Michelangelo's Notebook Read online

  “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 cliché, 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 beautiful 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.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake! I’m not a child. I can take care of myself, all right?” It was taking everything in her power to hold back a flood of tears. All she wanted right now was to curl up in her bed and go to sleep.

  Delaney stood up. “Well then,” he said quietly, “I’d best be on my way.”

  “Yes, you’d best.”

  Delaney took a couple of steps toward the door, edging around the bloodstain. He turned. “You’re sure it was a Michelangelo, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” she said flatly. “It was a Michelangelo. I don’t care what Crawley said or why he said it.”

  “Maybe saying it is what got him killed,” said Delaney. “Did you ever think of that? And your knowing about it mi
ght have gotten your friend Peter killed instead of you.”

  “You’re just trying to scare me.”

  “Now why would I want to do a thing like that?” He turned back to the door and let himself out. A few moments later she heard the thump of the elevator arriving and then it was gone. She was alone. She stared at the dark stain and then looked away. Why would he want to scare her, and why was he so interested in a drawing that perhaps wasn’t by Michelangelo at all?

  Finn climbed wearily to her feet, double-locked the door, put the chain on, edged around the carpet stain and went to her bedroom, leaving the living room light on; there was no way she was going to be able to sleep in the dark tonight.

  In the bedroom she stripped off her clothes, found a long “Ohio—Home of Elsie” T-shirt with a huge illustration of the daisy-necklaced cow on the front and slid into bed. She turned off the bedside lamp and lay there, light spilling over the end of the bed from the open doorway. She could hear the city around her like a huge storm of energy that never ended. The building creaked, there were strange echoing sounds from the elevator, a scream from the projects behind her, the rumble of somebody dragging open a window downstairs. Maybe she had been stupid to stay here tonight.

  She could remember when her father had died. She’d been fourteen. When her mother had told her that Dad had died from a massive heart attack in some godforsaken place in Central America while on a dig she’d lain in bed just like this, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the night sounds, wondering how things could go on without the slightest acknowledgment that her father had died—that he was gone and would never be back, that he’d been totally removed from the entire scheme of things, exiled from the universe. Peter was dead; she’d never hear his voice again, feel his lips on hers, never even get the chance to choose whether she’d make love to him or not.

  She listened hard, squeezing her eyes shut, trying as hard as she could to sense some remnant of his being still lingering in the apartment. She could feel the tears coming again; it hadn’t worked when her father had died and it didn’t work now. He would come to her in haunting visions instead.

  She knew that like her father, she’d see Peter for weeks, just turning a corner, a passing glimpse in a crowd on a busy street, a face in the window of a cab, the sound of a whispering voice that wasn’t there, and then slowly, over time, it would all fade away like the rustle of old dead leaves in the wind, and then it would be gone for good. Memories and old bones—in her father’s case, lost in a jungle cenote, lying in the cold stony depths of some black, bottomless well.

  Finn lay there for a long time and finally sat up in bed. She knew her mother was off in the Yucatán digging up the royal tombs at Copan but the crazy old girl had been known to pick up her messages from time to time and Ryan really did need to talk to someone, even if it was by voice-mail proxy.

  She switched on the bedside lamp, picked up the phone and began to dial her mother’s number in Columbus from memory. She waited, listening to the ring, and as the recording of her mother’s smoke-splintered drawl started, her heart almost stopped in her chest. Bile rose like hot acid in the back of her throat as she sat up, gently putting down the phone, not wanting to scare her mother with a message in her panic-stricken voice, because right now she knew that’s how it would sound.

  The doodle she’d made of the Michelangelo drawing was gone from the pad beside the telephone. She reached out gingerly and picked up the pad, rubbing her fingers across the blank page. Whoever had taken it had torn off several pages under it because there wasn’t the slightest impression. It was as though it never was.

  Had never been. Like Dad. Like Peter. Like she might be too, if the killer hadn’t panicked. She twisted herself around and dropped her bare feet onto the cold wood floor. Crawley dead, Peter dead, the drawing she’d made gone. Somebody was trying to make it seem like the page from the notebook had never existed, but why? A forgery? Something that the Parker-Hale was trying to offload on some poor unsuspecting curator at another museum? It didn’t seem likely, not for a single misfiled drawing, not to mention the fact that a museum with a reputation like the Parker-Hale’s wouldn’t put everything on the line for a single possible Michelangelo drawing.

