NB: For readers who have been keeping up with the story, The Reverend Samantha McCabe has been renamed "Patricia." Thank you for your patience!

 

Card-Carrying 

 

Part 6

 

Walking to his office through the crowd outside the station, Hart called Monica to ask a favor.

 

“What is it?” Hart heard the sound of chanting in the background and Monica’s voice suddenly growing faint as she shouted to someone, “Just a second.”  Then she was back. “Make it fast. I’m in the middle of a protest demonstration.”

 

Hart didn’t ask what the demonstration was protesting. It didn’t matter. Monica was often taking part in demonstrations these days. He knew she’d tell him anyway. “We’re protesting the cut in health benefits for trans federal employees.”

 

“Where are you?” he asked. Now that he was past the crowd at the station he could hear chants coming from the direction of Dale Avenue, where the post office was located.

 

“At the post office,” said Monica.

 

“Listen. When you’re finished, I need a favor. It has to be done this afternoon.”

 

“I’ll call you back,” she said.

 

When he got to his office, Hart opened his laptop and started searching online for pictures of Nick Gifford. Hart didn’t have a LinkedIn account, so he couldn’t access the photo that Ulrich had seen.

 

No luck. He’d ask Ulrich to text it. She might humor him. Their brief conversation had ended amicably.

 

When Monica got back to him, he asked her to call the church and tell the secretary that she wanted to send flowers for the Sunday morning service.

 

“Tell her you were an admirer of Reverend McCabe and the work of the Sanctuary Network and ask for the name of the florist. As soon as you find out, give me a call. Don’t call them yourself. Oh, and ask if the church has a photo directory of its members.”

 

 Monica called a half hour later.

 

“She said any florist would do. I didn’t press her. I thought it might raise suspicions.”

 

“That’s ok. I have a backup plan.”

 

“Why did you want to know?”

 

“Too long to explain now. And the church directory?”

 

“She asked me what for. I said I was thinking of joining and wondered if anyone I knew was a member.”

 

“And?”

 

“They have one, but it’s confidential to protect members’ contact information.”

 

“Should have guessed. I’ll call Cal and see what he can do.” Cal Guillermos had worked with Hart and Monica at Continental before it was shut down, handling IT, electronic surveillance, security, and online investigations. He ran his own firm now, in Marblehead, and both Hart and NOSHLA were regular customers.

 

“That would be illegal,” said Monica. “Hacking into it.” She paused. “Oh, I get it. Listen, Theo, I don’t want you fucking up our client’s defense just so you can swoop in wearing your cape . . .”

 

“Ok, ok.”

 

“And neither does Sam.”

 

“Don’t worry. I’ll find another way.”

 

“How about you just back your fat ass out of that parking space altogether?”

 

Hart didn’t reply because he planned to keep his fat ass right where it was.

 

#

 

Saturday went by without further developments. Pennington was off the rotary and staying in a homeless shelter on Essex Avenue for the time being. Demonstrations continued at the Post Office, Police Headquarters, and the ICE offices in Burlington. Sam and Monica were visiting her relatives in the North End with their toddler, Portia. Hart was catching up on casework for his other clients.

 

Only Pete Fallon was at his desk. He’d had another sleepless night, finally nodding off at dawn and not waking up until almost noon.

 

Late yesterday a district judge had rejected his request for permission to examine Tommy McCabe’s phone records and search his residence. There wasn’t enough evidence, just speculation and surmise. He’d been in touch with the chief of police in Wickham to ask if they could stake out the house, keep track of McCabe’s movements, visitors, deliveries. The chief said they had their hands full preparing security for the memorial service tomorrow morning. So he called Ulrich. She didn’t take it well. She had other plans for today.

 

Turning over the pages of the case file, Fallon’s eye came to rest on the name “Figeroa.” In his witness statement the pastor of the Synod Assembly Church of God in Christ told Fallon that Patricia McCabe was on her way to see him the morning she was killed because she wanted to recruit him for the Sanctuary Network. Now Fallon wondered why she had to do that in person. Why not do it when she called, save herself a trip? Maybe Figeroa said he needed to meet with her before making up his mind. That would make him the reason Pat McCabe was on Cape Ann at all that morning. He decided to give the Reverend a call.

 

Figeroa didn’t pick up, so Fallon left a message. Then he thought of trying the office number.

 

“Who is this?” It was a female voice, Hispanic. And angry.

 

Fallon introduced himself and asked for Figeroa.

 

“He’s not here,” said the woman abruptly. “He’s in Wickham. At a walk-through for the service tomorrow.”

