Vespers

II

The two men were speaking entirely in Spanish.

One of them was exceedingly handsome. Tall and slender, with black hair combed straight back from a pronounced widow's peak, he looked a lot like Rudolph Valentino. He did not know who Rudolph Valentino was, and so he wasn't flattered when people told him he looked like Rudolph Valentino.

But he guessed that Rudolph Valentino had to be some handsome hombre because if there was one thing Ramon Castaneda knew for certain it was that he himself was handsome as sin.

The man sitting with him was named Carlos Ortega and he was exceptionally ugly. He had crooked teeth and a nose that had been broken often in street fights hither and yon, and a scar that ran through his right eyebrow and partially closed his right eye, and moreover he was bald and hulking and resembled an escaped inmate from a hospital for criminally insane, which he was not. But such was the vanity of men that he, too, thought he w handsome. In fact, many women had told him he handsome. He believed them, even if all of the were hookers.

On this twenty-fifth day of May, another spring morning, the two men sat in a coffee close to their hotel, discussing why they were here the city. It was still early in the morning, a little seven; the place was full of people catching breakfasts before going to work. The two men w, in no hurry. The handsome one, Ramon, had steak and eggs for breakfast.

Carlos, the ugly who only thought he was handsome, had pancakes and sausage. They sat sipping their waiting for the food to come, chatting idly.

Ramon said in Spanish that he thought it pity a man had answered the telephone last night. man might complicate matters.

Carlos said in Spanish that he could break fucking bone in the man's body, whoever he was. what difference did it make if she was living with man, a woman, or a chihuahua?

"If she's the right woman," Ramon said.

"Well, yes, we have to make sure she's the ri woman," Carlos said.

"Which won't be easy without a photograph.”

"But we have her description from the whore.”

The German whore was a buxom blonde claimed she'd been openly abducted in Munich.

name was Constantia. While they waited for their food, the two men discussed whether or not she was reliable. Ramon mentioned that she'd been a drug addict for many years. Carlos said he knew many people who were drug addicts who nonetheless made very reliable witnesses. They got sidetracked wondering if she was a good lay. When their food came, they fell silent for a while, Ramon eating with the exquisite table manners of a man who knew he was devastatingly handsome, Carlos eating like a brute who believed that handsome men like himself could eat any fucking way they wanted to.

"You think she could be so stupid?" Ramon asked.

"How do you mean?”

"To put her name in the book?”

“It says only M. Hollis," Carlos said.

"Also, there are twenty-eight Hollises in the book.”

"But only one M. Hollis.”

"True. How's the steak?”

"Ours are better.”

He was referring to Argentine beef; a bit of national pride there. But Carlos noticed that he was enjoying it. The pancakes he himself had ordered were only so-so. He wondered why he'd ordered pancakes, anyway; he didn't even like pancakes.

"So what we have to do," Ramon said, "is go up there and take a look.”

: "She could have changed what she looks like, you Carlos said.

"Yes, women can do that," Ramon said wearily, an observation a handsome man familiar with strange and wonderful ways of women could in utter boredom.

"She could be a redhead by now," Carlos said "Or a brunette. Never mind the blonde. The could be history by now.”

"We can always look under her skirt," said, and smiled confidently.

"She could have changed it there, too. Or shaw it like a baby's. She could be an entirely woman by now.”

“The blue eyes, she can't change,” Ramon said.

"She can wear contacts to make them green brown or purple. A woman can change about herself. We could go up there, it could be same woman, and we wouldn't recognize her.”

"So what are you saying?" Ramon asked. shouldn't go up there?”

"We should go, we should go. But we shouldn’t' be disappointed if we look at her, and she doesn't the German whore's description. Who, by the may have been lying, anyway.”

"Why would she have lied?”

"For the money. We gave her money.”

"With the promise of more.”

"If we locate the Hollis woman. If that's even name.”

"The German whore says that was her Mary Ann Hollis.”

"So then why is there only an. "M' in the phone book?”

"Because if a woman puts an. "M.A.' in the phone book, a man immediately knows it's a woman," Ramon said.

