With that last question hanging, she cut me off cold. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Russo. I hope you’re as good an investigative reporter as they, whoever ‘they’ are, think you are. And, if you can keep it in mind—a little respect for authority can go a long way,” she chastised me, while ushering me out.
“No disrespect, ma’am,” I retorted, “but you had nothing but respect for authority and look what happened to you. You’ve spent the last thirty-something years in hiding!”
“In plain sight…” she said.
“You don’t really live here, do you?”
Silence. Oh, right. Respect.
“Okay then. How about ‘How can I find you if I need to?’”
“I’ll find you when I need to,” she said, closing the door. “Have a safe journey, Ms. Russo.” Then, almost as an afterthought: “The world depends on it.”
It was dark by then and cold. Fog was settling in, too. Great.
I heard the dead bolt lock behind me as I made my way back to the car, wondering about that house and trying to feel my way in the dark. For sure it wasn’t her house. I mean, she was still wanted by the Feds. But still, Wright-Lewis clearly knew a lot more about me than I knew about her. Just who was the investigative reporter here? She even knew my favorite brand of Scotch.
Just for the record? It’s Johnnie Blue. Not that she offered me any.
14
I didn’t know where to go.
I got into Sadowski’s Caddy, turned it on, and then punched in Dona’s number on his satellite phone. “Hey, it’s me,” I said, when her cheery voice mail picked up. “Sadowski gave me his cell to use, but I don’t know what the number is. It’s a secure line, though, so I don’t think the number will pop up on your end. I was wondering if I could bunk with you tonight? Call me. Well, call me if you can. And tell Sadowski to call me the hell back, too! He can give you this number, which I’d like to have myself, thank you very much.”
I sounded much more flippant and upbeat than I felt.
My apartment had been broken into, so I wasn’t about to go there—at least until I could get the cops to pay attention. And I was being watched. But by whom?
Damn. I didn’t even have my fallback home—the newsroom—to return to any longer.
I sure couldn’t ask for room and board with Sadowski, because for one thing, the SOB, my supposed friend, had stopped answering my calls.
Sitting there in the dark, without caring that Wright-Lewis was probably peeking out her window at me, I then turned on the radio. I was desperate to know what had transpired at the tribunal that day.
I tuned to 1010 WINS and caught them midstory—something about a murder.
On the second day of the trial, they bother with a routine murder at the top of the hour?
Then I got it. “The body had been found bound and naked and shot through the temple,” the female reporter was saying. “The priest, a favorite in the Turtle Bay / United Nations area, had last been seen opening the gate to the rectory of the Church of the Holy Family to allow former New York Standard reporter Alessandra Russo to enter.”
The next voice was that of Ron Pearl, the NYPD spokesman whom I’d known for twenty years. “Alessandra Russo has been on our radar since the incident with the terrorist, ah, alleged terrorist, ben Yusef at the UN yesterday,” he said as though he weren’t an old friend. “As of four P.M. this afternoon Ms. Russo remains the prime suspect in the murder of Father Eugene Sadowski.…”
Then it went back to the beat reporter. “According to one police source, who spoke to me on the condition of anonymity, Alessandra Russo’s fingerprints were found on the murder weapon. This is Juliet Papa reporting.”
I banged my head on the steering wheel. Dead? The guy I’d just cursed out to Dona? I was overcome with grief—until I began to process the reality of what I’d just heard: “Alessandra Russo’s fingerprints were found on the murder weapon.…”
Of course! I’d handled the gun and I’d recently been fingerprinted for clearance for the tribunal. I had been set up! And somehow this nightmare I’d entered was connected to the man on trial, the one his nutty followers claimed to be the new Jesus.
So what now? Return to the city and give myself up to face murder charges? Run for my life? Or find out if the United States had killed Baby Jesus thirty-three years ago by high-tech missile?
I tried Donald. He picked up after half a ring.
“It’s me,” I said. “Don’t ask any questions but just let me know if you know why I’m being set up.”