Crisscross rj-8 Page 3

  Jack leaned back and stared at her. His impulse was to say, Forget it. He didn't do this for fun. Too often a fix-it involved putting his skin on the line; might be different if he had a replacement, but this skin was his one and only. So he liked a good portion of his fee up front. Installments meant a continuing relationship, excuses for being late, and on and on. He didn't want to be a bank, and he didn't want a long-term customer relationship. He wanted to get in, get out, and say good-bye.

  And besides, dealing with a blackmailer could get ugly.

  But the twenty-five large nesting in his pocket brought back the previous owner's words…

  Use whatever is left over to offset the fee for someone who can't afford you…

  Maybe a lady who said she did good works and gave to charity deserved a little herself.

  Still, he couldn't bring himself to agree right away.

  "Well, like I told you yesterday, this could be a tough job, with no guarantees. Getting your photos isn't enough. I have to get the negatives as well. But if he used a digital camera, there won't be any. Digital photos will exist on a hard drive somewhere, and most likely on a backup disk somewhere else. Finding all that will take time. But that's Stage Two. Stage One is finding out who is blackmailing you."

  She shook her head. "I just can't imagine…"

  "Got to be someone who knows you. Once we identify him, we'll need to steal all copies of whatever it is he's holding over you without him knowing you were behind it."

  "How can you do that?"

  "The ideal scenario is to make it look like an accident—say, a fire. But that's not always feasible. If you're not his only victim—I know of one guy who's made a career out of blackmail—it makes things a little easier."

  "How?"

  "I can liberate more than just your stuff."

  "I don't understand."

  "If he's got multiple victims and just your stuff winds up missing, he'll know it was you. If I wipe out everything I find, he'll have a number of suspects. But even with your stuff gone, he'll keep trying to squeeze you."

  "But how—?"

  "He'll assume you'll think he still has the photos. That's why we have to pave a way out for you."

  "You sound like you've done this before."

  He nodded. The blackmail industry kept his phone ringing. Most victims couldn't go to the cops because that meant revealing the very thing they were paying the leech to keep under wraps. They imagined a trial, their secret trumpeted in the papers, or at the very least making the public record. A certain percentage, pushed to the point where they couldn't or wouldn't take it anymore, decided to seek a solution outside the system. That was where Jack came in.

  "Many times. Maybe even for your unnamed source."

  "Oh, no. He'd never—" Her hand flew to her mouth.

  Gotcha, Jack thought, but didn't make an issue of it. He'd narrowed down her source to a little less than half the population. At least it was a start.

  "As for the installments… we'll work something out."

  She smiled, this time revealing even white teeth. "Thank you. I'll see you get your money, every penny of it." She dug into her black no-name pocketbook. "I was able to bring the hundred dollars you asked for."

  She handed him a hundred-dollar bill and two folded sheets of paper.

  Jack slipped the bill under his sweater and into the breast pocket of his shirt. The blackmailer had demanded a thousand as his next payment. He was going to get only a fraction of that. And Jack was going to send it.

  He had a reason for doing it himself. But more important, the payment would allow him to track down the blackmailer. He'd done this before: Send the money in a padded envelope with a dime-size transponder hidden in the lining, then follow the transponder.

  He unfolded the first sheet of paper—Maggie's perfect Palmer-method handwritten note saying she didn't have any more to send at the moment. Good. Just what he'd told her to write. The second was the address. The money was supposed to go to "Occupant." A street address and a number followed—plainly a mail drop. Jack did a double take at the street—Tremont Avenue in the Bronx… Box 224.

  "Son of a bitch!"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "I know that address and I know who's blackmailing you."

  "Who?"

  "A walking, talking virus."

  "But what's his name?"

  Jack could see his round, sweaty-jowled face with eyes and mouth crowded close to the center of his face, held there by the gravitational field of his big, pushed-up nose. Richie Cordova, a fat, no good, rotten, useless glob of protoplasm. Not two months ago Jack had ruined most of Cordova's stash of blackmail goodies. Obviously he'd missed Maggie's photos.

