Ed McBain: The Big Bad City

She stopped to say a few words to one of the nurses, and then whoosh, she was out the door and gone. I asked-the nurse who she was. She said That's Sister Mary Vincent. I said What? Sister Mary Vincent, she salct again. She-s a nun. works upstairs in Extensive Care. Sister Mary Vincent? I thought. A nun? I figured I'd made a mistake?”

He shook his head, remembering, remembering. Carella glanced up at the video camera. The red light was still on. The tape was still rolling.

Don't quit on me now, he thought. Keep talking, Sal.

"I went back. I had to make sure this wasn't Katie. Because if it was her, I wanted to ask her about that night four years ago. The way you want to ask your mother things about when you were a kid, do you know? I wanted to ask Katie about what had happened that night. Wanted to make sure that night had really happened. That night with Charlie Custer. When we killed him.”

It occurred to Carella that the only one who'd killed Custer was Roselli himself. He was the one who'd pushed him over that railing to his death. Yes, technically, they'd acted in concert, Katie hitting him with the bottle, Roselli shoving him over to the alligators. And technically, yes, a prosecutor could make a case against both of them.

Katie's intent hadn't been to kill, though, and Roselli had been acting in self-defense. A defense attorney could make a case for that as well. There were times when Carella was grateful he was merely a cop.

"I waited outside the emergency room door," Roselli said, "in the parking lot there, where the ambulances come in. This was two or three days later. Nurses were walking in and out. It was Katie, no question about it. I didn't approach her because I wasn't sure what she might do. She'd quit the band and dlsappeared. he'd become a nun and taken a new name. Had she run because she was afraid of the law? Or afraid of me ? Had she become a nun because she was hiding? From the law? Or from me?”

He nodded again, remembering. Kept nodding. Trying to understand.

Hands folded on the tabletop. Fingers working. Kneading his hands on the tabletop.

"I looked her up in all the phone books, but there were no listings for anyone named Mary Vincent. So I followed her home one day," he said.

"She lived in a walk-up on Yarrow. I checked the mailboxes and found one for Mary Vincent. So now I knew how to reach her if I wanted to.

But why would I want to?”

And now Roselli seemed to drift, his voice lowering almost to a whisper, confiding to Carella as if indeed the two of them were basking alone in the sun somewhere. Unaware of the camera now, he turned his gaze inward, and words spilled from his heart like shattered glass.

Carella listened, pained.

I knew a nun wouldn't have a pot to piss in, but she came from a well-to-do family, you know. In Pennsylvania someplace. On the road, she was always talking about them. Her father was a university professor, her mother, was a psychiatrist. That was money there. What would a couple of thousand mean to a family like that? I didn't know her parents were dead, of course. I learned that later. That night in the park. I didn't know her brother had inherited all their goddamn money. I just thought ... you know ... if I asked her for a little money, just to tide me over, just until I could square myself with the man, get a steady gig someplace, then maybe she could get it from her parents, you know? I know if one of my daughters was a nun, I'd give her the world. The world. I love those little girls. I'd give them the world. So maybe Katie's parents would help her out. Was what I thought.

I couldn't phone her, she wasn't listed, but I didn't want to walk up to her on the street, either. Hey, Katie, remember me? Remember the night you and I killed Charlie Custer? Remember the alligators eating him? A laugh riot, remember? Do you remember all of it, Katie, the way I remember all of it except when I'm lost in Dopeland? Do you remember, Katie? I wrote her a letter.

It was dated Monday, August tenth. I know because I read it again after I broke into her apartment to get it back. I tore it up the minute I got home. Flushed the bits and pieces down the toilet. The letter said Hi, Katie, it's good knowing you're still alive and well. I don't want to bother you, Katie, I know you have a new life now, but I'm in a little trouble, and maybe you can help me out. This is what it is. I need a couple of thousand dollars-to square a debt. I was hoping you could ask your parents for a loan until I get on my feet again. Do you think that would be possible? I would appreciate your help. Please call me, Katie. I'm living out on Sand's Spit just now, in a small development house. The number there is 803-7256. I mean you no harm. I just need money. Considering our past together, I feel certain you'll help. Please call.

She never called!

I figured she must have got the letter sometime that week. Even if she got it late in the week say Thursday or Friday, she should have called. But she didn't.

So I wrote her a second letter. This one was dated Saturday, August fifteenth. It went down the toilet, too, right after I found it in her apartment. What it said was I really had to have the money right away because the man I owed it to was making serious threats. I told her I knew her parents were wealthy, so please ask them for it, can you? All I need is two thousand. I asked her to meet me the following Friday in Grover Park. August twenty-first. Six-thirty P.M." I said. Come in on Larson Street. Go to the third bench on the right. I'll.be sitting there waiting for you. Please bring the money. I won't harm you, Katie. I promise. Please meet me, Katie We are old friends. Don't you remember, Katie? Please help me.

I was waiting there for her at six-thirty that night. She didn't arrive until seven. I was just about to leave. She told me she'd been walking through the park. She told me she'd been praying. Affirming that God still approved of the decision she'd made. That was the word she used. Affirming.

So here we are,-she said. Smiling. Looking serene and placid and ... well ... almost beatific.

She told me I was looking very good, which was a lie, and I told her I was happy she'd decided to meet me. I told her I was so surprised to learn she was a nun, had she given up singing altogether? You were such a good singer, I said.

I sing on the ward sometimes, she said. To my patients.

She told me she dealt mostly with terminally ill patients. I said I found that so hard to imagine. Katie Cochran a nun on a hospital ward? Singing to terminally ill patients? Come on, I said.

"Come on, Charlie.”

I told her I was married now and had two little girls, Josie and Jenny.

My wife's a lovely girl, Katie, I'd like you to meet her one day.

I'd love to meet her, Katie said.

I told her I was sorry I had to bother her this way but I really was in a bind.

I really need the money, I said. Really, Katie. Katie, I'm a drug addict, I said. I'm sorry to hear that, she said.

My wife is clean, though, totally sober. Well, she's what you might call a recreational user, she does it just to keep me company every now and then. I told her I was in serious trouble. I told her because of the cocaine I owed close to three thousand dollars to my dealer. If I could pay him two now, he'd let the rest slide till I could get a steady gig someplace.

So did you bring the money? I asked.

Your letters sounded so threatening, she said. No, no. I meant you no harm.

Yes, those words especially. "I mean you no harm.”

Why would you want to harm me? I don't.

But your words. "Considering our past together." And in the second letter, "Don't you remember, Katie?" Such threatening words.

No, no, I didn't mean them that way.

They frightened me, Sal. Your words. I prayed that God would forgive your words. It was odd, receiving your letters when I did. After I'd already made my decision.