I'll Walk Alone - Mary Higgins Clark [109]
“Anyone see which way he headed?” Billy snapped.
“A woman came forward who saw a man running toward Eighth Avenue. He may or may not have been our guy.”
“Okay.” Billy knew David Feldman had more to say but would do it his way, meticulously covering the step-by-step of the investigation.
“This morning the church handyman, Neil Hunt, came back. He had been to an AA meeting last night and went straight home and to bed after it. He didn’t hear about the shooting until this morning. But get this.” Feldman pulled his chair closer to Billy’s desk and leaned forward. “Hunt used to be a cop. He got thrown off the force after being sent to the farm twice to dry out. Drinking on duty. The third time he was told to turn in his shield.”
“Billy, wait till you hear the rest of it,” Jennifer said, a note of barely concealed astonishment in her voice. “Remember that Alvi-rah Meehan told us that she had been in church Monday evening, and didn’t like the way that man sprang up from supposedly praying when Fr. O’Brien came out of the Reconciliation Room? It bothered her enough that she went back and looked at those security tapes.”
Feldman darted an annoyed glance at Dean for interrupting him. “We took a look at those tapes from Monday night, Billy,” he said. “It’s the same guy who was on the cameras last night going into the atrium of the lower church and leaving it a few minutes later, the one who shot the priest. You couldn’t miss him. Mop of black hair, big dark glasses, same trench coat. The priest had no idea who he was.
“But, Billy, get this. We believe that Zan Moreland was in the church Monday night, too. She came and left before Alvirah, but the man in the black hair may have followed her in. He didn’t leave until he saw what Fr. Aiden looked like.”
“Was Moreland dropping in to say a prayer, or do you think she’s connected to the guy who shot the priest?” Billy snapped. “Or did she go to confession and maybe that guy got worried?”
“I think it’s a possibility,” Feldman answered. “Billy, there’s something else going on. As I said, the handyman who showed us the security tapes, Neil Hunt, used to be a cop.”
“He wasn’t the one who showed us the security tape yesterday,” Jennifer Dean interrupted again.
“He claims he has a photographic memory,” Feldman continued. “He bragged that I should look up his record in the department on that. He swears that Monday night, right after the Moreland woman left the church, he was walking home and a block away, a woman who looked just like her stepped in front of him and got in a cab. He said he’d have thought it was the same person, except the one who got in the cab had slacks and a jacket on. The one in church was dressed up.”
Billy Collins and Jennifer Dean looked at each other for a long minute, each thinking the same thing. Was it possible that Alexandra Moreland was telling the truth, that there really was someone who looked exactly like her out there? Or was this ex-cop trying to capture a moment of self-importance by making up a story that no one might be able to prove or disprove?
“I wonder if our former brother in New York’s Finest has read the morning papers and figures this is a good way to get someone to pay him for an interview?” Billy suggested, even as his gut told him that wouldn’t be the case. “Dave, let’s get Neil Hunt in here and see if he sticks to his story.”
Billy’s cell phone began to ring. Deep in thought, he picked it up and barked his name. It was Alvirah Meehan. He did not miss the triumphant note in her voice. “I wonder if I can come right over and see you,” she said. “I have something of great interest to tell you.”
“I’ll be right here, Mrs. Meehan, and I’ll be glad to see you.” He looked up.
Wally Johnson was making his way swiftly through the uneven rows of desks to come to him.
72
Kevin Wilson spent more than an hour in the