Father McKenna led Wallace through the back halls of the rectory, past the altar, and down the aisle.
“The phone is just beyond the bathroom, in the room on the right. You can let yourself out the front door when you are done. The door is always open,” said Father McKenna, pointing down the hall.
“I will. Thanks, Father,” Detective Wallace said, producing a business card and handing it to the head of the church. “If you think of anything that may be useful, please give me a call.”
“Of course, detective. Good luck with getting the answers you are looking for.” ***
Nguyen walked up behind Wallace as the older detective dozed in his seat, his neck swaying back and forth like a flagpole in alternating winds. Nguyen tapped him on the shoulder and Wallace shook violently in his chair, his hand catching the corner of the desk, narrowly avoiding an incident that would have resulted in a daylong ribbing from colleagues.
“Nice recovery,” Nguyen said with disappointment. “Been in long, Sarge?”
“Couldn’t sleep. Got up early and went to speak with the priest at St. Michael’s this morning. He doesn’t know anything.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, he’s a priest. The call came from the public phone in the back of the church. It’s accessible to anyone. It’s down a little hall in the back of the church in one of those play rooms for kids. One of those soundproof rooms where parents can take their crying kids so they don’t disturb the service.”
“You don’t think the call was from someone who just happened to be walking by?”
“Not likely. I mean, would you look at a church and think ‘Hey, this is a good place to make a call?’”
“Not unless I was a parishioner and knew the phone was there.”
“Right.”
“So you think it was a parishioner who made the call?”
“Probably.”
“How many in the congregation?”
“According to the list the priest gave me, there are officially over fifteen hundred on the registry. Probably another thousand not on the list who come irregularly and could know about the phone.”
“That is a lot of pavement to pound.”
“Yes it is, Detective. And before going down that street, I was thinking about checking Marilyn’s former company.”
“I’m driving, I assume?” Nguyen asked.
“Until further notice.”
“Yes, sir.”
Chapter 30
Al’s legs dangled over the edge of the Potomac’s retaining wall, the water rushing by five feet below, a dangerous current lurking beneath the surface. Jake stepped under the bridge into the now familiar respite from the heat. The smell of urine was strong. Empty wine bottles with screw-off lids littered the embankment near Al’s neighbor’s designated area. Jake scrunched his nose as he walked by, two bare feet protruding from a worn dark purple blanket.
“Jake, my friend. I knew you would be stopping by today,” Al said before his visitor got too close.
Jake looked in the same direction that Al stared, the Kennedy Center and the Whitehurst Freeway dominating the skyline, the morning sun bouncing off the water in the distance. Eight-man sculling teams raced down the edge of Roosevelt Island, oars cutting through the water in perfect unison.
“Oh, yeah? Why’s that, Al?”
“Your problem hit the front page. Go grab those papers from the chair in the living room, if you don’t mind,” Al asked still staring off into the distance.
Jake tried to force a smile as he walked up the sloped dirt.
Jake dropped the papers on the concrete wall next to Al, flopped his butt down, and hung his feet over the edge, shoes still on. Al shuffled through the first paper on the top of the stack.
Jake reached into his backpack and pulled out a bag. “I brought you lunch, if you want it. An eight-inch sub with everything… an apple, a banana, and some milk.”
“Sounds very nutritious. You’ll make a great mom someday.”
“If you don’t want it, just say so. I’ll eat it myself.”
Al reached for the bag and put it on the other side of his body. “I’ll make sure it goes to someone who can use it.”
“That’s what I thought,” Jake said.
Al flipped through pages like a speed-reader on cocaine. Jake noticed the variety of the day’s newspapers. The stack was thick. Everything from the
“Take a look at the articles on the pages I dog-eared. Tell me what you see.”
Jake opened the first page, started to fidget, and moved to the next paper. The same photo, taken a few frames later than the first.
Jake looked at Al. “I know all about the photo. The story ran on the news last night.”
Al gave Jake a serious look, his mouth closed, his eyes focused. “This isn’t what I would classify as a positive development.”
Jake looked at the picture of his father and Senator Day, shaking hands with Lee Chang. All three men were identified in the photo caption.
“I’m not sure exactly, but there is something you need to know. You can’t really see this clearly, but on TV they had a closer picture. That’s the big Asian guy I think I saw the night Marilyn was killed.”
“Are you sure it was him?”
“Not one hundred percent, but sure enough that if I see him again I’m going to be running in the opposite direction before I start asking questions.”
Al fell into a deep silence, all of the life, the craziness, gone from his personality. He was somewhere else, and Jake waited for him to return.
“Senator Day,” Al said with open disdain.
“What about him?”
“It’s not good, Jake.”
“I had dinner with Senator Day a month ago. He was harmless. Arrogant and full of hot air, but harmless.”
“You had dinner with Senator Day? The senator from Massachusetts?”
“Yes. It was my first day working at my father’s office. I guess he was trying to impress me.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Jake.”
“What, that my father was trying to impress me?”
“No, that you had dinner with the senator. Just as I was beginning to like you, I find out you’ve been sharing your table with vermin.”
“What are you getting at?”
“I’ll tell you about the harmless Senator Day,” Al hissed, pausing slightly before continuing. “The plane that killed my wife and son, Egyptian Air Flight 990, took off from New York at 1:20 a.m. on October 31, 1999. The plane flew for thirty-one minutes and vanished from radar sixty miles south of Nantucket Island, off the coast of Massachusetts. As usual, there was a large-scale investigation headed up by the NTSB, the FAA…the usual suspects. Lack of physical evidence made determining the cause of the crash difficult. The debris of the 747 was scattered across some fifty square miles of ocean. Two hundred and seventeen lives reduced to pieces of foam, plastic, and seat cushions bobbing on the water,” Al said, fading out, his voice cracking.
“Of course, given my former employer, I was able to lean on a few people and get a little more information than the general public could get. There were complications with the investigation. The little black boxes were
