Tommy Riordan knelt in the last pew at Our Lady of Martyrs feeling like he always felt, like a minor Kennedy. He looked like a Hurley – the tall, handsome, dark Irish kind. The Hurley mayors all fell into the other Hurley mold – the stocky, leprechaun-gone-to-seed model. Tommy’s mom was a Hurley. His dad had headed up Hurley the First’s quasi-secret Red Squad. So Tommy Riordan had his Hurley credentials. He wasn’t a front-page guy, though. He was a side-of-the-podium guy, one of the schmucks on the edge of your TV picture on election night clapping and gazing adoringly at the anointed.
Not that it got him much. There was the Streets and San job, which was a cushy hundred Gs a year because showing up was pretty much voluntary unless there was some ghost payroll probe in high gear. Then he had to keep his ass in the office, but he could do his drinking in there, so it wasn’t too bad a deal. And there were the consultant scraps come elections. Couple grand here, ten grand there for gopher work – leaning on precinct captains who were letting turnout slip, stopping by shops that had the wrong signs in their windows, doing his regular-guy stump speech at some of the union halls. And his family got to use the Hurley summer place over in Michigan, the Hurley version of Hyannisport, but they were pretty much hind tit in that line. Usually got early June, late August, primetime going to the real players.
So yeah, being a minor Kennedy meant he was set for life if he didn’t raise the bar too high, if he didn’t mind eating scraps. Thing was, he minded. Fifty-two years old, he was no kind of man and he knew it.
And the Catholic thing, too. Being a minor Kennedy meant keeping that up as well, not that he could really shake it. Grade school right here with the sisters at Martyrs, high school with the Jesuits at St Ignatius, grandpa’s clout getting him in at Notre Dame and making sure he didn’t flunk out. And his old man was big on the rules – the take off your hat in church rules, the fishsticks on Fridays rules, the Holy Days of Obligation rules. The old man was a little slack on some of the other rules, the thou shalt not stuff – adultery, stealing, false witness, even the thou shalt not kill if you believed the rumors – and Tommy had picked up on those habits early.
Which was why he was kneeling in the back of the church. Communion at least once a year during the Easter season. That was the rule. And if you were gonna receive, then you had to be in a state of grace. That was the rule. And that meant confession. So each year, Tommy Riordan tried to work out what it was he was sorry for, which was a lot, did the “bless me, Father, for I have sinned” routine, and tried to keep his nose clean until Easter so he could take Communion. Or his prick clean, actually. Nose wasn’t his problem.
Thing was, he was pretty sure he didn’t believe any of it. He was pretty sure the whole thing was a scam. Couple years ago, he faked it. Told the wife he was heading down for confession, spent a couple hours at the High Hat Tap instead. Come Easter, he went right on up, took the host. Two hours later he was puking up ham and deviled eggs like he was never gonna stop, and that night he had the dream about Sister Mary Theresa – the dream where she’s got him bent over some wooden bench, he’s naked, and she’s got that Samurai yardstick the sisters all carried, and she’s flaying his ass with it, and it’s hot and dark where they’re at, and Tommy knows that this is hell and this shit, it’s just gonna go on and on and on.
He remembered some philosophy class at ND, that Pascal guy and his wager. So, OK, confession once a year, get his annual minimum adult requirement of grace and such at Easter mass, and hope he didn’t die in between with anything on his rap sheet that called for more than ten to twenty in purgatory.
So Tommy knelt in the pew and ran down the commandments. Number one? False gods. There was the Bushmills just for starters, and Riordan had to admit he had way more faith in Bushmills than he had in anything else. Lord’s name in vain? Ten, twenty times a day, minimum. Keep holy the Sabbath? Bears games count? Honor thy mother and father? Turned out pretty much like Dad, can’t give more honor than that, right? He was OK on number five, hadn’t offed anybody yet. Coveting? Stealing? Lying? Yeah, yeah, yeah, cop to all of it. But number six was the big one. Thou shalt not commit adultery. Some trouble there. Always had been some trouble there.
Riordan hauled himself to his feet and headed for the confessional. He made his confession, but he didn’t have the words to cop to all of it, didn’t even know how to phrase the extent of his depravity. He headed for the door of the church, knowing his soul was supposed to feel clean but feeling like it was some bed sheet that hadn’t been changed in thirty years. There was some shit that just wasn’t gonna come out.
Ishmael Fisher watched the doors to Our Lady of Martyrs through the scope of the Dragunov from the living room window of a fourth-floor apartment five hundred and seventy meters away. The building had no other units on this floor, and the unit on the floor below was vacant. The woman who lived in the apartment had left at 8am and returned just after 5pm on the three days Fisher had watched the building. It was 4.15pm.
Fisher watched Riordan step through the tall wooden doors and then stop as they closed behind him. Riordan looked down to find the bottom of the zipper on his leather jacket. Fisher centered the sight picture on the middle of Riordan’s chest and fired.
Edith Jacobs had just stepped into the lobby of her building when she heard a noise. A door slamming, or a piece of furniture falling upstairs somewhere. Whatever it was, it wasn’t helping her headache. She’d left work an hour early because of the migraine, and the pain hadn’t eased. She started up the four flights of stairs.
As Fisher watched through the scope, the force of the round drove Riordan back into the doors, his back hitting just where the two doors met. His arms flew open. They hit the doors just above the two long brass poles that served as handles. As Riordan slid down the doors, his arms caught the tops of the poles and he hung – seemingly crucified – against the door. Fisher watched for a couple of seconds. When he saw no blood pulsing out of the entrance wound, he knew that Riordan was dead.
Fisher fit the Dragunov into the case and was about to close the cover when he heard feet outside the apartment door, heard the jangle of keys. Fisher flattened against the wall to the side of the door.
Edith Jacobs opened the door and took one step into the room before she saw the rifle case open on the floor. Then the door swung closed behind her. She turned and saw a lean man with short, iron-gray hair wearing a black, long-sleeved T-shirt and tight black leather gloves. She thought to scream, meant to scream, but the man put a surprisingly slender finger to her lips, and then closed the hand over her mouth, spun her around, and pulled her back against him. The force of his grasp was gentle yet certain. And she knew she was going to die.
“Oh my God,” she mumbled into his hand, “I am heartily sorry for having offended thee...”
Fisher listened to the Act of Contrition, sensing its perfection, let the woman finish. Then he slid his right hand under her chin and snapped her neck. She will be with Him today in paradise, he thought.
Fisher looked through the gap in the blinds to the church. A crowd had gathered around the body, and a patrol car was just pulling up. He would have to move quickly. He set the woman down gently, closed the lid of the rifle case, picked it up, stepped out the door, and walked down the stairs.
CHAPTER 33 – CHICAGO
Ferguson was in Chicago, unpacking in his room at the Palmer House on State Street, when Chen walked through the connecting door between their rooms and handed Ferguson a piece of paper.