“Not a chance,” Kylie said, taking the blue sheet. “Not after what went down this morning. Where’s Peltz?”
“Yo, Sarge. ¿Dónde está la hermosa mujer?”
It was Officer Morales, his dark eyes already zeroing in on the beautiful Colombian woman. He tightened his abs and puffed out his chest, all hot to translate.
Officer Rodriguez was right behind him. “Sarge, he’s Puerto Rican. They don’t even speak real Spanish down there. My father was from Colombia. I’ll talk to her.”
“Morales was here first, but as long as you’re not busy,” McGrath said, digging into his pocket and handing Rodriguez two dollars, “run upstairs and get me a Diet Pepsi.”
“Sergeant,” I said. “We’re in a crunch. Where’s Peltz?”
“Sorry,” he said. “It’s a zoo in here. He’s…”
I heard a crashing noise, and then the Spanish woman screamed. “Dios mío…” She pointed over my shoulder.
McGrath’s head snapped around. “What the fuck?”
I turned and saw a man staggering toward us, his arms flailing, his body in spasms, banging into walls, spewing vomit as he went. Ten feet from the desk, he pitched face-forward to the floor. Officer Rodriguez was the first one at his side, his fingers searching for a pulse.
“Peltz,” McGrath said.
“He’s dead,” Rodriguez added, both of them confirming what I already knew.
“Shit,” McGrath said, pounding his fist on the desk. Then he pointed to the front door and bellowed out an order. “Somebody stop that fucking priest!”
Chapter 65
GETTING IN TO see Mickey hadn’t even been a challenge, The Chameleon thought to himself.
The cop at the front desk was busy, but it’s amazing how fast you can go to the head of the line if you’re wearing a black shirt, white collar, and gold cross.
“I’m Father McDougal,” Gabriel said once he read the name tag on McGrath’s uniform. “One of my parishioners called me. Mickey Peltz. He was recently released from prison, and he’s been very careful to stay on the straight and narrow, and now he’s concerned that he’s in trouble with the police. What did he do, if I may ask?”
“As far as I can tell, Father, nothing,” McGrath said. “He’s not under arrest. He’s just in here to answer a few questions for the detectives investigating an ongoing case.”
“Oh, he’ll be so relieved. He really is a good man. I truly believe his past is behind him. He found the Lord while he was in prison.”
“A lot of them do, Father.”
“My job is to make sure something like this doesn’t shake his faith. Do you mind if I sit with him for a few minutes and give him some spiritual guidance, and perhaps something to quench his thirst?”
Gabriel held up a clear plastic bottle of Poland Spring.
“Is that holy water, Father?” the cop said.
“No,” Gabriel said, “but at two bucks for a sixteen-ounce bottle, you would think that His Holiness Himself had blessed it.”
The cop laughed out loud. What Irishman doesn’t love a funny priest? “Donna, please take Father McDougal back to Room Two.”
The Chameleon gave the cop his most sincere Christian smile. Permission to kill Mr. Peltz granted. Hallelujah.
Mickey, of course, was thrilled to see him. He swore up and down he wouldn’t say a word about anything to anyone.
“You wouldn’t lie to a priest, would you my son?” Gabe said.
Mickey let loose one of his signature raspy laughs and sucked down half a bottle of the Poland Spring.
“I’m just here for moral support,” Gabriel said, “and to let you know that if you need a lawyer, don’t take one of their court-appointed hacks. I have the money to spring for a real one.”
“Thanks,” Mickey said. “You’re a good friend, Gabe.”
And those were probably the last words Mickey Peltz ever uttered.
Getting out of the station was cake. Gabriel fell in behind a trio of cops and breezed right past the desk sergeant and out the front door. Less than thirty seconds later, he had peeled off his neat little goatee, the clerical shirt and collar, balled them up along with the Bible and the cross he wore around his neck, and shoved them all into a trash basket.
There was a street vendor on the southeast corner of Third Avenue and 67th Street hawking sunglasses, batteries, and “genuine pashmina” for only five dollars. His beat-up Dodge van was parked behind the stand, and Gabriel positioned himself so he could look west toward the precinct yet remain completely out of sight.