Robert Knightly - The cold room

Adele finally brought me to a halt. ‘Alright, Corbin, I’m sorry. I know how you must feel.’

‘Do you mean that?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then why don’t you come home, Adele? Or at least tell me what’s wrong.’ The words were out of my mouth before I could take them back. ‘I know I’m supposed to be a new-millennium kind of guy, faithful and understanding, but it’s been two weeks and I’m starting to lose hope.’

The inevitable prolonged silence followed, during which I paced from the living room into the rear bedroom and back. Then Adele said, ‘Don’t give up on me, Corbin. Not yet.’

I noted the quaver in her voice, almost with satisfaction. Adele rarely displays her emotions. Woman of mystery is more her style.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Not yet.’

Another silence, followed by a change of subject. There was to be no revelation.

‘So, what are you going to do?’ Adele asked.

‘About what, exactly?’

‘About your Jane Doe, Aslan, the women, the children.’

‘Ah, we’re back to them. Well, in the short term, there’s only one thing I can do.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘I have to break the priest.’

A few minutes later, after a goodbye that might have been warmer, I went back to my computer. There was one more item I wanted to research. Several years before, a Catholic priest had violated the seal of the confessional to free a man unjustly convicted of murder. If it happened once, or so I reasoned, it could happen again. I just wanted to know the exact circumstances before I confronted Father Stan.

By one o’clock, I was on my way to the Blessed Virgin Outreach Center, driving along Metropolitan Avenue, over Newtown Creek, through industrial Maspeth, finally into the small residential community surrounding the center. Again, I was impressed with the resolute orderliness of the neighborhood, with the carefully tended yards and the immaculate gardens surrounding the modest homes. Written off decades before, this little piece of Maspeth was as proud — and ultimately defiant — as it was working class.

The outreach center was up and running when I walked inside. Seven adults and at least as many children were gathered around several of the worn couches against the walls. Curiously, there were no children in the play area.

‘Can I help you?’ A young woman in jeans and a tie-dyed sweatshirt rose to her feet from a kneeling position.

‘I’m here to see Father Manicki,’ I said, just as though I’d called ahead to make an appointment.

‘He’s not here today. He’s attending a conference at the Diocese. He’ll be back tomorrow.’

‘Thanks.’ I’d hoped to take the priest by surprise, which was why I hadn’t called ahead, but the trip wasn’t entirely wasted. There was always Sister Kassia and the pressure I hoped she’d put on Father Stan.

The nun took that moment to make an appearance, entering through a door that led back into the church. She stopped when she saw me, stopped to look into my eyes. I suspect she read the message correctly because her own eyes instantly hardened.

‘I need to speak with you for a few minutes.’ I was careful to keep my tone firm. There would be no mea culpas to confuse the issues. I’d come to make a deal which the good Sister could refuse or accept. There was no third alternative.

‘Alright,’ she said after a long moment, ‘let’s go outside.’

We took a slow walk to the end of the block while I related the same sad tale I’d conveyed to Adele only a few hours before. It was a beautiful day. The temperature was in the seventies, the sunlight clear and clean enough to render the cracked roads and worn brick nearly pristine. Above our heads, a steady breeze rattled the leaves and branches of an ancient maple whose roots had broken through the sidewalk.

‘I made no promises the other day,’ I said, ‘with regard to the other women, not to you or anybody else. And I’m not making much of a promise now. Those women are potential witnesses in two homicide investigations. They have a responsibility to come forward and I intend to make sure they honor that responsibility. Nevertheless, I need your help now and I’m willing to put an offer on the table.’

We were interrupted then, by an elderly woman who pushed a walker onto a small porch. The woman called Sister Kassia’s name as she skillfully avoided the spring-mounted door by turning in a full circle. Without a word, Sister Kassia went up on the porch to speak to the woman. When she returned a few minutes later, she seemed less tense. I walked alongside her, from the shade of the maple into the sunlight, then simply continued our conversation as though we’d never left off.

‘I may have to be hard on the women,’ I told her. ‘I may have to make them more afraid of me than of Aslan.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘I’m offering a contract, Sister, and I don’t want to conceal the terms. Ordinarily, I’d ask the DA to incarcerate the women as material witnesses, with or without their children. INS would be notified at that point and deportation proceedings would begin.’

‘But that doesn’t have to happen?’

‘There’s no good reason to incarcerate witnesses who are available and cooperative. Undocumented workers testify in court every day.’

We continued on, to the end of the street, then began to retrace our steps. Ahead of us, a car backed out of a tiny driveway to block our path.

‘I’m going to take those women away from Aslan,’ I said. ‘All I’m asking is that I have a safe place to bring them when I do. Some place other than Blessed Virgin, which Aslan knows about.’

‘I can place them in a temporary shelter easily enough, but if you’re trying to make an offer I can’t refuse, you’re not there yet. You need to spell out my side of the bargain.’

The car finally pulled off and we resumed walking. ‘I need a carrot,’ I said.

‘A carrot?’

‘To go along with the stick.’

Sister Kassia mouth turned down and she shook her head in disgust. ‘Spare me the drama,’ she declared. ‘Inscrutable doesn’t become you.’

‘Then let me state the case plainly. My goal is to isolate one of Domestic Solutions’ workers. At that point, I will become the stick. Now there’s nothing wrong with sticks. Sticks have produced results many times in the past. But in order for a stick to be most effective, there should be a carrot on the other end, a tangible reward for cooperation.’

‘A good cop to complement the bad cop?’

‘Exactly.’

She thought about this for a moment, then said, ‘You make it seem as if all this is going to happen in the near future. Are you telling me to be ready tomorrow?’

‘That, Sister, depends almost entirely on Father Manicki.’

I stopped at a little joint called Driggs Restorante, before heading into the Nine-Two, where I picked up a veal parmigiana hero, a side of spaghetti and a salad laced with pepperoncini hot enough to make your eyes water.

Comfort food was what I called it and my thoughts were on my meal as I threaded the maze passing for a squad room at the Nine-Two. But I wasn’t so oblivious that I failed to note Inspector Bill Sarney standing next to Drew Millard in the lieutenant’s office. Nor did I fail to note the contrast. Bill Sarney was everything the lieutenant wanted to be, so dominant that Millard seemed lost in his shadow. At various times in the last year, Bill Sarney had been my rabbi, my enemy, and my benefactor. All the while manipulating me with the skill of a practiced con man. I couldn’t read him then. I couldn’t read him now.

I nodded once as I passed, continuing on to my office where I unwrapped the hero, popped the lids off the spaghetti and the salad, finally opened a can of orange soda. Then I leaned forward and took a deep breath.