For CYRUS R. VANCE, Jr., District Attorney, New York County, whose wisdom, vision, integrity, courage, loyalty, and gift for friendship inspire me

FIFTEEN

“YOU couldn’t have two more different institutions,” Peterson said. “Mount Neboh and Saint John the Divine. But they’re really just a stone’s throw away from each other. We’re two blocks south—”

“A few broad avenues west and in between them lies one of the most dangerous strips in the city,” Mike said, referring to Morning-side Park. “Not the most direct route I’d expect someone to take, escaping with a body part.”

“Hey, it’s all Harlem.”

The ME’s office workers had taken over the process of removing the backpack and the possible evidence that had been found around it. Most of the detectives paused and stood silently as Naomi’s remains were carried out of their circle and packed into the van.

“Don’t let any of the folks who send their kids to Columbia hear you call this neighborhood Harlem,” Mike said, wagging a finger at Peterson. “They plunk down the big bucks for a college education they think is in a genteel part of town called Morningside Heights.”

The Columbia University campus continued to expand and swallow up most of the surrounding area, between its academic buildings and real estate bought up for student housing. It suffered the crime problems of most urban schools — the town-gown dichotomy — but the overwhelming number of criminal cases that came to my attention from the Columbia campus were actually date and acquaintance rapes between kids who knew one another, usually fueled by drugs and alcohol.

“Call it what you want, Chapman, this here’s still Harlem. You’re just lucky her head didn’t wind up at the bottom of the Hudson. Zip. Nada. Nothing to work with then.”

Having seen the gruesome discovery, I wasn’t sure what clues this find would yield. “Don’t you think the choice of crime scenes is a more important focus right now, while the lab works up some forensics? Why these churches? Like Mike said, there’s nothing random about this.”

“What she’s really thinking, Loo, is what’s a nice Jewish girl doing in a place like this? Maybe a not-so-nice girl. Think of that angle.”

“I figured for certain the tabloids would start blaming the victim before you did.”

“Motive?” Peterson asked, using the embers of his cigarette to light the next one. “You’re already writing your closing argument, Alexandra. We’ll never get there till we find this bastard.”

We had lost the sunlight altogether now, as shadows lowered themselves down the sides of the cathedral and over the somber faces of the disapproving martyrs and prophets. Beyond the yellow lines of police tape, the gawkers were dispersing as some of the medical personnel and uniformed cops left the scene.

I shielded my eyes with my hand, spotting a familiar face as a man emerged from a yellow cab on Amsterdam. He headed directly toward the entrance of the cathedral, through the gold-plated doors of the main portal. “Mike, isn’t that Wilbur Gaskin? The guy from Mount Neboh, last night?”

“Good eye, blondie,” Mike said, taking off after him. “Hold that thought, Loo.”

I was a few paces behind as Mike called Gaskin’s name, but the determined banker never looked back as the heavy door started to close slowly behind him.

Mike broke into a jog and managed to wedge himself in the entrance, getting Gaskin’s attention this time as he yelled loud enough to fill the huge nave of the church.

“What brings you here, Mr. Gaskin?”

I was inside the cool, damp building, my five-foot-ten-inch frame dwarfed by the immensity of the interior space.

Gaskin was obviously surprised to see Mike, fidgeting as he tried to make me out in the background. “I heard the news, Detective. I heard the terrible news on the radio and thought I should talk to the bishop.”

“About the case? About something you know that I don’t?”

“About our churches, Mr. Chapman. By the time this is on the nightly news, we’ll both have the same — uh — issues on our hands.”

“Publicity? You got yourself all worried about the PR aspect of things, while me and my buddies just have to think about who killed the girl.”

“We have security problems to consider, and I think it would be tasteful to offer a prayer service in her memory.”

“The bishop know you’re coming?”

“Well, no. I didn’t call.”

“Just hoping to get the bishop in his seat, huh?”

“There’ll be somebody here to help me, Chapman. It’s a church,” Gaskin said, snarling at Mike as he kept glancing over his shoulder as though expecting someone to appear.

“Why don’t we take this walk together? You must know the way to the office.”

I could see Gaskin hesitate before turning to start down the long nave. “I think I do.”

I was twenty steps or so behind the two men as they passed through the center of the church, having walked at least the length of an entire football field in silence.

Out of the corner of my eye, as I glanced over my shoulder, I could see a flash of movement in the ornate choir loft that ran half the distance of the nave, built out as though suspended above the end of the pews to my far left.

I cocked my head and turned to see whether we had company. Mike said something to Gaskin and I swiveled back to try to hear their conversation at the same time.

I couldn’t shake the sense someone was moving in that space overhead, and though I continued forward to keep up with Mike, my eyes swept the choir loft again.

Now I could see the figure — a tall, thin young man with a clerical collar visible beneath his overcoat, weaving a path to the rear of the loft, closer to the massive church door behind me. His head was bowed and he seemed to be talking to himself. His skin was a ghostly white, blurring into the bleached collar beneath it.

I tried to get Mike’s attention, but the man had slipped behind one of the colossal columns that extended from the floor of the church up to the great ceiling. Not a sound accompanied his fluid movement.

I slowed down for another look just as Mike turned to wave me forward to him.

The man looked familiar to me, just as Wilbur Gaskin had. But this time I wasn’t so sure. Maybe I was spooked and looking for quick solutions when there wouldn’t be any.

“Put a move on, Coop,” Mike said.

“Excuse me, sir,” I called after the silhouette, shimmying my way across one of the long pews to get closer to the area below the choir loft, looking down so as not to trip over any of the prie-dieu kneelers along the way.

There was no response.

I picked my head up again and leaned back, but the loft above was empty.

Only seconds had passed, but off to my left the church door opened, and though the man was farther away from me now, the feature that was most prominent in my memory showed clearly as I viewed his back. The long hair, bunched together like a ponytail, was tucked into the rear of his coat — just as it had been in the courtroom that morning.

I broke into a trot to get to the door before it closed behind him, struggling to remember from earlier visits to the cathedral whether there actually was a staircase in that corner of the loft. Even if there was one, how had this man descended it so quickly and silently? I’d have to figure that out later. Now all I wanted was to find out who he was and why he had twice crossed my path.

I dashed out and gasped as the wind whipped at my face while I continued the hunt for this fast-moving apparition. The CSU detectives were still working off to my left, so I ran down the steps and around to the right — the north side of the great cathedral.

Against the blue-black sky and the dark gray stone of the old building I could barely see more than a few feet in front of me. I came to an abrupt halt as the walkway ended fifty yards from the corner I had turned. I found myself pressed against the waist-high railing that formed a balcony over the steep incline toward Morningside Drive.

No one there. I thought for a second that I heard a sound coming from below the ledge on which I stood, but that didn’t seem possible. I was sure it was just me, panting to catch my breath before turning back to go inside.