  "Nobody you'd know. He's the guy I mentioned before, who's made a career out of blackmail."

  Maggie looked frightened. "But how did he get those pictures of me and…?"

  And who? Jack wondered. Male or female?

  He had a pretty good idea of how it had gone down. Cordova's legit grind was private investigations. Someone hired him for a job that had put him in Maggie's orbit. The shitbum spotted something hinky, took a few pictures, and now was using them to supplement his income.

  "Bad luck. The wrong guy in the wrong place at the wrong time."

  She leaned forward. "I want his name."

  "Better you don't know. It can't do you any good. Might even buy you some trouble." He looked at her. "I mean it."

  "Yes, but—"

  "You believe in the soul, I assume?"

  "Of course."

  "This guy's is a petri dish."

  She slumped again. "This is terrible."

  "Not really. Granted you've got a better chance of goof-ups if you're on the string to an amateur than a pro, but I've already dealt with this particular pro. I know where he lives and where he works. I'll get your photos back."

  She brightened. "You will?"

  "Well, maybe I shouldn't guarantee anything, but we've gone from Stage One to Stage Two in a matter of minutes. That's a record. We still have to send him that money though."

  "Why? I thought that was to trace him. If you already know wüo he is—"

  "There's a reason we're shorting him. I want to rattle his cage, make him get in touch with you. When he calls, you've got to cry poverty—"

  She barked a bitter little laugh. "It won't be an act, I can tell you that."

  "Be convincing. What that does is set the stage for your sending him no more money when and if I retrieve your photos. You simply haven't got it. Remember, he's got a lot invested in his blackmail assets. We don't want him connecting you to losing them. No telling what he'll do."

  Instead of looking concerned, Maggie smiled as if a terrible burden had been lifted.

  "This is going to work, isn't it," she said.

  "Let's not get ahead of ourselves."

  "No, it is. I can feel it. God turned away from me for a while—not without good reason—but now I see His hand again in my life. He led me to you, to someone who has already dealt with my tormentor. That can't be just a coincidence."

  Coincidence…

  Jack felt his shoulders tighten. He hated coincidences.

  6

  Jack watched Maggie leave, nimbly sliding past Patsy as she gave him the brush.

  Months ago a lady—a Russian lady with a big white dog—had told him there'd be no more coincidences in his life. He'd seen no hard evidence yet that she'd been right, but certain incidents that he might otherwise consider happenstance seemed to form a pattern when he looked for one. True, you could always find connections if you looked hard enough and stretched the imagination. That was how conspiracy theories were born.

  But Maggie had it right: Her picking him to help her with Cordova seemed like a hell of a coincidence. On the other hand, Cordova did a lot of blackmailing. It wasn't impossible that two of his victims—Emil Jankowski in September and Maggie here at the tail end of October—would call on Jack. Not too much competition in the fix
-it field.

  Still…

  He popped out of his seat and headed for the door, waving to Julio as he passed the bar.

  Out on the street he peered up and down the sidewalk until he spotted Maggie's blue knit hat bouncing away to his right. He took off after her, keeping his distance. He hoped she'd snag a cab but no, she bounded down the steps of a subway entrance.

  Damn. Following her on a Sunday wouldn't be easy. No crowds to hide in. With a mental shrug he headed down. The worst that could happen was she'd spot him and he'd have to ad lib an explanation.

  He hung back on the stairs till he saw her head for the downtown side. When she hopped on an A train he slipped into the following car and positioned himself where he could watch her through the glass. She pulled a book from her bag but didn't open it. She stared at the floor, looking lost, as if the worries of the world were all hers.

  She rode that way down to West Fourth where she switched to the F. Along the way she didn't look around much, too lost in her thoughts to notice anyone following.

  She stepped off at Delancey and Jack followed her up to the streets of the Lower East Side. The buildings here were former tenements that maxed out at five stories. Canopied oriental and kosher food stores sat cheek by jowl along the stained gray sidewalk.

