Crisscross. Part 49

'Wo word yet on the missing nun. Sister Margaret Mary O'Hara was last seen being pulled into a car from a Lower East Side sidewalk earlier this evening. The witness did not know the make or color of the car, and couldn't read the license plate. If you have any information on this incident word yet on the missing nun. Sister Margaret Mary O'Hara was last seen being pulled into a car from a Lower East Side sidewalk earlier this evening. The witness did not know the make or color of the car, and couldn't read the license plate. If you have any information on this incident-any information at all-please call..."

Feeling as if his bones were dissolving, Jack veered through the right lane and onto the shoulder where he stopped and set the shift into park.

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, his hands squeezing the steering wheel as if trying to strangle it.

He's got her... the son of a b.i.t.c.h has got her.

But how could he have known it was Maggie?

An instant of self-doubt pierced him, but then faded as he reviewed all the moves he'd made in the Cordova fix. He was certain-knew-that he hadn't left the faintest link to Maggie.

She must have made a slip talking to him.

Jack pounded the steering wheel. "s.h.i.t! s.h.i.t! s.h.i.t!"

All that effort to make the fix look like an accident-for nothing. Cordova knew, and he had her. G.o.d knew what he was going to do with her. Or was doing to her. Or had already done to her.

A slimeball like Cordova... didn't deserve to live... shouldn't have bothered finessing the fix. Oxygen waster like him... best thing to do-for his victims and for the human gene pool-was to walk up to him and deliver a hollowpoint between the eyes.

But Jack hadn't wanted to set himself on that road. Feared once he started traveling it he might not be able to step off. He'd approached Cordova as a guy who wasn't doing anyone physical harm-his bloodletting was emotional and financial-so Jack had taken a parallel approach. Cordova was hands off, so Jack had gone the hands-off route.

He realized now that was a mistake. A bullet to the brain would have solved the Cordova problem. Quick, clean, easy. No more blackmail, and sure as h.e.l.l no worry about a good-hearted nun being abducted.

A mood cold and black settled on Jack as he threw the Buick back into drive and merged with the eastbound traffic.

He knew where Cordova lived, where he worked. He'd find him. And if that fat slug had done anything to Sister Maggie, if he'd harmed her in any way...

11.

Richie Cordova wiped the blood from his shaking hands. His hands weren't all that was shaking. His whole body was twitching. Like someone had shoved a live lamp cord up his a.s.s.

Richie knew a few guys who might think that felt good, but he felt sick.

He turned toward the nun-or what was left of her-still tied in the chair, and quickly turned away. He couldn't look at her, couldn't believe how he'd let himself get so out of control.

No... not out of control. In In control. Complete control. Of her. It had thrown some sort of switch in him, made him do things he'd never dreamed he was capable of thinking up, let alone doing. control. Complete control. Of her. It had thrown some sort of switch in him, made him do things he'd never dreamed he was capable of thinking up, let alone doing.

He'd planned to kill her. That was a sure thing. Ain't no way she was leaving once he got her here. But he'd wanted to punish her some first, for ruining his game, and to get her to tell him all about it, sing the song he wanted to hear.

And she'd sung. Held out for an amazingly long time, but finally she'd started to sing. Oh, how she sang. Told him all about meeting a guy named Jack in a place called Julio's and hiring him to get back the pictures of her and Metcalf, how Metcalf didn't know nothing about it, how she'd called him and told him not to worry no more. She'd sung about how she hadn't known Richie's name. Only this guy Jack knew that and he wouldn't tell her.

Richie should have stopped then and ended it. He had what he wanted, so the thing to do was slit her throat and call it a night. He'd had the razor all set. Unlike the .38s in his pistol, a razor couldn't be traced.

But he hadn't used it. Because he couldn't stop-didn't want want to stop. He had control, he was in the driver's seat and he didn't want to use no brakes, didn't want to let go of the steering wheel. to stop. He had control, he was in the driver's seat and he didn't want to use no brakes, didn't want to let go of the steering wheel.

Only when the last of her life had leaked away did he come out of it. Then he'd stepped back and looked at what he'd done. And blew lunch.

He felt a little better now, but not much. It suddenly came to him that this was partly Neva's fault. A lot of the time he spent working on the nun he'd been thinking of his ex-wife, seeing her face. Yeah. Her fault. If she hadn't been such a...

Anyway, it was over. At least this part of it. He'd hide the body, try not to think about what he'd done, and move on to the next step.

And that was finding this Jack guy. That was real important, because this Jack knew who he was. Once he was out of the way, any connection between Richie Cordova and the missing Sister Margaret Mary would be gone.

But the nun couldn't remember his phone number-oh, she'd wanted wanted to remember, Richie made sure of that, but it wasn't there. to remember, Richie made sure of that, but it wasn't there.

Which left him with the name of an Upper West Side bar called Julio's. Richie wasn't sure how he was going to work this. He was at a disadvantage not knowing what this Jack looked like. The nun had given him a description but it sounded like any one of a zillion guys. He'd sleep on it and see if he came up with anything.

Sleep. Yeah, that would be good. He was dead on his feet.

But first he had to deal with the body.

Steeling himself, he turned and walked toward it...

12.

Jack wasn't dressed for Beekman Place but he was in too foul a mood to play games.

He'd been to Cordova's house-picked his way in and searched it from bas.e.m.e.nt to attic. Not a trace of Sister Maggie.

Next stop was Hurley's. If Cordova had s.n.a.t.c.hed her, chances were slim that he'd be hanging out at his favorite bar. Then again, if he'd killed her and dumped her body, he might feel the need for a few drinks, and maybe an alibi as well. But Jack couldn't find him at Hurley's either. Even checked out the men's room. No Cordova.

