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

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 Christ, on 118th. Look around here a little more carefully.”

“I never imagined.”

“A hundred years ago, when this place was built,” Gaskin said, “Harlem was the third largest Jewish settlement in the world — in the world — after the Lower East Side and Warsaw. It was a thriving community dominated by Jewish culture and heritage. There are remains of it in buildings all over the neighborhood.”

The part of Manhattan known as Harlem ran east to west from river to river, and from 110th Street north to 155th.

“In 1910, we were only ten percent of the population here, Ms. Cooper. Twenty years later, the great migration started from the South. By the fifties, Harlem was ninety-eight percent black.”

“And the Jews?” Mike asked.

Wilbur Gaskin shrugged. “The diaspora continued. They moved once more. This time because they wanted to, not because they had to. To Riverside Drive, to Park Avenue, to the Grand Concourse, and up to Westchester. These churches — these magnificent synagogues — are the silent vestiges of their years in Harlem.”

Footsteps again, like a couple of cops were running inside the church. Audley was in the doorway, checking out the activity.

“Neboh,” Mike said. “What’s that?”

“One of the four holy mounts, Mr. Chapman. The Bible says it’s the place from which Moses first saw the Promised Land.”

“This girl wasn’t quite so lucky.”

“One more thing about our church, Detective, to confuse you further. Before we Baptists took 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 old building, and around to the rear of the chancel. He was thin and wiry, and his head start made it impossible for any of the cops to catch him. I was simply grateful that none of them drew a gun.

“What’s back there?” I asked.

“A couple of doors, Ms. Cooper.” Before Audley could finish his sentence, I heard one slam shut.

Mercer called out to Grayson, who sent men running through the church and, I’m sure, out on the street as well.

Mike was furious. “These kids don’t move. Cuff ’em and let ’em sit till we sort this out.”

Amos Audley hadn’t figured out how to keep out of Mike Chapman’s way. He pointed at Luther, his finger trembling with fear. “It’s the Lord’s house, Detective. No harm in them being in the Lord’s house. He’s my grandson, Mr. Mike. That boy’s my blood.”