F. Paul Wilson: Crisscross

"Many times. Maybe even for your unnamed source."

"Oh, no. He'd never—" Her hand flew to her mouth.

Gotcha, Jack thought, but didn't make an issue of it. He'd narrowed down her source to a little less than half the population. At least it was a start.

"As for the installments… we'll work something out."

She smiled, this time revealing even white teeth. "Thank you. I'll see you get your money, every penny of it." She dug into her black no-name pocketbook. "I was able to bring the hundred dollars you asked for."

She handed him a hundred-dollar bill and two folded sheets of paper.

Jack slipped the bill under his sweater and into the breast pocket of his shirt. The blackmailer had demanded a thousand as his next payment. He was going to get only a fraction of that. And Jack was going to send it.

He had a reason for doing it himself. But more important, the payment would allow him to track down the blackmailer. He'd done this before: Send the money in a padded envelope with a dime-size transponder hidden in the lining, then follow the transponder.

He unfolded the first sheet of paper—Maggie's perfect Palmer-method handwritten note saying she didn't have any more to send at the moment. Good. Just what he'd told her to write. The second was the address. The money was supposed to go to "Occupant." A street address and a number followed—plainly a mail drop. Jack did a double take at the street—Tremont Avenue in the Bronx… Box 224.

"Son of a bitch!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I know that address and I know who's blackmailing you."

"Who?"

"A walking, talking virus."

"But what's his name?"

Jack could see his round, sweaty-jowled face with eyes and mouth crowded close to the center of his face, held there by the gravitational field of his big, pushed-up nose. Richie Cordova, a fat, no good, rotten, useless glob of protoplasm. Not two months ago Jack had ruined most of Cordova's stash of blackmail goodies. Obviously he'd missed Maggie's photos.

"Nobody you'd know. He's the guy I mentioned before, who's made a career out of blackmail."

Maggie looked frightened. "But how did he get those pictures of me and…?"

And who? Jack wondered. Male or female?

He had a pretty good idea of how it had gone down. Cordova's legit grind was private investigations. Someone hired him for a job that had put him in Maggie's orbit. The shitbum spotted something hinky, took a few pictures, and now was using them to supplement his income.

"Bad luck. The wrong guy in the wrong place at the wrong time."

She leaned forward. "I want his name."

"Better you don't know. It can't do you any good. Might even buy you some trouble." He looked at her. "I mean it."

"Yes, but—"

"You believe in the soul, I assume?"

"Of course."

"This guy's is a petri dish."

She slumped again. "This is terrible."

"Not really. Granted you've got a better chance of goof-ups if you're on the string to an amateur than a pro, but I've already dealt with this particular pro. I know where he lives and where he works. I'll get your photos back."

She brightened. "You will?"

"Well, maybe I shouldn't guarantee anything, but we've gone from Stage One to Stage Two in a matter of minutes. That's a record. We still have to send him that money though."

"Why? I thought that was to trace him. If you already know wüo he is—"

"There's a reason we're shorting him. I want to rattle his cage, make him get in touch with you. When he calls, you've got to cry poverty—"

She barked a bitter little laugh. "It won't be an act, I can tell you that."

"Be convincing. What that does is set the stage for your sending him no more money when and if I retrieve your photos. You simply haven't got it. Remember, he's got a lot invested in his blackmail assets. We don't want him connecting you to losing them. No telling what he'll do."

Instead of looking concerned, Maggie smiled as if a terrible burden had been lifted.

"This is going to work, isn't it," she said.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves."

"No, it is. I can feel it. God turned away from me for a while—not without good reason—but now I see His hand again in my life. He led me to you, to someone who has already dealt with my tormentor. That can't be just a coincidence."

Coincidence…

Jack felt his shoulders tighten. He hated coincidences.

6

Jack watched Maggie leave, nimbly sliding past Patsy as she gave him the brush.

Months ago a lady—a Russian lady with a big white dog—had told him there'd be no more coincidences in his life. He'd seen no hard evidence yet that she'd been right, but certain incidents that he might otherwise consider happenstance seemed to form a pattern when he looked for one. True, you could always find connections if you looked hard enough and stretched the imagination. That was how conspiracy theories were born.

But Maggie had it right: Her picking him to help her with Cordova seemed like a hell of a coincidence. On the other hand, Cordova did a lot of blackmailing. It wasn't impossible that two of his victims—Emil Jankowski in September and Maggie here at the tail end of October—would call on Jack. Not too much competition in the fix-it field.

Still…

He popped out of his seat and headed for the door, waving to Julio as he passed the bar.

Out on the street he peered up and down the sidewalk until he spotted Maggie's blue knit hat bouncing away to his right. He took off after her, keeping his distance. He hoped she'd snag a cab but no, she bounded down the steps of a subway entrance.

Damn. Following her on a Sunday wouldn't be easy. No crowds to hide in. With a mental shrug he headed down. The worst that could happen was she'd spot him and he'd have to ad lib an explanation.

He hung back on the stairs till he saw her head for the downtown side. When she hopped on an A train he slipped into the following car and positioned himself where he could watch her through the glass. She pulled a book from her bag but didn't open it. She stared at the floor, looking lost, as if the worries of the world were all hers.

She rode that way down to West Fourth where she switched to the F. Along the way she didn't look around much, too lost in her thoughts to notice anyone following.

She stepped off at Delancey and Jack followed her up to the streets of the Lower East Side. The buildings here were former tenements that maxed out at five stories. Canopied oriental and kosher food stores sat cheek by jowl along the stained gray sidewalk.

He gave her a block lead but grew a little uneasy as he started to recognize his surroundings. He'd come down here just last August to confront a priest who had hired him but managed to pull one over on him. What was his name? Father Ed. Right. Father Edward Halloran. His church had been around here somewhere, St. Somebody-or—

He stopped dead as he followed Maggie around a corner. There, across the street, looming over the surrounding tenements, sat the hulking, Gothic, granite-block mass of the Church of St. Joseph. The old building wasn't in any better shape than the last time he'd seen it. The large rose window centered over the double doors was caked with grime, as were its twin crocketed spires, but the latter boasted the added decoration of white stripes a la city squab.

The doors stood open and people, mostly older with an immigrant look, were wandering inside.

Jack had been in the rectory to St. Joe's immediate left, but not the building to the right where Maggie was hurrying up the front steps, passing a sign that read Convent of the Blessed Virgin .

A nun? Maggie was a nun?

Well, it sort of fit with her uptight personality. But he guessed she wasn't too uptight, otherwise Cordova would have nothing to hold over her. And since she was connected with St. Joe's, Jack had a pretty good idea who had referred her: Father Ed.