‘Who?’
‘You don’t know him, Harry. His name’s Hansen Linde. But don’t worry. As long as you play it straight, Hansen won’t be a problem, though you’ll most likely find him annoying.’
Warning delivered, Sarney turned away. I let him reach the door before I set down my sandwich.
‘You wouldn’t wanna tell me,’ I asked, ‘what “playing it straight” actually entails?’
‘That’s simple,’ he said without looking back at me, ‘just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’
I finished my dinner and disposed of the garbage before heading for Drew Millard’s office. When I appeared in the doorway, I thought he was going to get to his feet and salute. Whatever fears he’d entertained regarding Harry Corbin had been multiplied to infinity by the appearance of an inspector from the Puzzle Palace.
‘Sorry to bother you, lieutenant, but I was wondering about Barsakov’s prints. Did they get run?’
‘Yeah, they were run this morning and they came back clean. Something else, by the way. You’re taking the rest of the tour off. Inspector’s orders.’
‘That anything like doctor’s orders?’
‘More like God’s orders, Harry. More like they were written on the stone tablets. Peons like us, all we can do is read ’em and weep.’
NINETEEN
The next morning, at ten o’clock, after a restless night, I rang the bell of Blessed Virgin’s rectory, a single- family home to the west of the church. A buzzer sounded from inside, followed by a click as the lock on the door released. I entered to find myself in a small outer room, facing a slender woman seated behind a desk. The woman’s autumn-gold dress set off her mahogany skin, as did the amber stones in her large earrings and a tiny cross at the end of the chain that encircled her neck.
‘Yes, may I help you?’ Her voice held the merest hint of the Caribbean.
‘My name is Detective Corbin. Would you let Father Manicki know that I’ll be needing a few minutes of his time?’
‘Can I tell him what it’s about?’
‘That won’t be necessary.’ I flashed my best smile. ‘We’re old friends.’
After a short wait, I was ushered into the priest’s spacious office. A large desk set before a window held a computer, an in-out box and a coffee mug decorated with a photo of the Vatican. The rest of the space was given over to a long couch and four easy chairs. Two of the chairs were set directly across from the couch, two at right angles. Father Manicki was seated in the chair at the far end of the couch. He didn’t rise when I stepped into the room, nor did he offer his hand, and it was obvious that he’d spoken with Sister Kassia. I should have thanked him for the tip, the subject’s current state of mind always being of interest to the interviewer. Instead, I took the chair to his right, perching on the edge of the seat, and let my briefcase drop to the floor.
‘How have you been, Father?’
‘Fine, how about you?’ The priest’s tone was sharp enough to walk the border of flagrant sarcasm.
‘Myself, I’m having a little problem with my conscience, something I need to get straightened out.’
‘Are you a Catholic?’
‘No, Father, but I’m not anything else, either. Besides, nobody understands that confession is good for the soul better than a detective. I’m talking about the relief that follows a confession. I see that relief, plain as day, in the suspects I interrogate. They always feel better once they get that burden off their chest.’
A portrait of the Madonna holding the infant Jesus hung on the wall facing my chair. The infant’s attention was on a book resting on his mother’s lap, which he examined closely while his mother gazed down fondly. Above her, a small angel held a gold crown with both hands. I found myself wondering, as the silence built, why the angel, with his black wings and sumptuous charcoal-gray robes, was so dark. Was there a hidden message, something about vanity perhaps? Or was the artist only working a contrast between the angel and the Virgin’s blond hair and sumptuous blue robes?
‘Are you here to confess?’ Father Manicki finally asked. ‘Because, if you are, I’ll be hearing confessions tomorrow afternoon in the church.’
‘I’m not here to confess,’ I said. ‘Not yet, at least. No, before I can make a confession, I have to know whether or not I’m a sinner. That’s the first step, right? To examine your conscience?’
‘It is,’ he admitted.
‘Then that’s what I’m here for. I want to know if I’m living in a state of sin.’
Father Manicki looked down at his hands, as if he hoped to find the solution to his dilemma inscribed on his knuckles. He’d made a good-faith effort to be rid of me when he failed to identify Plain Jane the first time I approached him, a charade Sister Kassia had exposed when she called me on that Sunday morning. So where could he go now, this compassionate minister to the downtrodden? Could he throw me out on my ass, perhaps after a dressing down for my impudence? If our positions were reversed, that’s exactly what I would have done. I certainly wouldn’t have given him the opportunity to plant a wedge and pound away at it.
I took advantage of the silence to pull my briefcase from the floor, to fumble inside for a moment before removing the likeness of Plain Jane Doe I’d planted all over town. Very carefully, I laid the photo on a glass coffee table so that it faced the priest.
‘I must care about her,’ I said as I straightened up. ‘I wouldn’t have spent all those hours creating that photo on my computer if I didn’t care. Keep in mind, I had very little to start with.’
Father Stan raised his eyes to meet mine. ‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m saying, Father, that when I found her, she looked like this.’ The photo I then removed from the briefcase was a close-up of Plain Jane’s face taken a few moments after I’d rolled her onto her back. I laid it on the coffee table alongside the first shot, inviting a comparison. To his credit, Father Stan didn’t recoil, though his jaw tightened and his full lips squeezed into a thin line.
‘Creating a recognizable likeness wasn’t as hard it might appear.’ I used my index finger to illustrate as I went along. ‘This discharge from her nose and mouth? You can eliminate that in under an hour. Likewise for the crushed portion of her skull. And the main features of her face? Her overbite, her square jaw, her short nose? They’re pretty obvious. The only problem I really had was with her eyes. In this shot, all you can see is a white film, but when I got up close at the crime scene, I observed a pair of blue circles underneath. These circles, they were very faint and I couldn’t determine the exact shade of blue. That’s one reason I printed the final shot in black-and- white. It’s like her skin, which was tinged with green. Taking the green out was no problem. But was she originally pale? Was her complexion sallow? Did she have color in her cheeks? Once a victim’s in this condition, it’s impossible to know.’
I straightened up, drawing the priest’s eyes away from the photos and onto myself.
‘I thought,’ he said, ‘there were police artists who did this sort of thing.’
‘There are, but I was too impatient to wait for them to get their act together. That’s not really the point, anyway.’
Despite my generally bullying attitude, I had Father Stan’s full attention. ‘Then what is?’ he asked.
I again fumbled in my briefcase, making a show of the search, finally removing the original likeness I’d created on the computer. The shot was generic, with Plain Jane staring straight ahead, her face expressionless.
‘See, this is what I first came up with. I don’t think it took more than a few hours.’
‘I recognize her immediately. Anybody would.’
‘I knew that Father, but I still wasn’t satisfied. I wanted more than recognition. I wanted to find.?.?.’ I paused long enough to draw a breath and smile ruefully. ‘Would you believe it’s been more than two weeks and I don’t even know her name?’
Father Manicki tugged at his Roman collar, revealing a line of chafing beneath. ‘I understand how frustrated you must feel, detective, but I don’t see how I can help you.’
I ignored him. ‘The point I’m trying to make is that I must have cared for her. If not, I would have been satisfied with my first effort. Recognizable is what it’s all about, right? For a cop? But I kept going, hour after hour, turning her head this way and that, widening and narrowing her mouth and her eyes, lightening and darkening the
