Crisscross. Part 43

"I guess that's just a risk I'll have to take." And then Metcalf laughed-laughed!-and said, "Outfoxed by a nun. Some criminal mastermind you are. Good-bye, loser."

He hung up, leaving Richie staring at the handset in slack-jawed stupefaction.

Had Metcalf said what Richie thought he'd said?

Outfoxed by a nun...

What the h.e.l.l did that mean?

And then he saw it all. Everything clicked into place. The virus. .h.i.tting his computer not once but twice... and then the little nun giving him the runaround on payments... and finally Metcalf stiffing him, all but daring him to expose the photos of him and Sister Mary Margaret.

Why? Because he knew the photos were gone!

Outfoxed by a nun...

They'd hired someone to wipe his computer clean and- G.o.dd.a.m.n! It must have been the same guy who mugged him and stole his backup disk! Blindsided from two different directions.

He rammed the handset against the face of the pay phone, slamming it against the switch hook again and again until the receiver end shattered. He dropped it and turned away, ignoring the frightened look from an old woman who s.h.i.+ed away as she pa.s.sed.

Somehow they'd found out who he was. That made twice in the past few months-September and now. Where was he slipping up? The kid in the mail drop? Had he ratted him out? Richie'd look into that later.

He knew neither Metcalf nor the nun had the stones or the know-how to break into his operation. So who'd they hire? Another PI like himself? Richie wanted the name so he could even the score and- Wait a minute... why was he a.s.suming Metcalf knew who he was? Maybe he didn't know. Metcalf had just warned him he'd have the police trace his calls. Why would he say that if he knew who Richie was? Obviously he didn't.

But the PI they'd hired did. Had to. And who else? Sister Maggie?

Outfoxed by a nun...

Metcalf was giving Sister Maggie the credit. That could mean only one thing: It was the nun who'd found someone to track him down and ruin his operation-and do it in such a way that Richie wouldn't know he'd been sabotaged. Pretty smooth. It had almost worked.

This guy knew who Richie was. Now Richie needed to know who he was. That would level the playing field. Then he could take action. Metcalf probably knew the guy's name, but he was on his way out of town-or so he said. Richie would check on that. But if true, that left the nun. He needed a little face time with her.

What had his Cancer horoscope said?

Tonight, lots of action with you at the center is your idea of a good time.

Oh, yeah. Tonight... if he could work it. If not, tomorrow for sure. Get some answers, and maybe grab a little payback along the way.

No, not a little. She and her boyfriend and whoever they'd hired had screwed up his entire operation. Richie was going to need a lot lot of payback. of payback.

13.

Jack was having no luck on the phone today. Repeated calls to Jamie's house and office had left him no wiser as to her well-being or whereabouts.

Same with Maria Roselli. After two calls this morning, and two more this afternoon, all unanswered, Jack had decided to visit Beekman Place in person.

He wore a blue sweater this time, but looked pretty much the same as before. One difference was the small shopping bag he carried. Anya's map was folded within. He'd started thinking of it as Anya's "map," preferring that to Anya's "skin."

A woman with a dog had sent him on a mission into the Dormentalist temple, which housed a replica to the skin map from the back of another woman with a dog.

He'd been told that there would be no more coincidences in his life; but even if he hadn't, he'd have known this was no coincidence. Maria Roselli had more on her agenda than finding her son, and now Jack had to know what. He also wanted to know her connection to Anya.

The only one who could fill in those blanks lived in the brick and granite building he was approaching.

He found the uniformed Esteban in the white marble atrium.

'I'm a little concerned about Mrs. Roselli," Jack told him. "I've been calling her all day and she doesn't answer."

Esteban smiled. "The lady, she's fine. She's been in and out-in fact, she's out now-and probably missed your calls."

"No answering machine?"

Esteban smiled. "Mrs. Roselli doesn't like them. She told me if someone wants to talk to her about anything important, they'll call back."

"Would you ask her to call me when she comes in? The name's Jack and she has my number. It's urgent that I get in touch with her."

"Jack." Esteban nodded. "I will tell her."

Back on the sidewalk, Jack decided if he couldn't speak to the mother, he might as well have a chat with the son. Maybe Oroont could fill in a few blanks.

Oroont... sheesh.

14.

Richie Cordova had positioned his car where he could see the front doors of both St. Joe's church and the convent. He had the windows rolled up against a chill breeze and the doors locked against a chance visit by one of the locals. The Lower East Side's slow gentrification hadn't reached this area yet. He'd left the driver's window open an inch or so to vent his cigar smoke.