"So if you put J. F. Kennedy in the phone book, it means it's a woman, correct?" Carlos said.

"Well, I don't know why she put only an. "M' in the phone book," Ramon admitted. "Maybe in this country it's cheaper than using two initials .”

Carlos looked at him.

"Why do you think she put only an. "M'?" Ramon asked.

"Because, one, it could be the wrong woman... "Well, of course, but...”

"Or, two, it could be that the man who answered the phone is the one who's listed in the book, it's a Mr. M. Hollis...”

"No, it's only women who use initials," Ramon said.

"Or, three, she could have changed her name," Carlos said.

"That's true. But then why use an. "M'? Why not change it completely?”

"Even with an. "M,' it could be changed :Completely," Carlos said. "From Mary Ann, she would have changed it completely to Magdalena or s or Malta or...”

He was an Argentine, and so all these names were , naturally.

"... Matilda or Maurita or Mirabella or or Modesta or...”

“I think I get the point," Ramon said.

"What I'm saying," Carlos said, "is we uptown, we find a curly-haired red-head with big and a fat ass and brown eyes and her name is Margarita and we think we have the wrong but instead it's really Mary Ann Hollis who upon a time was tall and thin and had blue eyes straight blonde hair, is what I'm saying.”

"So we have to be careful, is what you're saying.”

"No, I'm saying we may have to beat the shit of her," Carlos said.

"Well, of course," Ramon said, as if it without saying that all women had to have the beat out of them every now and then.

"If she tells us she's not who we think she is.

Carlos said.

"Yes," Ramon said.

"To find out who she really is, is what saying," Carlos said.

"I agree with you entirely.”

"So when do you want to go'?”

“Let me finish my steak," Ramon said.

"You eat more slowly than any person I know.”

"Because I was born rich," Ramon said. "Only poor eat quickly. For fear someone will snatch food away before they're finished .”

"You were born rich, ha!" Carlos said.

"Yes, I was born rich, ha!" Ramon mimicked.

"What I want to do," Carlos said, "I want to be waiting when she comes out of the building. We take it slow and easy. Follow her, see where she goes, what she does. We make our move when we're ready to make it. And not near a house where a man answers the phone." He looked at the remaining bit of steak on Ramon's plate. "Now hurry up and finish, rich man," he said. "Because you'll be even richer once she gives us the money.”

"Sin duda," Ramon said.

Kristin Lund looked exactly like her name. Blonde hair and blue eyes, a full tempestuous mouth, and a figure that reminded Hawes of the gently sloping hills of Sweden, where he'd never been. Kristin Lund. Krissie sounded closer to home and just as beautiful. Krissie Lund. It rolled off the tongue like a balalaika riff. On this fine spring morning, she was wearing a pastel blue skirt, high-heeled pumps of the same subtle shade, and lemon-colored pantyhose that matched her lemon-colored sweater. Krissie.

She looked very much like spring. She smelled a lot like spring, too. If Hawes was not mistaken, she was wearing Poison.

She was not surprised to find two detectives on her doorstep so early in the morning; she had heard about Father Michael's murder late last night, on on. In fact, she had called 911 at once, to ask she could get in touch with whoever would be investigating the case. The woman who'd the phone said, "What is the emergency, Miss. When Krissie told her there was no emergency, woman asked, "Do you wish to report a crime'.

Krissie told her No, she didn't wish to report a but she worked for the man whose murder she'd heard reported on television and she wanted to who'd be handling the case so she could them. The woman on the other end said, moment, please, I'll give you my supervisor." supervisor came on and immediately said, " understand you witnessed a murder," Krissie hung up, even if she was not a native of city.

"But I did try to contact you," she said, and so dazzlingly that Hawes almost swooned.

"When was this?" Carella asked.

"When?”

"When you tried to contact us.”

"Oh. Right after the Eleven O'Clock News. I going to call the church, but I called 911 And then, after I spoke to that supervisor, I know what to do. So I went to sleep. I figured get to me sooner or later.”

“Yes,” Hawes said.

"So here you are," she said, and smiled again.

