Michelangelo_s Notebook fr-1 Page 4

  The motif of the cover was simple and explicit, one of the first such things he had attempted: a deeply carved cross, lines radiating out from it like beams from a star. Hanging upside down was the Virgin Mother, hands nailed to the upright, legs spread on the crosspiece, revealing her agony at both her crucifixion and the birth of the only child she would ever have-a child born ascending, not to earth, but to his place beside his Father. God’s child, his power killing her even as she died willingly on the cross to bear him, never to know the immensity of what she was birthing. The wonder of him and the fury, his commitment to a just and true revenge for the world. The naked man prayed briefly to the Mother then opened the book to the last page he had been working on and began a new verse.

  Since it was the first of the column it would need to be illuminated as in any Bible. He opened the small glue pot, and, using his finest brush, he drew a faint line of the thin, sticky liquid along the penciled outline of the letter. He blew on it carefully then used a block of gold leaf, sliding a single sheet off the block with a cotton swab to cover the glue line.

  He waited patiently, letting the tissue-thin leaf set with the glue, then used a wider and softer sable brush to remove the excess gold. He’d already chosen the color he would use for the interior of the letter: copper red, just like the girl’s hair, like the smell of fresh blood on a hot summer day, the way it must have been so long ago.

  8

  Finn sat huddled on the end of the couch as the paramedic dabbed at her temple with an alcohol swab. The woman was black and fat and very gentle.

  “Must have used some kind of sap or something. Skin’s barely broken. There’ll be a bump but not much else. You were lucky, girl.”

  Finn nodded slowly and tried not to look at the huge stain on the carpet runner closer to the door. She didn’t think she was lucky at all, but at least she was alive. Not like Peter. She felt the hot tears welling up in her eyes again and swallowed hard. The sound she’d heard before dropping down the dark well into unconsciousness had been Peter dying, his throat opened up in a single slashing sweep that had murmured past her like the wing of a night bird and then turned into that final, horrible liquid gurgle.

  The apartment was crowded. Two paramedics, packing up now, at least three uniformed cops and two detectives. A crime scene technician was covering everything with fingerprint powder and whistling softly under his breath. The paramedic was speaking to her again.

  “Sure you don’t want to come to the hospital, let the docs take a look at you. You maybe got a concussion. I don’t think so, but still, you never know.” The paramedic frowned. “There’s the other thing too, maybe you want to have that checked.”

  “I’d know if I’d been raped,” said Finn. “I wasn’t.”

  “Okay then, sweetie-pie,” the woman said. She snapped her plastic equipment case shut. “We’ll be on our way then. Sorry for your trouble and your loss.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You bet.” The paramedics edged out the door, skirting the bloodstain. One of the detectives came out of her bedroom, and she wondered why he’d been there in the first place. He’d introduced himself as Detective Tracker, which she’d thought was hysterically funny when he’d first said it. And it had been just that-a matter of near hysteria. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off her boobs and he had bad breath. He was tall, broad-shouldered and had greasy hair.

  “You and this Peter kid friends for long?”

  “A couple of months.”

  “Sleeping with him?”

  “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”

  “Sure it is. You were sleeping with him. Some other guy gets jealous, breaks in and waits, like that. You’re not sleeping with him, you got to wonder why, see?”

  “I wasn’t sleeping with him.”

  “So you didn’t know the guy who killed him.”

  “No.”

  “How can you be sure? You said it was dark.”

  “I don’t know anyone who goes around killing people.”

  “Anything taken?”

  “I haven’t really looked.”

  “Could have been a robbery then.”

  “I guess.”

  “Not much to steal.”

  “No.”

  “Student, right?”

  “Yes. NYU.”

  “Peter too?”

  “Yes.”

  “How’d you get together-same classes, mutual friends, what?”

  “He’s… was in the fine arts program.”

  “So? What’s that got to do with anything.”

  “He took a life drawing class. I model.”

  “Like, naked?” His eyes dropped to her breasts again. For the first time in years stares actually bothered her.

  “Nude.”

  “Same difference, sweetheart. You don’t have any clothes on.”

  “It’s different, Detective Tracker, believe me.”

  “You think maybe it could have been someone else in the class?”

  “No.”

  “Nuts everywhere in New York.”

  Her head was pounding. All she wanted to do was curl up on the couch and go to sleep.

  “It wasn’t anyone from the goddamn class, all right?”

  “Slow down, honey, I’m not the bad guy here.”

  “Then stop acting like it.”

  One of the uniformed cops smiled. Tracker frowned. There was a knock at the door and it opened. A tall, very thin man stood there. He had dark hair that needed cutting and a pinched angular face with deep-set eyes that matched his hair color. He had a smear of five-o’clock shadow on his cheeks and chin. He looked Irish. The man stared down at the pool of blood congealing on the carpet runner and frowned.

  “Who the fuck are you?” asked Tracker. “This is a fucking crime scene and you’re in the way.”

  The thin man reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and brought out a small, worn leather folder. As he pulled it out Finn saw that he was wearing a shoulder holster. Tracker saw it too. The man flipped open the folder and pushed it into Tracker’s face.

