2
Half an hour later, having given Garry and Lou enough to go on with, Gregor Demarkian finally got his coat and got ready to leave for Cavanaugh Street. He checked his pockets to make sure that he had all the things Bennis was always accusing him of losing—the scarf she had bought him for Christmas one year; the leather gloves with the cashmere lining she had bought him for his birthday in another—and then headed out toward the front doors and the street. He would, he thought, have to walk several blocks to get a cab. There would be none cruising through the dismal neighborhood around the precinct house at this hour of the night. He went down the steps and stood just under the round precinct light. There was another one, on the other side, and he found himself wondering why police stations everywhere had settled on this kind of architecture.
He was just turning left to walk toward Baldwin Place and St. Stephen’s and St. Anselm’s when he saw a figure in the shadows, waiting, too, and because he knew who it was, he slowed his steps to allow this man to catch up with him. A moment later, the light from the precinct lamps glowed down over Roy Phipps’s face, and Roy smiled a little.
“So,” he said. “The Armenian-American Hercule Poirot has solved another crime.”
“At the moment, the Armenian-American Hercule Poirot is going to go to Baldwin Place and find a cab. Why did you wait for me? You got what you wanted.”
“I was wondering if you knew what was happening to the atheist Edith Lawton. Not murder, unfortunately, but she managed to cause enough damage. Hit her lover over the head and gave him a concussion. Hit her husband over the head and gave him a concussion, too. It’s just wonderful. Silly cow. She’s fifty years old. What made her think some rich man was going to take care of her at her age?”
“It happens.”
“It happens to women much better-looking and much more intelligent than Edith Lawton. She’s a damned fool and always has been. Atheism as enlightenment. Don’t you just love it? These stupid people. They think that all they have to do is declare that God doesn’t exist and it will add fifteen points to their IQ scores.”
“Is that what you came to talk to me about, atheism?”
“I told you what I came to talk to you about.”
They had reached the corner. Gregor turned left again, and felt rather than saw Roy Phipps turn with him. He didn’t usually notice the fact that Phipps was a handsome man, but it was true. He was handsome and photogenic, and he had the kind of high-voltage energy that played well on a television screen. Everybody was always so intent on vilifying Roy’s positions, nobody ever took note of how much charisma he had or what he was really doing with it.
They were now only half a block from the corner where St. Anselm’s and St. Stephen’s faced each other. On their right was the wrought-iron fence that defined St. Anselm’s small compound. Lights were burning in the convent, but not in the rectory.
“You know,” Gregor said, “if I were you, I’d be more careful than I have been. You’re not the only one who can go poking around in other people’s private lives.”
“Aren’t I?”
“Father Tibor had a field day with your deacon. From what I understand, it wasn’t difficult.”
“No,” Roy admitted. “It never is difficult with Fred.”
“It’s too bad there’s nothing about my life that hasn’t already been in the Inquirer. And People magazine. There is, however, quite a bit about your life that has so far appeared nowhere in public.”
“I don’t think so,” Roy said pleasantly. “I don’t think there’s anything to find at all. I don’t smoke. I don’t drink. I don’t womanize. I’m clean as a whistle. I’m a crusader, Mr. Demarkian. I’m the hammer of God. This country has turned itself into a haven for perversion, and I’m here to make sure it knows that it’s going to hell. I mean that literally, do you understand that? Going to hell, the place.”
“Then why bother to go after Dan Burdock?”
“Are you joking?”
“Of course I’m not joking,” Gregor said. “If Dan Burdock is gay, it’s an entirely intellectual position. The man has never had a love affair in his life, as far as anyone can tell. And we did check. So I don’t think you’re going after Dan Burdock because he’s gay.”
“It doesn’t matter if he’s gay himself. He—facilitates—the homosexual agenda.”
“All right. He facilitates the homosexual agenda. But that’s not what you’re doing here. As I told you, Mr. Phipps—”