it over, it had a short incarnation as a Roman Catholic sanctuary. I think that trifecta is true of only two institutions in Manhattan.” Gaskin went on in Spanish, “Iglesia de Nuestra Señora de la Medalla Milagrosa.”
“Our Lady of the Miraculous Medal,” Mike said.
Now there were loud noises, like men arguing in the sanctuary.
“Your Spanish isn’t bad,” Gaskin said, patting Mike on the shoulder.
“Can’t do homicide in this city without a smattering of español.”
I was ten years beyond cringing at Mike Chapman’s political incorrectness. But I wondered if the interim Catholic incarnation of the building did anything to influence Mike’s theory of why the body landed here.
A sharp voice shouted a command as a heavy door slammed shut.
“What’s the ruckus?” Mercer asked, following Amos Audley through the door.
Now I could hear many more footsteps. It sounded like cops were running through the building, along the south wall. I recognized Scotty Jaffer’s voice calling out that he wanted help in the basement.
Mercer broke past Audley, who was moving as fast as he seemed to be able to, and Mike sprinted after Mercer. I stood in the doorway with Wilbur Gaskin at my shoulder.
“Let it be,” Amos Audley called out, obviously distressed by the massing of officers, two with their guns drawn. “No harm there.”
“Bringing out four,” Jaffer called.
I could see a large oak door, and from the echoing sound of the detective’s voice, I assumed he was still downstairs.
Wilbur Gaskin panicked. He opened his cell phone and speed-dialed someone, starting to explain the situation in which he found himself at three twenty in the morning.
“Nice and easy,” Mercer said, holding both arms in front of him and backing away from the basement door toward the main sanctuary. “Come forward one at a time. Slow. Hands over your heads.”
The first to emerge was a young man in his early twenties. He was about my height, with a shaved and waxed head, dressed in a filthy sweatshirt, torn jeans, and unlaced high-tops.
Mercer’s calm seemed to be controlling the unexpected encounter. “Sit right there,” he said, pointing to a seat in the front row of pews.
“You know him?” I asked.
He covered the mouthpiece of the phone. “I’ve never seen him.”
“Put your guns down,” Mercer said quietly to the cops who flanked him. “Let’s get this done right.”
“Send out the next one, Scotty,” Mike said. He was always edgier than Mercer, a bit frenetic and pacing now, to distance himself from Amos Audley, who was muttering something at Mike’s back.
The second guy was heavier-set than the first, but just as unkempt and unhappy to be disturbed in the middle of the night. Mercer seated him a good distance away from his friend and directed two of the four cops to stand behind him.
It sounded as though there was some scuffling—and some physical urging by Scotty Jaffer—before the next trespasser came up the steps, lifting his head as he entered the large barrel-vaulted space.
“Dammit!” Gaskin said into the phone before he shut it. “It’s Luther again.”
“What do you mean?” I asked as he strode forward.
Wilbur Gaskin waved me off with his free hand.
“You,” Mercer said, turning his head to look at us when he heard Gaskin’s outburst. “Back row.”
“Let me speak to this,” Amos Audley said, grabbing Mike’s arm.
“What?” Mike shook him off. He wanted his hands free.
“He’s mine.”
“Last man standing,” Jaffer said. “On the way out to you.”
The fourth kid didn’t come easily. He was cursing at the detective and banging on the walls with his fists as he climbed up.
“I thought Luther was still upstate, in prison,” Gaskin said. “Looks like he’s been living here, doesn’t it?”
“Step back, Amos,” Mike said. “Out of the way.”
“You don’t understand, Mr. Mike.”
“You’ll explain later. Stay out of the way.”
The fourth player showed himself. Dreads hanging out from under a do-rag, a long-sleeve T-shirt with a skull on the front, and tattered black pants made him look like he was wearing an unofficial gang uniform. The long scar across his nose and cheek was thick and dangerously close to his eye.
“They’ve done nothing, Mr. Mike. These freezin’ cold nights, boys need a place to stay warm.”
Then I could have sworn I heard Audley say the word “blood.”
“I’m telling you to take it easy, Mr. Audley,” Mike said, swiveling to get the anxious custodian out of the path he intended to send the last kid.
Audley took two steps to the side and the young man saw his opening. He bolted past Mike, clearly familiar with the interior of the