Silent Mercy [Fairstein, Linda] (fb2) читать постранично, страница - 4

glass?”

“It — it looks like the writing is in Hebrew. Is that possible?”

“Indeed it is.”

I couldn’t read the ancient language, but the lettering was clear, as were the various symbols of the Jewish faith etched into the amber, emerald, and cobalt-blue glass. In the middle frame were the two tablets displaying the Ten Commandments, topped by a sixsided Star of David.

“Mercer — Mike,” I called out to them, “you’ve got to see this.”

“A hundred years ago, Ms. Cooper,” Audley said, proudly showing off the church he’d been associated with since his birth, “this here was built to be a synagogue.”

Mike rested his hands on my shoulders as he leaned back to look up.

“What kind of detective you be, Mr. Chapman?” Audley asked. “In that pediment up over the columns, above the front door, didn’t you see those tablets with the Ten Commandments?”

Mike didn’t have a ready answer.

“Didn’t you even notice those numbers carved in the cornerstone as you walked past? Big as you are? Says 5668. That’s the Hebrew calendar, year she was built. Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t miss no clue like that. Means 1908, when Harlem’s population was mostly Jewish. Rich and powerful ones, merchants and such. This girl just come home.”

“That’s one view of it,” Mike said. “I’d like you to show us all these things in daylight. I’ll bring Dr. Watson along. Make sure we don’t miss anything.”

“Just you come back with Ms. Cooper. I think she gets it.”

Maybe it was a hate crime after all. If the Star of David was in fact the victim’s, maybe it was no coincidence that her body was deposited on the steps of this particular church.

“The Lord moves in mysterious ways, Mr. Audley,” Mike said. “Strange and mysterious ways.”

“Amen, Mr. Chapman. The Lord be making these mysteries, He can help you solve them too. Just you figure it out before anybody else get dead.”

THREE

“MY name is Wilbur Gaskin, Detective. I’m a member of this congregation. Our pastor is out of town and I’m hoping to be of some assistance to you in his place.”

It was shortly after three a.m. The body had been bagged and removed from the church, and the remaining uniformed cops had ushered in this gentleman when he appeared at the gates in response to a call from Amos Audley.

“Mr. Audley said you could help us with whatever we need.” Mike made the introductions, and Gaskin gave each of us his business card. I guessed him to be in his midfifties, and the title on the card identified him as an executive in private banking at Chase.

“Do you know the name of the deceased?” Gaskin asked. He was about Mike’s height, and lighter-skinned than Mercer, dressed in gray slacks and a crewneck sweater that he must have thrown on when Audley awakened him.

“Not a clue.”

“Do you think she worshipped here?”

Audley bowed his head. I thought he wanted to speak, but he deferred to Wilbur Gaskin.

“She’s Caucasian, Mr. Gaskin,” Mike said. “You tell me.”

The banker bristled. “You may not be familiar with our church, Mr. Chapman. In addition to a long, fine reputation in the religious community, we’ve got one of the best gospel choirs in the world. You’d be surprised what a service looks like here. Perhaps you’ll come. You won’t be the only white man. And you certainly won’t be the only cop.”

“I’ll do that,” Mike said. “And I apologize for my rudeness. Is there someplace we can go to talk?”

Gaskin glanced around at the four detectives who were making their way through the sanctuary of the church, fanned out between the rows of seats as they looked for any evidence of an intrusion or violent crime. “Is all this necessary, Detective?”

“It is, Mr. Gaskin. One way or another, a dead body wound up on your front steps.”

“She could have come from anywhere,” he said, gesturing with both hands as if in protest to Mike’s suggestion.

“I’d say her mobility was limited, sir. Just like her access. But we can rule out the inside of your church pretty quickly, if you’d let us.”

“There’s a small office through that door to the left, behind the altar. Come with me, please.”

Amos Audley limped ahead of us, keeping a keen eye on the detectives as they scoured the sanctuary. Mike suggested to Sergeant Grayson that he wait at the entrance to the building to direct the comings and goings of investigators, and to keep out the press.

Mercer and I followed as Mike walked behind Wilbur Gaskin. The small room he led us to — bare except for a table and six wooden chairs — was cold and drafty. I seated myself away from the old lead-glass windows that rattled whenever the March wind kicked up.

“Isn’t this about the point when I’m supposed to tell you to get a search warrant?” Gaskin scratched his head and phonied up a smile, though I didn’t think he was as unsophisticated as he tried to appear.

“This church is a crime scene. Up to me, I think we’re entitled to scope it out. But my specialties are dead folk and the detritus of their late, lamented lives, Mr. Gaskin. Ms. Cooper’s your law jock. Ask her what you’d like and the decision’s up to you.” Mike started toward Audley, who moved out of the way of the door, as I leaned forward to express my opinion.

“That’s all right, Detective. I don’t want to hold things up. Suit yourselves.”

“How many people have keys to the church?” Mercer asked.

Gaskin pointed a finger at Amos Audley, who answered, “Ain’t but a few that can unlock the front—”

“How many, exactly?”

“I said a few,” Audley snapped at Mercer Wallace. “I can’t give you a number. But there’s more than a dozen to the entrance on 114th Street, right by the pastor’s office.”

“A dozen people with keys?” Mercer repeated the number.

“Last I knew. The pastor hisself, his assistant, his secretary. Then there’s the choir director and his number two. A couple of parishioners who help with the finance business. Not sure who all else got them.”

“There must be a list?” Mike asked.

“Surely,” Gaskin said, “when the office opens in a few hours. We’ll get you that.”

“Have you had any problems recently? Any feuds that were brought into the church?” Mercer asked.

“Any psychos showing up to pray?” Mike added.

Wilbur Gaskin shook his head. “Nothing I’m aware of. Amos?”

“Not my business, Mr. Gaskin. Not none of my business who comes for the Lord’s word.”

Every now and then I could hear the footsteps of the detectives, climbing stairs to the choir loft or opening doors that led from the chapel. Audley’s head turned at the same sounds. The mass of keys on his belt clanged against one another whenever he moved. “You mind if I step out, Mr. Gaskin?”

“I’d prefer you stay close, Amos. You’ve got more answers than I do.”

“I understand that this church was built to be a synagogue,” Mike said. “You know anything about that?”

“You spend enough time here, it’s hard not to notice. It’s the story of most cities, Mr. Chapman, and of many houses of worship,” Gaskin said. “The population changes and the demographics shift. One ethnic group replaces another, one religious community takes over the temples the others left behind. It’s not so strange.”

“What was the synagogue called then?” I asked.

“In English, it was People of Mercy. I can’t properly pronounce the Hebrew,” Gaskin said, jotting the words “Ansche Chesed” on a piece of paper he withdrew from his pants pocket. “I don’t suppose any of you can read this or tell me if I’m right?”

“Give it a whirl, kid,” Mike said to me, explaining in the next breath. “She was ‘Cooperized’ at Ellis Island. Some really complicated name was totally neutered.”

“My father’s parents were Russian Jews,” I said. My mother’s Finnish roots revealed themselves in my blond hair and pale green eyes. She had converted to Judaism when she married my father, and although I was raised as a reformed Jew, I was embarrassed at how little of the Hebrew language — or religious tradition — I knew. “But I can’t help with this one.”

“That’s all right. I came by Gaskin the hard way too. My great-granddaddy’s owner made sure all his slaves took his name.” He winked at me, and I noticed that his eyes were nearly as light in color as mine. “But our church isn’t unique around here. Mount Olivet Baptist, that was a synagogue too. So was Cross Church of