"May I ask for what?"

Annie thought about it, suddenly blurting, "For his murder."

Cammayo's firm gaze weakened. It wandered from the couch, to the floor, around the room.

Annie pressed, "How do you know him, Father?"

He flapped a lifeless hand. "I don't. I never knew him."

"So tell me why thirty-six years later you're bringing flowers to his grave."

"You wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

The father gave the women his back. "When I was a young man I lived near where he was killed. The morning after he died I heard some neighbors talking. I found a paper and read about it. There wasn't much, just a paragraph that said he'd died in a mugging. I went to the spot where he was killed. There was still blood on the sidewalk. The paper said his little girl had been with him."

Frank was impa.s.sive under Annie's quick glance.

"My father was killed too. When I was six years old. I barely remember him. I felt sorry for the little girl but I suppose I felt sorrier for me. I think it was on the sidewalk that morning, standing there, that I knew I was going to be a priest." He faced them, clarifying, "For less than pure motives, mind you. I decided to join the church that I may never again be attached to corporal flesh. Neither wife, nor child, nor lover. I was done with entanglements. I wanted only to attach myself to G.o.d, who I knew would never desert me. And that is why I visit that man's grave even after all these years, lb pay homage. To remember where I came from. To fortify my will when I feel weak. I talk to G.o.d. It's quiet there. Peaceful. I get ideas for sermons when I'm there." He shrugged. "It's not a crime, is it?"

"Not at all," Annie allowed. "How often do you visit?"

"Every few weeks, time permitting."

"And you've been doing this thirty-six years?"

"Off and on. It's more convenient now that I live closer to the cemetery."

"Father, forgive me, but thirty-six years is a long time. I remember the day I decided to be a cop, believe me. I was at Brooklyn College sitting out under a tree studying for a final when two cars crashed in front of me. I went over to help but within seconds, whoop-whoop-whoop, here come the police. They call an ambulance, get the drivers separated, calm aem down, get all the details sorted out, and as I'm watching these guys I know right then and there this is what I want to do with my life. I want to be the one that people call on in an emergency. I want to be that first responder, right? Let me tell you, I remember that moment vividly, but the thing is, Father, I don't go back to that street in Brooklyn every couple weeks and leave flowers, you know what I mean?"

The father offered a patronizing smile. "I dare to say our callings are vastly different."

"How so?"

"No disrespect, Detective, but I don't think being a policeman compares to devoting your life to G.o.d."

"Maybe so," Annie said into his gaze. "Still and all, an epiphany's a pretty powerful thing, huh?"

"It is indeed."

Annie continued, "An epiphany sets you on a path and you move ahead. You grow from that moment on and move out from the epiphany. You don't keep clinging to the moment. Pardon my language, but it's like getting a kick in the pants. It pushes you forward. It doesn't keep you tied to the past."

The father blinked.

A lock of hair fell across Annie's eyes and she tossed it back, asking, "How old were you when Franco was killed?"

"I was seventeen."

"Where'd you live?"

"Lower East Side."

"Whereabouts?"

"Delancey Street."

"That's a rough neighborhood. A lotta kids don't make it out."

"I take no credit for it. G.o.d gave me the strength and the faith to succeed."

"Where did you go to school?"

"Seward Park."

"Are you a diocesan priest?"

He nodded once.

"That must keep you pretty busy."

"The Lord's work is never done."

"Amen," Annie replied, crossing herself quickly.

"You're Catholic?" he asked.

"For all of my fifty-four years." Annie smiled. "Father, I know you're busy, but if I could trouble you with just a few more questions, what exactly was it you heard your neighbors talking about the morning after Mr. Franco was murdered."

He waved a hand as if chasing a fly from his face. "Talk. That a man was stabbed while walking home on Ninth Street. What a shame it was. What sort of place were they living in where a man loses his life for three dollars. That kind of talk. Nothing concrete. Just the idle chatter of women and old men."

Annie said, "Well, thank you, Father. I'm sorry we've taken so much of your time." She slipped him a card. "If anything comes to mind, maybe you could give us a call, huh?"

Cammayo read the card. "Of course."

Heading out the door Annie stopped to ask one more question. "Father"-she smiled-"pardon my ignorance, but why do you burn a Nino de Atocha candle at the grave?"

She and the father locked eyes. A small smile tipped his lips. "Much of my work is related to prison ministry. Saint Nino de Atocha, my child, is of course the patron saint of prisoners. And as I told you, I get much of my inspiration at Mr. Franco's grave."

Appearing satisfied, Annie said, "Thanks again for your time, Father."

She and Frank didn't speak until they were back in the car.

"Don't forget the Nova," Frank told her.

"Right."

"What do you think?"

"What do I think? I think it's funny that considering the Lord's work is never done Father Cammayo makes time every two weeks to visit the grave of a stranger dead thirty-six years. I think that dog's not runnin' on all fours."

"It's kinda odd."

Checking traffic over her shoulder, Annie said, "I think we need to do a little background on the padre."

CHAPTER 37.

"Hey. It's Frank. Just wanted to say hi. I'll try you later."