  She swore she could hear the creaking step of somebody on the fire escape outside her kitchen window. She knew it was locked, but she also knew that a shirt wrapped around the hand and a single punch could break the glass. She looked around the bedroom frantically, saw her softball bat and glove in the corner near the door and flew to them, grabbing the bat and charging out into the living room. She turned to the kitchen alcove, stepped up to the sink and took a roundhouse swing at the dark reflective glass. It shattered into a thousand pieces as the blow struck, but there was no sound from the fire escape except the pattering of broken glass as it rained down five floors and eventually crashed into the Dumpster in the alley at the bottom.

  Finn didn’t waste time thinking about what she’d done; there could have been someone out there, and if Delaney was right about the man who had killed Peter and possibly killed Crawley too, eventually there would be somebody coming after her. Hanging on to the baseball bat she hustled back into the bedroom, grabbing her knapsack from beside the couch as she went.

  She emptied her books out of the pack, strewing them across the bed, leaving only her digital camera and the makeup bag she carried with her everywhere. She went into the bathroom, loaded herself down with everything from shampoo to tampons, jammed it into the knapsack and then threw in four or five pairs of cotton underwear, two bras, half a dozen T-shirts and some socks.

  She pulled and pushed herself into a skintight pair of black Gap jeans, slid on her sneakers and jammed her baseball cap on her head. A minute later she was out the door and taking the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator. She reached the bottom a little out of breath, unlocked her bike from its place behind the stairs and pushed out into the night. She checked the glow on her Timex: quarter to two. Hardly the best time of night to be on the run, but she didn’t have much choice. Between Peter’s death and Crawley’s murder in his office she was feeling more and more as though she had a target painted on her back.

  She dropped the pack into the big front basket, climbed onto the bike and pedaled herself up Fourth Street to First Avenue, got off her bike and went into the pay phone. She pulled her little black book out of the back pocket of her jeans, threw a quarter into the slot and dialed. It was answered on the third ring.

  “Coolidge.”

  “Is that you, Eugene?” His real name was Yevgeny but he’d Americanized it.

  “Is me. Who is this, please?” He sounded a little concerned, as though the KGB or his mother were calling him.

  “It’s Finn Ryan, Eugene. I’ve got a problem.”

  “Feen!” the young man exclaimed. He was one of Finn’s ESL students and he had a fixation on her breasts—or her ass, whichever happened to be facing him at the time—even though he’d denied it several times. “What is this problem you are having? I fix for you, no swee-at.” Yevgeny was the night manager at the Coolidge Hotel.

  “That’s sweat,” corrected Finn. “I need a room for the night.”

  “Here?” said Eugene, horrified. Finn smiled. She’d seen the Coolidge Hotel. It was a four-story, brick pigeon roost lurking under the Manhattan Bridge approaches on the tail end of Division Street, as if trying to distance itself from the flop-houses on the Bowery. It was ungentrifiable and it didn’t look as though anyone had even thought of trying.

  “Yes. There. Don’t worry. I’ve got a credit card. I can pay.”

  There was bitter laughter from the other end of the phone. Outside her phone booth half a dozen black teenagers were chasing an old man on a bicycle who seemed to be throwing old phone books at them, pulling them out of a frayed mail-bag he wore across his shoulders. New York. She had to get undercover, fast.

  “We don’t take no credit cards here, Feen—cash only.”

  “We don’t ta
ke any credit cards here,” she said, correcting him automatically.

  “Yes, any. That’s right.”

  “But I don’t have any cash.”

  “I do,” said Eugene. “You pay me back later, yes?”

  “Yes,” she answered, not sure if she wanted to be indebted to an eighteen-year-old Russian boy with zits on his chin and designs on her body.

  “You come now,” urged Eugene. “Not good for pretty girl like you to be out this late.” He laughed again. “Not good for ugly girl to be out this late.”