"Miss. Lund," Carella said, "Father housekeeper...”

"Yes, Martha Hennessy.”

"Yes, told us that the last time she saw him alive was when he was saying good night to you.”

"That's the last time I saw him, too.”

"At about five o'clock yesterday.”

"Yes.”

"Where did you go after that?”

"I came straight here.”

They were in the kitchen of her small apartment on the fourth floor of a building downtown in The Quarter, far from the precinct territory.

Coffee was brewing in a pot plugged into an outlet above a butcher block counter. Krissie leaned against the counter, her arms folded, waiting for the coffee to perk. She had set out three cups and saucers near the coffeepot. The detectives stood by the open window.

A mild breeze fluttered the sheer white curtains on the window. Sunshine danced on the counter top, setting the bone white cups and saucers aglitter.

Krissie lifted the pot and poured the three cups full.

She carried them one at a time to a small round table near the window.

The table was already set with teaspoons, paper napkins, a creamer, and a small bowl containing pink packets of a sugar substitute.

"Did you see anyone suspicious-looking outside the church?" Carella asked. "When you left last "Well, what do you mean by suspicious-looking? mean... I guess you know that's a pretty rotten . I mean, no offense, I know you guys do a good job. But to me, everyone up there looks suspicious.”

"I was referring to anyone lurking about...”

Those words always made him feel foolish. "... anyone who seemed out of place...”

Those words, too.

"... anyone who just didn't belong there," he said.

"Just the usual," Krissie said, and shrugged.

Hawes loved the way she shrugged. "Milk?" she asked. "It's skim.”

"By the usual... ?" Hawes asked.

"The usual," she said, and shrugged again. "I'm sure you know what's up there. The usual street mix.

Crack dealers and buyers, hookers, hoodlums, the mix." She lifted her cup, sipped at the coffee.

"And last night, when you left.., nothing but the mix.”

"Just the mix.”

"How about inside the church?" Carella asked.

"See anything strange there? Anything out of the normal?”

"No.”

"When you left the, office.., this was at five, you say?”

"Five, a little bit after.”

"Were any of the file cabinets open?”

"They're never locked. We have keys, but...”

"No, I mean, were any of the drawers standing open?”

"Any papers on the floor?”

"No. Of course not.”

"Everything neat and orderly.”

"Yes.”

"Miss. Lund," Hawes said, "Father Michael's housekeeper mentioned that in recent weeks he'd been taking a strong church stand against...”

"Well, you don't think that had anything to do with his murder, do you?”

"What are you referring to?”

"The tithe.”

"The tide?" Carella asked, puzzled.

"Tithe," she said, "tithe. The congregation is supposed to contribute ten percent of its earnings to the church. As a tithe. Aren't you familiar with that word? Tithe.”

"Well, yes, it's just...”

He was thinking the word sounded medieval. He was thinking it did not sound like a word that should be lurking about in the here and now, a word that seemed out of place, a word that just didn't belong in this day and age. Tithe. Altogether archaic. Like a chastity belt. But he did not say this.

"What about this.., tithe?" he asked.

"Well, she probably meant the sermons.”

"What sermons?”

"Some pretty stiff sermons about shortchanging the church.”

"Shortchanging?”

"I see. How many of these sermons were there' "Three. I know because I'm the one who them. All hellfire and brimstone. Unusual for Michael. He was normally...”

She hesitated.

"A very gentle man," she said at last.

"But not in these sermons," Hawes said.

"No. I suppose.., well, the church really is in of repair, hardly anything's been done to it in And, you know, the neighborhood around church may be falling apart, but a lot of parishioners come from five, six blocks away, things are much better. Well, you know this you'll have a slum right next door to buildings doormen. So he really was within his rights to ask the proper tithe. Because, honestly, I think neighborhood would be even worse by now if wasn't for the work Father Michael does there. there," she said, correcting herself.

"What sort of work?" Carella asked.

"Well, trying to promote harmony," she "especially among the kids. The neighborhood there is a mix of Italian, Irish, Hispanic and well, what am I telling, you? Father Michael wonders with those kids. I'm sure you know happened there on Easter Sunday...”