  He gave her a block lead but grew a little uneasy as he started to recognize his surroundings. He'd come down here just last August to confront a priest who had hired him but managed to pull one over on him. What was his name? Father Ed. Right. Father Edward Halloran. His church had been around here somewhere, St. Somebody-or—

  He stopped dead as he followed Maggie around a corner. There, across the street, looming over the surrounding tenements, sat the hulking, Gothic, granite-block mass of the Church of St. Joseph. The old building wasn't in any better shape than the last time he'd seen it. The large rose window centered over the double doors was caked with grime, as were its twin crocketed spires, but the latter boasted the added decoration of white stripes a la city squab.

  The doors stood open and people, mostly older with an immigrant look, were wandering inside.

  Jack had been in the rectory to St. Joe's immediate left, but not the building to the right where Maggie was hurrying up the front steps, passing a sign that read Convent of the Blessed Virgin.

  A nun? Maggie was a nun?

  Well, it sort of fit with her uptight personality. But he guessed she wasn't too uptight, otherwise Cordova would have nothing to hold over her. And since she was connected with St. Joe's, Jack had a pretty good idea who had referred her: Father Ed.

  Okay. One mystery solved. But another remained. Why blackmail a nun? Seemed like a waste of effort. Nuns didn't have any money—unless Maggie came from a wealthy family.

  Jack glanced at his watch. Five to four. He'd promised to take Gia and Vicky out to dinner, but that wasn't till seven. Maybe he'd invest an hour or so here and see if he could learn any more. Maybe Maggie wasn't a nun. Maybe she merely worked at the convent… but he doubted that.

  He spotted an all-purpose convenience store/take out/coffee shop eater-corner from the church. Maybe he could watch from there.

  He crossed over and bought a cup of stale coffee in the traditional blue-and-white container from the Korean proprietor. No sooner had he stepped to the window and taken his first bitter sip when Maggie reappeared. She'd changed into a gray skirt and jacket over a white blouse. Her hair was tucked under a black wimple with a white band. She hurried down the convent steps, up the church steps, and disappeared inside.

  Well, that settled the is-she-or-isn't-she question. But Jack wanted a little more info. He stepped outside and crossed back to the church, dribbling his coffee onto the pavement as he went. On the far side he tossed the empty cup into a trash basket, then climbed St. Joe's front steps.

  To the right, white vinyl letters snapped into a black message board that listed the Mass schedule. Sunday had one every ninety minutes till noon, then one last chance at four.

  To the left, a worn black-on-white sign heralded the Church of St. Joseph's Renovation Fund and sported a thermometer to track the progress of contributions. One-hundred-thousand-dollar increments were listed to the left of the graduated column up to the goal of $600,000; the red area that marked the level of contributions hadn't even filled the bulb. Not surprising, considering the chill economic climate and the low-income level of the parish.

  Jack edged through the entrance and stood in the vestibule. The nave stretched ahead through a second set of doors. A sparse crowd for the four o'clock Mass, so he had no trouble spotting Maggie. She sat behind a well-dressed man. Occasionally she'd lean forward and whisper something. He'd nod and she'd lean back.

  The priest on the altar was not Father Ed; he displayed about the same level of interest in what he was doing as his parishioners, which was not much. Jack tuned him out, trying to get a fix on the relationship between Maggie—if that was her name—and her man friend. He'd thought at first that they might be having an affair, but he sensed a distance between them.

  About halfway through the Mass the man rose and sidled to the aisle, then headed back toward Jack. He looked to be about fifty, with a good haircut and features that might be described as distinguished looking except for the haunted look in his eyes and the circles beneath them. He gave Jack a friendly nod and a reflexive smile as he passed. Jack nodded back.

  Jack counted to five, then stepped to the front doors. He watched the man stand on the corner, looking for a cab. It took a couple of minutes but he snagged one and it headed uptown.