Last stop had been the office: same story.

Jack had made another swing by Cordova's house-just in case he'd returned in the interim-but it looked as empty as when he'd left it. He'd parked down the street and watched the place.

Where was was the fat slimeball? Jack's mind shied away from imagining what he'd done to Maggie. If Jack could find him, Cordova would tell him where she was. Jack would see to that. the fat slimeball? Jack's mind shied away from imagining what he'd done to Maggie. If Jack could find him, Cordova would tell him where she was. Jack would see to that.

But after an hour of sitting, Cordova hadn't shown. Good chance he might not show at all.

So Jack decided to pay a visit to the third woman who'd entered his life this week.

Esteban wasn't on the door and his late-shift coworker, a brawny black guy, wouldn't let Jack into the lobby.

His arm blocked his name tag as he opened the gla.s.s door six or seven inches and eyed Jack's wrinkled jeans and sweatshirt. "Are you on Mrs. Roselli's visitor list?"

"I don't know about the list, but she's expecting me. Just call her and say Jack's here for a follow-up chat."

"I don't know. This is pretty late for her."

"Just call her and see. I'll wait out here."

He nodded. "I know you will."

He closed the door and went to the lobby phone. Jack leaned close to the gap between the gla.s.s door and gla.s.s wall. He blocked his street-side ear and listened.

"Mrs. Roselli? Sorry to bother you, but there's a man here. He says his name is Jack and that you're expecting him... Pardon me?... Oh, I see... I'm sorry to hear that... is there anything I can do?... Are you sure? I can call a... Yes. Yes, I see. I'll tell him. And remember, if you need anything, anything at all, I'm right here... Right. Good-night. Feel better."

Jack backed off a step as the call ended. Sounded like the old lady was sick.

The doorman returned to the door. Jack saw now that his tag read Louis Louis. He opened it wider this time. Apparently his talk with the old lady had rea.s.sured him about Jack.

"She's not feeling well. Says to come back tomorrow."

"She okay?"

"She doesn't sound too hot, but she didn't want a doctor, so..." He shrugged. "I'm here if she needs me."

"Good. I don't want anything happening to her."

Jack turned and walked off. Half a block away he hunched his shoulders against a sudden chill. He'd met three new women this week. Now, in the s.p.a.ce of twenty-four hours, one was dead, one was missing, and the other was sick. Was he carrying a curse? Had he become some sort of Jonah?

What the h.e.l.l was going on?

SUNDAY.

1.

The news came a little after nine.

With nothing better to do with his pent-up energy, Jack had been cleaning his apartment. He yearned for a cleaning service, but they might come across things they weren't meant to see. Gia sometimes helped, but today he was on his own.

He had the tuner set to 880 AM, an all-news station. Usually he cleaned to the gentle refrains of ZZ-Top or the Allman Brothers, but today he was looking for updates on the missing nun story. The morning papers had nothing new. If news. .h.i.t, the radio would have it first.

Jack was mopping the linoleum floor of his kitchen when it came. It wasn't good.

The body of Sister Margaret Mary O'Hara had been found in Flushing-a guy chasing his runaway dog had discovered it. No other details were available. Police would not discuss the state of the body or anything else.

Sickened, Jack put down the mop and dropped into a kitchen chair. Two of the three women were dead. He knew each of their killers. Brady and Jensen had buried Jamie Grant alive. And Cordova... Jack wasn't an eyewitness, but he didn't have to be. He knew.

Question was... what should he do about it? How should he deal with these two without exposing himself?

He closed his eyes and rolled the people and the circ.u.mstances around and around in his brain... like a concrete mixer.

Brady, Jensen, Cordova, Blascoe, the temple... Blascoe, Brady, the temple, Cordova, Jensen...

And slowly, painfully, a plan began to form.

2.

G.o.dd.a.m.n stupid dog!

Richie Cordova sat in Hurley's and wanted to rip the TV off the wall and boot it through the front window.

He'd stashed the nun's body where no one would find her-at least no human-until she began to stink. He hadn't counted on no runaway dog.

He sat at a corner table and stuffed another donut into his mouth. Hurley's put out coffee and donuts and bagels on Sunday morning. Of course the bar was open too in case you wanted a b.l.o.o.d.y Mary or something. But Richie had been feeling so good he didn't need no drink. Not anymore.

s.h.i.t, he thought as he washed the donut down with black coffee. This complicated things. The Jack guy she'd told him about already had the advantage of knowing what Richie looked like, while Richie didn't know him from Joe Blow. Richie's one advantage had been surprise-Jacko wouldn't have had a clue someone might be looking for him. But now he'd be on guard. That was, if he connected the nun's death to Richie. If he didn't, well, that would be great, but Richie had to a.s.sume the worst.

He'd awakened this morning feeling lots better than last night-over the shakes and actually feeling kind of good. Almost like he'd feel after a night of s.e.x. Kind of peaceful inside. At ease. Like he could go for a Sunday morning drive and not get p.i.s.sed at the other drivers.

But all that was ruined now. The stink of spilled beer cut through the smell of the coffee and Richie lost his appet.i.te. Hurley's wasn't so inviting no more.

Richie paid up and stepped out into the bright morning sunlight. Now what?

He thought about heading for the Upper West Side and finding this Julio's. The nun had said she'd met Jack there twice, both times in the day, and that the guy had been alone at a table near the back wall.

So why not check out Julio's? Hang out on the street and watch the comers and goers, maybe peek through the window and see who's got a table by the back wall.

Richie liked the idea. Sort of preliminary surveillance. Get to know the lay of the land.

He turned and headed toward the subway.