Carella shook his head.

So did Hawes.

"Well, it's your precinct," Krissie said, "I don't you know what happened there? On Easter Sunday?”

"No, what happened there?" Carella asked, and tried to remember whether he'd had the duty on Easter Sunday.

"Tiffs was late in the afternoon," Krissie said, "tiffs black kid came running into the church with his head all bloody. Half a dozen white kids were chasing him with stickball bats and garbage can covers, chased him fight into the church, fight up the center aisle to the altar.

Father Michael stood his ground. Told them to get out of his church.

Walked them fight up the aisle to the door, escorted them out, told them not to come back until they knew how to behave in the house of God. I don't know who the kids were, neighborhood kids, I'm sure the incident is in your records, just look up Easter Sunday.

Anyway, that's the kind of thing I mean. Father Michael was a meaningful force in that hborhood. His congregation should have realized that.

Instead of getting so offended. By the errnons, I mean.”

"The money sermons," Carella said.

"The tithe sermons, yes," Krissie said.

"Some of his parishioners were offended by "Yes. By him calling the congregation.., well, , in effect.”

"I see.”

"From the pulpit.”

"I see.”

"One of the parishioners, I forget his distribu.ted a letter that said Jesus had driven money-changers from the temple and here they back again.., he was referring to Father you know. And the tithe sermons.”

"They must have been pretty strong Hawes said.

"Well, no stronger than the cult sermons. I those, too.”

“What cult sermons?" Carella asked.

"About the Church of the Bornless One.”

"What's the Church of the Bornless One?”

"You mean you don't.., come on, you're me. It's right in the precinct.

Only four blocks St. Catherine's.”

Hawes was wondering if Krissie Lund had thought of becoming a cop.

"I take it that the Church of the Bornless One some kind of cult," he said.

"Devil worship," Krissie said.

"And you're saying that Father Michael some sermons about...”

"About Satan being worshipped within a throw of St. Catherine's, yes.”

"Then that's what she was talking about," said, to Carella. "The housekeeper.”

Carella nodded.

He reached into his jacket, took out his and removed a photograph from the front-cover "Ever see this before?" he asked, and handed the picture to Krissie.

The picture had been taken last night, by a police photographer using a Polaroid with a flash. Her exposure had been a bit off, and so the red wasn't as true as the actual red of the paint the graffiti artist had used, nor was the green of the gate quite as bilious.

But it was a good picture nonetheless.

Krissie studied it carefully: "What's it supposed to be?" she asked.

"Ever go around to the Tenth Street side of the "Yes?”

"Past the garden gate?”

"Yes?”

"This is what's painted on that gate.”

"I'm sorry, I never noticed it," she said, and the photo, back. "Does it mean something?”

Carella was thinking it meant that Satan was worshipped within a stone's throw of St. Catherine's church, where a black kid had sou sanctuary from an angry white gang on Eas' Sunday, and where an offended parishioner circulated a letter about money-changers in temple. He was thinking that in the world of the Precinct, far uptown, any one of these things be considered a reasonable cause for murder.

"Excuse me, Miss. Lund," Hawes asked, "but i that Poison ?”

“No,” Krissie said, apparently knowing what he was talking about. "It's Opium.”

She had trained herself never to respond to name Mary Ann.

So when she heard the voice behind her speaking Spanish, using the name she'd the moment she'd come to this city, she kept right walking, paying no attention to it. She was not Ann. She was certainly not Marianna to speaking Spanish.

And then the voice said, "Ai, Mariucha," was the Spanish diminutive for Mary. She had called Mariucha in the Mexican prison. nickname had followed her to Buenos Aires. apparently here to this city as well. She walking. Her heart was pounding.

"Mariucha, despacio," the voice said, and men fell into step beside her, one on either side of her.

"Get away from me," she said at once, "or I'll yell for a cop.”

"Oh, dear," the handsome one said in Spanish.

"We don't want to hurt you," the ugly one said in Spanish.

Which meant he did want to hurt her, and would hurt her.

