Jigs pushed away from the filing cabinet. “Do we need a muzzle on this hen?”

“But I don’t-”

“Shut up.”

I turned back to the woman. “Miss Ryan?” She rose from her chair. “Or is it Mrs.?”

“It’s Sister,” she said.

I took a beat. “Sister?”

“That’s right.”

“You’re a nun?”

She answered with a gentle tilt of the head. Next to the file cabinet, Jigs Dugan crossed himself with demon speed.

“Oh shit. JesusMaryMotherofGod…”