  “Delaney. Lieutenant Vincent Delaney, Special Action Squad.” He smiled. “You are?”

  “Tracker, Twenty-third Precinct.”

  “That’s nice. This is Miss Ryan?”

  “That’s it, Loo.”

  “I’d like to speak to her if you don’t mind.”

  “I’m in the middle of an investigation here.”

  “No, you’re not,” said Delaney. “Not anymore.”

  9

  Dawn was breaking over the Vatican, the secret city behind the high walls still deep in shadow, the trees along its winding paths and around its ancient buildings whispering between themselves in the faint morning breeze.

  Lights were on here and there. The man in the long black soutane could hear the faint sound of chanting as he came out of the State Department offices in the papal palace and turned down the narrow gravel walkway that led between the Belvedere Palace and the old brick power plant.

  He clutched the decoded message from New York in one hand and quickened his pace down the path, his plain black lace-up shoes making crunching sounds on the dew-damp gravel. Once, early in his career, he had been in awe of this place and saw it as the active seat of God’s will on earth.

  Over the years his hair had thinned and his vision began to blur, but if anything, he now saw the Vatican with much clearer eyes. Once, he’d seen himself as a privileged priest, brought here for his piety and his love of Christ. Now he knew better; he’d been brought here for his facility with cryptography and his language abilities. If he’d gone to Harvard instead of Notre Dame he’d probably be working for the CIA right now.

  Ah well, he thought, even God had need of spies, it seemed.

  He continued down the path, then found a small entrance and went up into the library. It was not really the Vatican’s library, but rather a tourist showpiece with its dozens of frescoed arches and its display tables of manuscript ar
tifacts that were more colorful than important. He found a second staircase and went up to the floor above.

  A long hall led down to a heavy wooden door guarded even at this time of day by an ornately uniformed Swiss guard complete with pantaloons, helmet and halberd. The priest knew that underneath the puffy-looking jacket the guard had a Beretta S12 submachine gun on a quick release sling on one side and a Beretta M9 service automatic on the other. The secrets of the Prince of Peace were guarded with some very sophisticated ironmongery.

  The priest dug his plastic laminated ID card out of the pocket of his soutane, held it up where the guard could see it and watched him snap to attention. The priest gave the young man a brief nod then opened the door marked ARCHIVO SE-CRETO, the secret archives of the Vatican.

  The man he had come to see was in the first of a score of rooms in the archives, waiting patiently at a plain wooden table, seated on a plain wooden chair. Around him were deep wooden shelves piled with documents. There was a small window looking down into the Pigna Courtyard. The man in the chair was Carlos Cardinal Abruzzi, presently the secretary of state, the second-highest position in the Vatican next to the pope himself. The priest knew that Abruzzi was far more powerful than the slight old man who sat in Peter’s Chair. All the threads of power came to Abruzzi’s hands eventually, and he plucked them like a well-played harp. He was aware, as few Catholics, or even Catholic clergy were, that the Vatican was less a center of religion than it was a center of business and government. In point of fact it was the second-largest corporation in the world and had an international population of almost two billion to govern, at least spiritually.

  “What have you got for us, Frank?” Abruzzi asked, using the diminutive of the priest’s first name. The priest handed over the decoded cable.

  “Dear me, Crawley murdered,” murmured the cardinal. “How unfortunate.” The tone of his voice held no compassion or regret. “A Moroccan dagger?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Then we know who the killer is.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, at least he’s come to light after all this time.”

  “Rather dramatically.”

  “He’ll have to be found and dealt with before the police trace him.”

  “Yes.”

  “An intern photographed one of Michelangelo’s drawings?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do we know this?”

  “She was seen on the security camera at the museum.”

  “Was any attempt made to recover the photographs?”

  “Yes. It failed.”

  “She’ll have to be stopped as well.” The cardinal continued to stare at the note thoughtfully. “This could be a great opportunity for us, especially with Crawley dead.” The cardinal paused. “Is there any connection between his death and the girl?”

  “Doubtful.”

  “But it could be made to look that way.”

  “Presumably.”

  “Who will you need?”

  “Sorvino.”

  “Is he available?”

  “Yes. He is waiting for your order, Eminence.”

  “Your order, Francis. I can have no part of this. You must understand.”

  “Of course, Eminence.” He would take the fall if things went wrong.

  “It would be a great thing if this could be brought to a conclusion once and for all. There is a great deal at stake, not the least of which is the integrity of the Church.”

  “And the sainthood of one of her popes,” said the priest.

  “If you can end this you might be beatified yourself.” The cardinal smiled. “We could always use another St. Francis.”

  The priest returned the smile but there was no humor in it. “There are no saints consigned to the fires of hell, Eminence,” he said. “And I’m afraid that will be my fate after this is done.”

  “Conceivably,” said the cardinal. “But perhaps I can see to it that you wear the bishop’s miter while you are consigned to this particular hell on earth. Would you like that, Francis?”