There was a switchblade knife in her handbag.

She was prepared to use it if she had to.

They were coming up Concord, walking away from the cluster of buildings that in a city this size passed for a campus. The school was familiarly known as The Thousand Window Bakery, a reference too historically remote for Marilyn to understand, but accurate enough in that the university complex seemed to be fashioned entirely glass. This was almost smack in the center of the that was Isola, equidistant from the rivers it north and south, only slightly closer to old Seawall downtown than to the Riverhead all the way uptown. The neighborhood was a good one. Plenty of shops and restaurants, theaters, apartment buildings with doormen there ahead on the corner a pair of 5 cops basking in the spring sunshine.

"Don't do anything foolish," the handsome one in Spanish.

She walked directly to the policemen.

"These men are bothering me," she said.

The cops looked at the two men.

The handsome one smiled.

The ugly one shrugged.

Neither of them said a word. They seemed recognize that if they opened their mouths in this and either Spanish or broken English came out, they'd be in serious trouble.

Marilyn kept waiting for the cops to something.

The cops kept looking at the two men.

They were both well-dressed. Dark suits. shirts. A red tie on one of them, a blue tie on other. Both wearing pearl grey fedoras. Very Very elegant-looking. Two legitimate enjoying a fine spring day.

"Guys," one of the cops said, "the lady wish to be bothered." He said this in the fraternal tone that men when they are suggesting to other men that nice piece of ass here and we could all handily our pleasure of her were we of a mind to, but out the goodness and generosity of our masculine let's not bother the lady if she does not wish to bothered, hmmhh? Marilyn almost expected him wink at the handsome one and nudge the ugly the ribs.

The handsome one shrugged, as if to say all men of the world who understand the va women.

The ugly one sighed heavily, as if to say We are all occasionally burdened by these beautiful, unpredictable creatures, especially at certain times of the month. Then he took the handsome one's arm, and led him away quickly and silently.

"Okay?" the cop asked Marilyn.

She said nothing.

The ugly one was looking back at her.

There was a chilling promise in his eyes.

All of the windows in the station house were open.

The barred windows on the ground-floor level, the grilled windows on the upper stories. It suddenly occurred to Carella that a police station looked like a prison. Even with the windows open, it looked like a prison. Grey, soot-covered granite blocks, a roof stained with a century's worth of shit, green globes flanking the entrance steps announcing in faded white numerals that here the Eight-Seven, take it or leave it. Carella had taking it for a good many years now.

The priest's papers were waiting on his desk.

Not eighteen hours after the discovery of Father s body, his various papers those strewn office floor, those still in his file cabinets or on desk had already been examined by the lab sent back uptown again by messenger. This was fast work. But the Commissioner himself happened to be black and who attended a Baptist church in the Diamondback section of city where he'd been born and raised . had morning made a television appearance on The Show, announcing by network to the nation at that this city could not, and would not tolerate wanton murder of a gentle man of God of persuasion. Not too many day-watch cops caught show because they were already out on the asking discreet questions in an attempt to aid abet the investigating cops of the Eight-Seven w simultaneously mollifying the irate Commissi himself. Up in the Eight-Seven, life went on as priest or not, this was just another murder, no pun intended, in a part of the city with weeds.

It was lunchtime in the squadroom The detectives sat around in shirt sleeves pistols. Sandwiches and coffee, pizza and were spread on the desks before them. Only waved to Carella as he came in. The others were busy listening to Parker.

"There is not going to be no mystery in Dallas murders, I promise you,” Parker said.

"There's never any mystery," Brown said.

"That I know. But what I'm saying, this is to be even less of a mystery than there usually Especially since it's Texas.”

"Love or money," Meyer said. "Those are only two reasons for murder.”

"That's why there are no mysteries, is what I'm saying," Brown said.

"Tell me all about it," Parker said. "But what I'm saying is the only mystery here is who the guy is.

What he is, is a crazy.”

“That's the third reason," Kling said.

"Lunacy.”