Frank wondered where Gail was on a Sat.u.r.day evening. Her jealous streak itched but she didn't scratch it. Instead she reached for her journal. She got a paragraph written before Gail called back.

"Hi. I got your message. How are you?"

"Okay. How'bout you?"

"I had a lovely day. Trina's here and we went for a walk on the beach and had a scrumptious dinner. It was really nice."

Trina was Gail's sister and Frank answered, "How long's she staying?"

"Just tonight. She's going home tomorrow."

"I'm glad you took a whole day off. You're not working too hard."

"I know. I've got a stack of paperwork I brought home and I'll get to it tomorrow but today I played. How about you? Are you about frozen to death?"

"Yeah. Ready to come home and thaw out."

"When's that going to be?"

"I'm not sure. I got a bite today."

"You're kidding!"

"No. The mystery visitor turned out to be a G.o.dd.a.m.ned priest. Imagine my surprise. Didn't know I could still be surprised. Anyway, I tailed him to this church and called Annie. We lost him while I was waiting for her to show but a secretary gave us his address. We tracked him down-Annie did all the talking-but his story sounds pretty hinky. Some bulls.h.i.t about how my father's murder changed his life. It was an epiphany for him and he's never forgotten."

"Well, how did he know your father?"

"He didn't. The man was a total stranger to him. He claims he heard about it the morning after it happened and he went and visited the spot and practically ascended. His story holds water like a leaky bucket. Annie and I went back to the precinct and worked the computers for a couple hours. Nothing unusual apart from the fact that he is Monsignor Roberto Cammayo."

Frank summarized from the notes she'd been jotting down in her notebook.

"Born nineteen fifty-three, in Colon, Panama. Mother Rosalia Pretto, father Romeo Cammayo. Mother's remarried. Name's Calderon. The guy does prison ministry so there was a lot of DOJ background on him. He was arrested twice for public protest. Has a sister with a rap sheet half a mile long, mostly prost.i.tution and possession. Sister's name is Alvarez. Flora Alvarez. Last known address was Baruch Houses, where the mother lives. So guess where I'm going tomorrow. Of all the places to live in Manhattan she's got to live there."

"What's Baruch Houses?"

"The last place my mom and I lived."

"Oh."

"Anyway, the padre's story smells. He spends an inordinate amount of time paying homage to a thirty-six-year-old memory.

Just doesn't make sense, so we'll pump the mother tomorrow. See what she remembers." Frank reached for the bottle of Perrier by her bed. "Another thing. Why would my dad's death in particular stand out? This was the seventies. The city was in the middle of a huge crime wave. People getting killed-especially where Cammayo lived-would have been an everyday thing. So why the sudden epiphany for a murder that one, he didn't even witness? Supposedly. Two, for a man he didn't even know? A complete stranger. And three, my dad was popped up on Ninth Street. If Cammayo was living down on Delancey at the time, like he claims, then that's not even his neighborhood. It all stinks like a week-old fish. I'm not buying it. I don't know what he's hiding but we'll figure it out."

"Well, it's great you have a lead."

"Yeah. It is."

"You don't sound happy about it."

"No, I am. It's just... weird. Standing in this guy's apartment and listening to him talk about my dad. I felt like I was watching a movie I'd already seen. I gotta admit I'm a little numb. It was exciting following him, but it's still weird. Half of me really hopes he knows something but the other half wishes this would all go away. Half the time I'm sorry I opened this whole can of worms, then half the time I can't wait to dig deeper. Guess the cop and the daughter in me are duking it out."

"Who's winning?"

"I don't know. Doesn't matter, I guess. Either way, it won't bring him back. Even if Cammayo did it, even if he turns out to be a hope-to-die junkie turned priest who killed my father, it still won't bring him back. Nothing can ever change that and I still hate that.

"I guess that's the bottom line. I hate all this. And I want to find the hype that started all this s.h.i.t and make him hurt, too. Priest or not. Whoever he is I want him to hurt as bad as I do." Frank sighed. "But I know hurting him won't fix the hole my dad left. Nothing can change that. So then I start arguing, why am I doing this if nothing's going to change? I can't fix all those years without him so what the h.e.l.l's the point? Then Lieutenant Franco chimes in-aIt's the law. Justice. Man committed a murder he should be caught and punished. The fact you can't bring your father back is irrelevant. It's a matter of law and order. Period.' I just wish it were that simple. Sorry. I'm rambling."

"You're right. You've become practically loquacious since you quit drinking."

"Ah, there's my English professor. What's loquacious mean?"

"Talkative."

"Ah. Sorry."

"No, I like it much better than your characteristic reticence. That means silence."

"I knew that one." Frank smiled at the wall.

"I like it a lot. I like knowing what's going on in your head. It makes me feel like you trust me enough to tell me. I hated when you were drinking and you'd just shut down. I always felt so left out."

"I know. You were. Everybody was. Including me."

"So talkative is much better."

"Good. aCause that's what I've got to learn to do. Talk, talk, talk. I've even started a journal. Can you believe it?"

Gail laughed. "No, I can't. My G.o.d, you really are changing."

"I'm trying, doc. Trying like h.e.l.l."