  “I look for no rewards, Eminence. This is my job. It is how I serve.”

  “This is no one’s job, Francis, man or priest, to clean up the moral defecations of someone who should have known better.”

  “No priest is anything but a man, Eminence. First and last, he is a man. And the pope is only a priest.”

  “You would teach me religious ethics?” The cardinal smiled gently.

  “It is simple doctrine.”

  “Which we all learned long ago in the seminaria, but an ordinary man would be deemed a fiend for what this vicar of Christ did. There was a time when he would have burned. Now he is to be a saint.”

  “It is a clichй, Eminence, but God works in mysterious ways, His wonders to perform.”

  “I doubt that this has anything to do with God or His wonders, Francis,” said the cardinal. “I doubt that very much.”

  10

  Delaney and Finn were alone in the apartment. He sat beside her on the couch. When he spoke, his voice was soft and gentle with just the slightest hint of a lilt she knew couldn’t be real because he’d obviously come from New York’s Hell’s Kitchen and not Dublin’s Fade Street-not that she really knew much about either. On the other hand, she had what she thought was a pretty good mind and a straightforward Midwestern distrust of people who were too nice for too little reason. The best candy is from strangers, her mother used to tell her.

  “It was probably no more than a junkie looking for something to sell,” said the detective. “A terrible thing, surely, but the murder of Dr. Crawley seems an awful coincidence. I’m sure you see that. And you having an argument with him this afternoon and all.”

  “I don’t see what the possible connection could be.”

  “Neither do I, Finn, which is why I’m here-to see if there is one or not.”

  “There isn’t.”

  “What was the fight about?”

  “A difference of opinion about art. I found a drawing stuck in the back of a storage drawer. I was positive it was by Michelangelo. Dr. Crawley thought otherwise. We had words. He fired me.”

  “A difference of opinion hardly seems to be the stuff of being fired.”

  “I agree.”

  “Then why did he do it?” Delaney said, smiling calmly. “There it is again. You see, Finn, another mystery.”

  “I don’t think he liked someone so young disputing his expertise. The man had an ego the size of a house.”

  “Did he know young Peter?” Delaney asked gently.

  “No. I don’t think so, anyway.”

  “Do you have any idea who would have been angry enough at Crawley to kill him?”

  “I didn’t know him very well.”

  “What happened to the Michelangelo drawing?”

  Finn frowned. It seemed like a strange question and she told him so.

  “A drawing by Michelangelo would be valuable, I presume,” he answered.

  “Of course.”

  Delaney shrugged. “So there’s motive for killing him.”

  “The last time I saw it he had it in his hands. I’d put it back in its acetate cover-”

  “Why did you have it out in the first place?” Delaney asked sharply.

  Finn hesitated. Why was he so interested in the drawing? To her it didn’t seem to have anything to do with Peter’s death or Crawley’s. She’d taken the cover off to get a clearer image when she photographed it, but she decided not to tell him-not yet, anyway.

  “I wanted to get a better look at it.” Not a lie, really.

  “But it was back in its cover when he had it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that’s the last you saw of it?”

  “Yes.”

  “He didn’t put it back in the drawer?”

  “He might have after I left.”

  “But you didn’t see him do it?”

  “No.”

  Delaney sat back on the couch and looked at Finn. A beaut
iful Irish girl with a face as innocent as a child’s and he was damned if he could tell if she was lying or not. He’d know better tomorrow after he looked at the surveillance tapes and talked to a few people.

  “You’re a smart young lady, aren’t you, Finn?”

  “I’d like to think so.”

  “Who do you think killed your boyfriend, and why would anyone have wanted to do anything so terrible?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And if you were me, what would you be thinking?”

  “What you obviously have been thinking: that there’s some connection between the two deaths.”

  “Not deaths, Finn. Murders. There’s a world of difference.”

  “Does there have to be a reason?” Finn asked. “Couldn’t it just be coincidence?” Her voice was almost pleading. She was so tired it was almost a physical pain dragging at her. She felt as though she were the criminal, somehow, and not the victim.

  Delaney looked at her for a long, thoughtful moment. Finally he spoke. “What do you think would have happened if you’d come back half an hour later than you did? That’s the real question, isn’t it? Or what would have happened if you’d gone to Peter’s place instead?”

  “Why are you asking me a lot of stupid hypothetical questions? Peter’s dead. You don’t know why, I don’t know why, and it’s your job to find out.” She shook her head. “You keep on asking about the drawing. Why are you so goddamn interested in a drawing? I was wrong! It wasn’t Michelangelo, okay!”

  “Dr. Crawley had a dagger stuck in his throat. We think it’s Moroccan. Called a koummya. You know what that is?”

  “No.”

  “Peter might have been killed by the same kind of knife. Sure you never saw one around the museum?”

  “No!”

  “You’re sounding a little tired, Finn.”

  “Guess who made me that way.”

  Delaney looked down at the old Hamilton he wore. It was after one in the morning. “Do you have someone to stay with?”

  “Myself.”

  “You can’t stay here alone, child.”