"There's nothing mysterious about any lunatic in the world," Parker said. "This thing in Dallas is gonna turn out to be just what the newspapers and the TV are saying it is, I'll bet you a hundred bucks.

It's a crazy running around killing blondes. That's all it is. When they catch this guy, he'll be nuttier than a Hershey bar, you wait and see.”

Carella wasn't particularly eager to tackle the priest's papers. Hawes had gone downtown directly after they'd left the Lund apartment, heading for Ballistics where he was trying to pry loose a report a gun used in an armed robbery. This meant that now had to wade through all this stuff by F. The papers were in several large manila lopes marked EVIDENCE. The papers s, however, were not evidence per se, in the prints lifted from them had already been :1 and filed downtown. Without the prints, the were merely papers, which might or might contain information.

But the Police Department had a lot of manila of various sizes, all of them printed with Word EVIDENCE, and a cop was likely as not to one of these envelopes whenever he wanted to send or take something someplace, even if something was a ham sandwich he planned to for lunch. So whoever had examined these the lab had later stuffed them into seven EVIDENCE envelopes, and then had stamped,: envelopes RUSH, and further stamped them MESSENGER because a priest had been this city with an Irish-Catholic police and then had wrapped the little red strings little red buttons, and here they were on desk alongside another EVIDENCE envelope did in fact contain a ham sandwich he planned for lunch.

He hated paperwork.

This was a whole hell of a lot of paperwork desk.

The clock on the wall read ten minutes to "What this is," Brown said, "is a guy mother was a blonde, she used to lock him closet every day 'cause he wet the bed. So now got a thing about blondes. He thinks all blondes his mother. So he's got to kill every blonde in world before one of them locks him in the again.”

"Like I said," Parker said.

"My mother is blonde," Kling said.

"Did she lock you in the closet every day?”

"She chained me in the basement.”

"Because you wet the bed?”

"I still wet the bed.”

“He thinks he's kidding," Parker said.

"What this thing in Texas is," Kling said, "is a guy who has a blonde wife he hates. So first he kills the two blondes he already did, then the next one'll be his wife, and he'll kill two more blondes after that, and everybody'll think it's a crazy blonde-hater doing the murders. When instead it's just this little guy, he's an accountant or something, his wife is a big fat blonde he's been married to for forty years, he can't stand her, he has to get rid of her.”

"No, I don't think this is no smoke screen," Parker said.

Carella figured he'd sooner or later have to dig into this mound of stuff here on his desk. It was just that it looked so formidable. All those envelopes full of papers. Stalling, he picked up the phone and dialed the lieutenant's extension.

"How do you feel?" Byrnes asked.

"What do you mean?”

"Your headache.”

"All gone.”

"The P.C. was on television this morning," said.

"Yes, I know.”

"A speech for every occasion, right? So what do think? Any leads yet?”

"Not yet. I just got the priest's papers, there's a lot stuff to look at here.”

"What kind of papers?”

"Correspondence, sermons, bills, like that.”

"Any diary?”

"Not according to the lab inventory.”

“Too bad," Byrnes said, and then hesitated said, "Steve..." and hesitated again and finally "I'd like to be able to tell the Commissio something soon.”

"I understand.”

"So let me know the minute anything good.”

"I will.”

"It was probably some kind of bug," Byrnes "the headache.”

And hung up.

Carella put his own phone back on the cradle, looked at all those unopened evidence again. The pile hadn't diminished one damn bit.

decided to go to the Clerical Office for a coffee. When he got back to his own desk, they still talking about the murders in Dallas.

"You want to know what I think it is?" said.

"What is it, Genero?”

"It's the full moon, is what it is.”

“Yes, Genero, thank you," Parker said. "Go the hall and take a pee, okay?”

"It's a known fact that when there's a moon. “

"What has the full moon got to do with "Nothing. But...”

"Then what the fucka you talkin' about?”

"I'm saying in the same week there's two dead blondes is what I'm saying. And there happens to be a full moon this week.”

"There is no such thing as a full moon that lasts a whole week," Parker said. "And also, what makes you think a full moon here in this city means there's also a full moon in Dallas, Texas, where this fuckin' lunatic is killin' these blondes?”

