Cathedral

St. Paul the Apostle there was nothing but a slightly larger space than there should have been.

Burke saw a telephone on the counter of the kitchenette and dialed the rectory, got a fast busy-signal on the trunk line, dialed the operator, got a recording telling him to dial again, and slammed down the receiver. He found Gordon Stillway’s bar in a shelf unit and chose a good bourbon.

The phone rang and Burke answered, “Hello.”

Langley’s voice came through the earpiece. “Figured you couldn’t get an open line. What’s the story? Body in the library?”

“No body. No Stillway. The Saint Patrick’s file is missing, too.”

Langley said, “Interesting …” He paused, then said, “We’re having no luck in our other inquiries either.”

Burke heard someone talking loudly in the background. “Is that Bellini?”

Langley said quietly, “Yeah. He’s going into his act. Pay no attention.”

Burke lit a cigarette. “I’m not having a good Saint Patrick’s Day, Inspector.”

“March eighteenth doesn’t look real promising either.” He drew a long breath. “There are blueprints in this city somewhere, and there are other architects, maybe engineers, who know this place. We could have them all by midmorning tomorrow—but we don’t have that long. Flynn has thought this all out. Right down to snatching Stillway and the blueprints.”

Burke said, “I wonder.”

“Wonder what?”

“Hasn’t it occurred to you that if Flynn had Stillway, then Stillway would be in the Cathedral where he’d do the most good?”

“Maybe he is in there.”

Burke thought a moment. “I don’t know. Flynn would tell us if he had the architect. He’d tell us he knows ways to blow the place by mining the hidden passages—if any. He’s an intelligent man who knows how to get maximum mileage from everything he does. Think about it.” Burke looked around the tidy room. A copy of the New York Post lay on the couch, and he pulled the telephone cord as he walked to it. A front-page picture showed a good fist-flying scene of the disturbance in front of the Cathedral at noon. The headline ran: DEMONSTRATION MARS PARADE. A subline said: BUT THE IRISH MARCH. The special evening editions would have better stuff than that.

Langley’s voice came into the earpiece. “Burke, you still there?”

Burke looked up. “Yeah. Look, Stillway was here. Brought home the evening paper and …”

“And?”

Burke walked around the room holding the phone and receiver. He opened a closet near the front door and spoke into the phone. “Wet topcoat. Wet hat. No raincoat. No umbrella. No briefcase. He came home in the sleet, changed, and went out again carrying his briefcase, which contained, I guess, the Saint Patrick’s file.”

“What color are his eyes? Okay, I’ll buy it. Where’d he go?”

“Probably went with somebody who had a good set of credentials and a plausible story. Somebody who talked his way into the apartment …”

Langley said, “A Fenian who got to him too late to get him into the Cathedral—”

“Maybe. But maybe somebody else doesn’t want us to have the blueprints or Stillway….”

“Strange business.”

“Think about it, Inspector. Meanwhile, get a Crime Scene Unit over here, then get me an open line so I can call Ferguson.”

“Okay. But hurry back. Schroeder’s getting nervous.”

Burke hung up and took his glass of bourbon on a tour around the apartment. Nothing else yielded any hard clues, but he was getting a sense of the old architect. Not the type of man to go out into the cold sleet, he thought, unless duty called. The phone rang. Burke picked it up and gave the operator Ferguson’s number, then said, “Call back in ten minutes. I’ll need to make another call.”

After six rings the phone was answered, and Jack Ferguson came on the line, his voice sounding hesitant. “Hello?”

“Burke. Thought I’d get the coroner.”

“You may well have. Where the hell have you been?”

“Busy. Well, it looks like you get the good-spy award this year.”

“Keep it. Why haven’t you called? I’ve been waiting for your call—”

“Didn’t my office call you?”

“Yes. Very decent of them. Said I was a marked man. Who’s on to me, then?”

“Well, Flynn for one. Probably the New York Irish Republican Army, Provisional Wing, for another. And I think you’ve outlived your usefulness to Major Martin— it was Martin you were playing around with, wasn’t it?”

Ferguson stayed silent for a few seconds, then said, “He told me he could head off the Fenians with my help.”

“Did he, now? Well, the only people he wanted to head off were the New York police.”

Again, Ferguson didn’t speak for a few seconds, then said, “Bastards. They’re all such bloody bastards. Why is everyone so committed to this senseless violence?”

“Makes good press. What is your status, Jack?”

“Status? My status is I’m scared. I’m packed and ready to leave town. My wife’s sister came and took her to her place. God, I wouldn’t have waited around for anyone else, Burke. I should have left an hour ago.”

“Well, why did you wait around? Got something for me?”

“Does the name Terri O’Neal mean anything to you?”

“Man or woman?”

“Woman.”

Burke thought a moment. “No.”

“She’s been kidnapped.”

“Lot of that going around today.”

“I think she has something to do with what’s happening.”

“In what way?”

Ferguson said, “Hold on a moment. I hear someone in the hall. Hold on.”

Burke said quickly, “Wait. Just tell me—Jack—Shit.” Burke held the line. He heard Ferguson’s footsteps retreating. He waited for the crash, the shot, the scream, but there was nothing.

Ferguson’s voice came back on the line, his breathing loud in the earpiece. “Damned Rivero brothers. Got some senoritas pinned in the alcove, squeezing their tits. God, this used to be a nice Irish building. Boys would go in the basement and get blind drunk. Never looked at a pair of tits until they were thirty. Where was I?”

“Terri O’Neal.”

“Right. I got this from a Boston Provo. He and some other lads were supposed to snatch this O’Neal woman last night if a man named Morgan couldn’t pick her up in a disco. I assume Morgan picked her up—it’s easy today, like going out for a pack of cigarettes. You know? Anyway, now these Boston lads think it was part of what happened today, and they’re not happy about what the Fenians did.”

“Neither are we.”

“Of course,” added Ferguson, “it could all be coincidence.”

“Yeah.” Burke thought. Terri O’Neal. It was a familiar name, but he couldn’t place it. He was sure it wasn’t in the files, because women in the files were still rare enough to remember every one of them. “Terri O’Neal.”

“That’s what the gentleman said. Now get me the hell out of here.”

“Okay. Stay put. Don’t open the door to strangers.”

“How long will it take to get a car here?”

“I’m not sure. Hang on. You’re covered.”

“That’s what Langley told Timmy O’Day last summer.”

“Mistakes happen. Listen, we’ll have a drink next week … lunch—”

“Fuck lunch—”

Burke hung up. He stared at the telephone for several minutes. He had a bad taste in his mouth, and he