This afternoon he'd been all revved at the prospect of grabbing Sister Maggie and hauling her off to an old abandoned warehouse he'd scouted in Flus.h.i.+ng. But sitting here outside her church had cooled him. Blackmailing a nun was one thing. But staking her out and s.n.a.t.c.hing her if she showed... that would be a big step where anyone was concerned. But a nun...

Must be all those years in Catholic school, he thought.

He wished he was outside Metcalf's place instead. But Metcalf had been telling the truth: He'd skipped town with his family. A call to his office confirmed that he'd be gone for a week.

That left Sister Golden Hair. If she didn't show tonight he'd be back here tomorrow, and the day after that. Sooner or later he was going to catch up to her.

And then he'd treat her to a showing of The Catholic School Kid Strikes Back The Catholic School Kid Strikes Back.

15.

Jack had cabbed home and changed into something more suited to the far West Village-black jeans, a faded White Stripes T-s.h.i.+rt, and Doc Martens. He'd finished it off with an oversized black bomber jacket, big enough to hide the Glock in his SOB holster.

He took a couple of trains down to the West Village. There, in the fading light, he stood on a narrow, debris-strewn street across from The Header and kept an eye on Sonny Boy's window as an uneven stream of bikers pulled up and swaggered into the bar.

He gave it ten minutes, letting the light dim more. No sign of life up there, so he crossed over and went to the side door where the apartment dwellers entered and made quick work of the lock with his autopick. On the third floor he found the apartment he a.s.sumed to belong to Johnny, and knocked. Picking the lock of an occupied apartment could be, well, embarra.s.sing.

No answer, so he again put the autopick to work and let himself in.

Dark inside. He flicked his flashlight on for seconds at a time. The place seemed neat and clean, but stank from the rare delicacies nuked or fried in the bar kitchen two floors down. He spotted a poster of a robust-looking Cooper Blascoe on one wall and a shelf stacked with Dormentalist tracts on the other.

Okay. This was the place. All he had to do now was wait for Johnny "Oroont" Roselli to show his face.

A partially packed duffel bag sat on the bed. Planning a trip, Johnny?

Maybe half an hour later footsteps in the hallway stopped outside the door. As a key rattled in the lock, Jack stepped behind the door and waited. Johnny flipped on the light as he closed the door behind him. Jack didn't give him time to turn. He grabbed him from behind and took him down.

"Not a sound!" he said into Johnny's ear as he straddled his back. Jeez, his ratty clothes were filthy and he stank. "I'm not here to hurt you, just to talk. Keep it down and we both end up healthy. Start calling for help and one of us winds up hurting. And it won't be me. Got that?"

Johnny nodded, then whispered, "If all you want is to talk, why didn't you just call me on the phone?"

"I did, but you started calling me strange names and hung up."

"That was you?" He started to twist his neck, turning his scraggly-bearded face toward Jack. Jack pushed it back.

"No peeking. You see my face, I'll have to kill you."

Johnny pushed his nose against the floor. "For Noomri's sake, what do you want?" want?"

"I was hired to deliver a message. Here it is: Call your mother."

"What? That's crazy. You were hired? By who?"

"Your mother. She's-"

"That's impossible!"

"She's worried about you and-"

"My mother's dead!"

Jack opened his mouth but closed it after a second or two. He felt his shoulders slump. He should have seen this coming.

The problem now was how to salvage the situation.

"Impossible. I spoke to her just the other day."

"You couldn't have. She's been dead four years."

"Skinny old lady with bad arthritis?"

"Not even close. She was an Old World Italian mama."

"s.h.i.+t. Perhaps I've made a mistake."

"Perhaps?"

"Well, she told me her son was a Dormentalist."

"Well, at least you got that that right. You-hey!" right. You-hey!"

Jack was digging into Roselli's back pocket. "Just checking some ID. How do I know you're not lying?"

"I'm not. Who are you looking for? Maybe I can help."

"Can't mention names. Professional ethics."

The expired driver's license in the wallet showed a more clean-shaven John A. Roselli.

"Okay. You're not him. My bad. Sorry."

"Can I get up now?"

"No. Remember what I said I'd have to do if you see my face?"

Next to the license was Johnny's temple swipe card. Jack glanced at the clothes-stuffed duffel on the bed. An idea began to take shape.

"I see you're packed for a trip. Skipping town?"

"No. Going camping, if you must know. It's the only place a person in my state of..."

"Ripeness?" Jack said.

"Well, yes. Plus being alone in the wild helps me commune with-oh, never mind. You wouldn't understand."

"You never know."

Jack quickly pulled out his own wallet and extracted his temple entry card. No name on either card, no way to tell one from the other. He looked around and spotted a couple of magnets-with the Dormentalist logo, for Christ sake-on the refrigerator door. He leaned to the side and plucked one off.