“I own several wine stores with my older brother. He’s the real expert, but I know the fine taste of things.” As I said the words, Mary Lambert’s flavor filled up my senses.
“You are a man full of surprises, aren’t you, Mr. Prager?”
“Fewer than you’d think.”
We sipped some more.
“When I was at school, one of my professors taught our class a little rhyme about sherry. I think it goes, ‘I must have one glass of sherry at eleven/’Tis something that must be done/For if I don’t have one glass at eleven/I will have eleven at one.’ I shall never forget that.” He took his place at his desk, a wistful look in his eyes. “It is strange, is it not, what a man remembers?”
“It’s funny you should mention that. I wanted to ask you about a rather strange man.”
“So you availed yourself of Declan Carney’s services.”
“I did.”
“And you’re curious?”
“I am, but who wouldn’t be? Between the fake name and outfit, the hair and the rest, he suggests a thousand questions.”
“Of course, what I know of his history I don’t know directly from the man himself. I don’t even know his given name. I imagine some of what has been related to me is more myth and exaggeration than fact, possibly most of it, but it makes a fascinating story. Though I somehow doubt he feels that way about it.”
“About what?”
“The story goes that he finished near the top of his class at West Point and he was being groomed for some important position within the intelligence community. But when Iraq invaded Kuwait, he was yanked out of whatever training program or graduate school he was in and pressed into combat. Then during Desert Storm, after there was nothing left for the air forces to bomb, his unit was ordered to oversee what I believe is euphemistically referred to as mop-up duty. Only in Desert Storm, this form of mop-up duty entailed bulldozing millions of tons of sand over panicked Iraqi troops and burying them alive in what would become their tomb.”
“Nice.”
“Rather monstrous, I think.”
“That’s what I meant by nice, monstrous.”
“Oh, I see.”
“So he flipped out?”
“Not initially, no. He returned home and resumed his education. Then, after several months had passed, he was given an honorable discharge. He resurfaced years later as Declan Carney.”
“A man who studies the authenticity of beautiful things.”
Rusk shook his head in agreement and finished his sherry. “Yes, I suppose that is one way to see it.”
“Beware the innocent monster,” I whispered barely loud enough for me to hear.
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing,” I said, standing up and placing my empty glass on the desk. “I appreciate the time and the sherry. Thank you, Mr. Rusk.”
“You’re quite welcome, Mr. Prager. Please feel free to visit whenever you wish. I enjoy our little chats.”
“Me too. Be well.”
On the way home, I drove to Max and Candy’s house, but it was even more of a circus than when I’d been by earlier. I had no stomach for it and went home to lick my wounds in peace.
TWENTY-FIVE
Two days later, the world wobbled on its axis and roused me from sleep. The wobble came in the form of a phone call and its voice asked, “You remember John Tierney’s address?”
“Yeah.”
“Then get over here. Now!”
I threw on a sweat suit and an old pair of sneakers, and brushed my teeth. Even as I drove, the earth shook beneath the wheels of my car. The wobbling, apparently, had only just begun.
My estimate was spot on. It took me about ten minutes to get from my condo to John Tierney’s ass-end retreat in Gerritsen Beach. Only this time a cold, mocking sun was rising overhead and the street was lit up like a Christmas tree from all the spinning, whirling roof lights atop cop cruisers, crime scene vans, ambulances, and other assorted vehicles. My stomach churned at the sight of Detective McKenna standing alone and ashen-faced just inside the band of yellow tape surrounding Tierney’s house and property. He noticed me coming his way, but it wasn’t anger I saw in his expression. I wasn’t sure what it was, just what it wasn’t.
“What was that call about?” I asked as if I didn’t already know.
“He’s dead. Come on.” He held the tape up for me like a cornerman holding up the ropes for his boxer. As we walked, he handed me some latex gloves and Tyvek booties. “Put those on and be prepared. It stinks in there.”
We walked upstairs, the paintings of the bloody-eared, black-eyed saints staring at me accusingly as we went. In spite of the stench of feces, urine, and decay, the bedroom was alive with activity. John Tierney, the centerpiece of all the fuss, was quite dead. He was seated facing the door, his head pitched forward, a chunk of his skull and scalp missing. A big old Webley revolver lay on the floor at the foot of the chair. The way it landed made it look like a tear leaking from the black eye of the Christ-head Tierney had painted on the floor. Jesus wept. There was dried blood splatter all over the foil-covered windows, some of the foil shredded by shards of his skull and brain tissue as they flew away from the shock wave and bullet. There was a larger hole in the foil where the bullet had exited the house after exiting Tierney.
“Okay,” I whispered to McKenna, “he killed himself. How long ago?”
“A couple of days.”
“Is there a note?”
“Uh huh.”
“Where?”
McKenna pointed at the laptop, its screen also smeared and dotted with blood and tissue, but not overwhelmed by it.
“What’s it say?”
He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a little note pad. “It all runs together on the screen, but when you put in spacing, it reads: ‘My quest is over. My job done. I did it. I did it. I did it. Burned and scattered to the wind. Ashes to ashes. I did it. Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum.. ’”
“Hail Mary, full of grace, the lord is with thee,” I mumbled. “Blessed art thou amongst women. Blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus…
“I thought you were Jewish.”
“I was married to an ex-Catholic for almost twenty years. And try and remember, Jesus’s last supper was a Passover Seder.”
He snorted and shook his head. “You’re just full of surprises.”
“Everybody seems to think so.” Then I asked the million dollar question: “Do you think he really burned her body?”
“Let’s go for a walk.”
We went back down the stairs, turned around the staircase into the kitchen, but when we stepped into the kitchen, a young detective, NYPD shield hanging out of his jacket pocket, put his hand up and said to McKenna, “Wait a second. Who’s this guy now?”
That set McKenna off. “This guy is the PI that gave me the lead that got us here. He’s the one who tracked Tierney down in the first place.”
“We’ll wanna interview him when you’re done.” He continued to talk to McKenna directly as if I wasn’t standing a foot away from him.
“That’s fine,” I said. “Now can I see what there is to see?”