"It's a known fact," Genero said, "that there was a full moon on Monday when the first blonde turned up. And the moon was still pretty full last night when the second blonde turned up.”

"Go take your pee, willya?”

Carella looked at all the evidence bags and which one he should open first. He looked up at the clock. Almost a quarter past one. He could not think of a single other thing that might keep him starting the paperwork. So he opened the bag the ham sandwich in it.

Alternately chewing on his sandwich and sipping his coffee, he began browsing no sense into icy-cold water all at once ... through the papers in the first envelope. From the list on the outside of the envelope by someone at the lab whose initials were - and through his own corroboration of the the first envelope contained only bills, canceled and check stubs. The checks were printed the heading St. Catherine's Roman Catholic Corporation, and beneath that Michael Birney, PSCCA. All of the bills were for Father Birney had incurred as parish priest.

were bills and consequent checks for electricity... and fuel oil... and snow plowing... and food... and postage... and salaries... Martha Hennessy, for example, got a check week for $224.98 after deductions of $21.02 FICA and $34.00 for Federal Withholding Kristin Lund got a check every other week $241.37 after deductions of $21.63 for FICA $25.00 for Federal Withholding Tax... "You want to know what this is?" Meyer "This is a guy who went out with this blonde, “

Marie, whatever her name was... "Matilda," Parker said. "The first one.”

"Matilda, and it was a first date, and he score but she turned him down.

So he got so off, he killed her. Then last night...”

"Where'd you get Mary or Marie?" Brown "When the woman's name was Matilda?”

"What difference does it make what her was? She's dead. The point is...”

"I'm just curious how you got Mary Matilda?”

"I made it up, okay?”

"You musta.” ... and telephone bills, and bills service and a local garage, and bills for the church's missalettes, and mortgage bills, and bills for maintenance of the church grounds, and medical insurance bills, and newspaper delivery bills, and bills for flowers for the altar, and dozens of other bills, all of which Father Michael paid like clockwork on the first and the fifteenth of every month. There were very few bills for personal clothing, and these for relatively small amounts. The ;gest such item was for a new down parka at two :d and twenty-seven dollars; it had been a winter.

"What I'm saying," Meyer said, "is that last night, guy is still pissed offjust thinking about it. So he out and finds himself another blonde to kill.”

"How long's he gonna stay pissed off, this guy?”

I'll bet you the one last night was the end of it.”

"Until there's another full moon," Genero said.

"Will you fuck off with your full moon?" Parker "One thing I'm glad of," Brown said.

"Tomorrow's your day off," Parker said.

"That, too. But I'm also glad this lunatic ain't it here.”

“Amen,” Parker said.

priest sent quarterly checks to the .se the last one had been written on the of March for something he listed as zum" on the stub; Carella had no idea what this might be. Six checks had been written the day of Father Michael's death:

A check to Bruce Macauley Tree Care, Inc. "Spraying done on 5/19" in the amount of $37.50.

A check to US Sprint for "Service thru 5/17 the amount of $176.80.

A check to Isola Bank and Trust for " mortgage" in the amount of $1480.75.

A check to Alfred Hart Insurance "Honda Accord LX, Policy pounds HR 9872724" amount of $580.

A check to Orkin Exterminating Co. Inc. "May services" in the amount of $36.50.

And a check to The Wanderers for deposit" in the amount of $100.00.

That was it.

Each month, the balance in the St. Roman Catholic Church Corporation c leveled off at about a thousand dollars. There to be nothing irregular about Father accounts.

The next evidence envelope cont correspondence.

The first letter Carella took out of the was written on blue stationery, addre woman's hand to Father Michael Birney Catherine's Church Rectory.

He looked at the address. Mrs. Irene Brogan. The postmark envelope was from San Diego, California, and May 19. He opened the envelope and took the letter from it:

My dearest brother, I am now in receipt of yours of May 12th, and I cannot tell you with what a saddened heart hasten to...

"I'm back," Hawes said from the gate in the slatted rail divider. "Did you solve it yet?”