  Jack leaned against the rusty iron railing by the building-fund sign and waited. Soon the parishioners began to filter out. He spotted Maggie among them, head down, lost in thought.

  "Sister?" he called softly. "Can I have a word with you?"

  She looked up and her initial look of confusion vanished in wide-eyed shock.

  "You! How did you—?"

  Jack motioned her closer. "Where can we talk?"

  She glanced around at the final parishioners straggling from within and heading down the steps.

  "In a moment this will be as good a place as any."

  "You're kidding."

  "No. I can't be seen strolling around with a man, and certainly not sitting in a bar with him."

  Jack noted the emphasis on "bar."

  He lowered his voice. "What's your real name, sister?"

  "Margaret Mary O'Hara." She flashed a tiny smile. "The kids at the parish school used to call me 'Sister M&M.' They still do, but now they spell it differently."

  Jack returned her smile. "Sister Eminem. That's cool. Better than Sister Margaret. That'd make you sound ninety years old."

  "Around the convent I'm known as Sister Maggie, but lately I have felt ninety years old."

  Movement caught Jack's eye. He spotted a white-albed altar boy at the front doors, kicking up the hooks that held them open.

  "Hi, Sister," he said as he spotted her.

  "Hello, Jorge," she said with a genuine smile, wider than Jack had ever seen from her. "You did a good job today. See you in school tomorrow."

  He nodded and smiled. "See ya."

  When the doors had closed she turned back to Jack.

  "Obviously you followed me. Why?"

  "Too many unanswered questions. But at least now I know who referred you. Does Father Ed know you're being blackmailed?"

  She shook her head. "No. He just knows I need help and can't go to the police. I went to him for advice and he suggested you. Did… did he hire you for something?"

  "You'll have to ask him. My memory's very unreliable."

  The answer seemed to please her. "That's good to know."

  "Are you and that man I saw you with in the photos together?"

  "I'd really rather not say."

  "Fair enough." Jack looked around. They were alone on the steps, alone on the deserted street. A man and a nun standing a good two feet apart. No one could infer anything improper from that. "How
bad can the photos be?"

  She looked at her feet. "He sent me copies. Very bad. Nothing left to the imagination."

  "Well then let me ask, How much can they hurt you? I'm assuming you were with a guy, but even if you weren't, I mean, they made some openly gay guy a bishop, so what could—?"

  "Good gravy, Jack. Those were Episcopalians. This is the Catholic Church."

  Good gravy?

  "You're kidding, right? After what Catholic priests have been up to?"

  "Some Catholic priests. None that I've ever known. But this is different. Nuns are different. My order would banish me. I'd be out on the street with no home, no savings, and no job."

  "Seems pretty cold."

  "I love my order, Jack. But more than that, I love serving God and I love teaching these children. I'm a good teacher. It's not false pride when I say I can and do make a difference. But even if I was allowed to stay in the convent, I couldn't be allowed to teach." She took a deep, shuddering breath. "Those pictures threaten everything I hold dear in my life."

  Jack watched her and wondered how so many facets of her life had combined to ruin it. If she'd been Margaret Mary O'Hara, single public school teacher, she could thumb her nose at Cordova. Yeah? So? But she was Sister Maggie and that was a whole other ball game.

  "Okay, answer me this: How much money do you have?*'

  "We take a vow of poverty but are allowed to put a little away for special circumstances. Whatever I had is all but gone now, paid to that… that…"

  "Yeah, I know. Any family money you can tap into?"

  Her mouth twisted. "My father's long dead, my mother died over the summer, penniless. Every last cent she had was eaten up by the nursing home."

  "Sorry to hear that. But I'm confused. Having seen the way this creep operates, I can't understand him going after someone with a vow of poverty. He tends to like deeper wells."

  Sister Maggie looked away. After a few heartbeats she sighed and pointed to the sign behind Jack.

  "He wants me to steal from the renovation fund. I'm one of the overseers."