 

“And you are . . . ?”

 

“His wife. I’ll tell him you called.” The line went dead.

 

For some reason, George Tonelli’s question about Pat McCabe having an affair with one of the ride shares popped into Fallon’s mind.

 

A minute later Figeroa called.

 

“I’m sorry to take up your time with this,” said Fallon. “I called your office and your wife . . .”

 

“She takes my business calls,” said Figeroa.

 

“She sounded angry.”

 

Figeroa hesitated before saying, “She’s always angry these days. The illegal arrests, the abductions—half my congregation are immigrants. They’re terrified.” He was almost yelling. He seemed to realize it and immediately calmed down. “It’s kept me away from home, her, my kids. And Pat McCabe’s murder made it worse.”

 

“Must be hard,” said Fallon. “I won’t keep you. I just wanted to clarify something. In your statement you said Reverend McCabe was driving over that morning to discuss joining the Sanctuary Network. Have you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Ah. That’s why you were at the walk-through.”

 

“It’s not just Network pastors. Clergy from all over the North Shore will be there. We all admired what she was doing. The Network will be getting more recruits because of her death. I just happened to be the first in line.”

 

“One more question and then I’m through. When you say Pat McCabe contacted you to set up an appointment, do you mean she reached out and asked you to join? Or did you contact her first, to ask about it, and she was getting back to you?”

 

Figeroa hesitated. Fallon could almost hear the gears ticking. “I contacted her, left a message. Then she called back.”

 

The second Figeroa hung up, Fallon called Ulrich and re-deployed her to East Gloucester. She’d be surveilling the Reverend Manuel Figeroa for the rest of the afternoon.

 

#

 

Hart was poking a fork at a Hungry Man TV dinner—chicken piccata tonight—and working on a chess puzzle (playing black) when his cell pinged. He wasn’t a hungry man tonight, so it took no effort to put the fork down and reach for his phone.

 

It was a text from Ulrich, with a photo of Nick Gifford attached. Hart opened it up, synced it with his computer, then left the puzzle at the third move (white’s queen pinned by black’s only rook) to examine it more closely in Photos.

 

The picture was a headshot, so Hart couldn’t get an idea of the man’s height. He wore a neatly trimmed stubble beard and a full head of chestnut brown hair, and his easy smile revealed a row of bright, perfectly aligned teeth. His blue eyes were electric. Hart tried to imagine him as Ulrich had described him in person, but he had difficulty visualizing it, let alone picturing Gifford as a woman.

 

It wasn’t yet 6:00 pm when Hart left his foil tray cooling on the dining room table and headed for the shelter where Pennington was staying. He found the man sitting in the common room. The TV was on, but Jeremiah wasn’t watching. He was staring at the wall opposite him as though gazing into the future, a future about to happen any minute. Without his burlap robe, he looked like any other elderly homeless person.

 

They hadn’t met, so Hart pulled out his business card as he approached and gave it to Pennington. “I’m working with Sam Tull,” he said. “And I want to show you something.” He pulled out his cell and double-clicked the picture of Nick Gifford.

 

“Is this the person who was driving the Prius?”

 

Pennington lowered the business card and squinted closely. “That’s a man,” he said. “And he’s got a beard.”

 

“He could have been dressed as a woman.”

 

Pennington shook his head. “Sorry. Could be. That’s the most I can say.” He went back to watching the wall.

 

“Anything you can tell me about her arm, the one she threw the credit card with? Was it bare or sleeved?”

 

Pennington turned his head in Hart’s direction but kept his eyes on the blank wall.

 

“Bare,” he said.

 

Then, after a few seconds, the eyes swiveled up.

 

“She threw overhand. Don’t see that very often.”

 

#

 

Ulrich pushed “Send.” She’d seen Hart’s request for a copy of the Gifford photo early this morning but hadn’t kept a copy herself and didn’t have time to sign into LinkedIn again until now, after returning from her stake-out in East Gloucester and getting debriefed by Fallon.

 

It had been an uneventful afternoon at the Figeroa parsonage, except for two incidents. She’d been parked down at the end of the block only a few minutes before Figeroa pulled into the drive. A Latina woman she took to be his wife came storming out of the house. Ulrich rolled down her window and started taking pictures.

 

“How could you?” the woman shouted as her husband emerged from the car. Ulrich had trouble hearing the rest of the tirade except for “woman” and “liar” and “snake.”  Figeroa made placating gestures and said something, but it only made her angrier. She began beating his chest, then turned and stalked back into the house. Figeroa followed her, looking up and down the street as he did so.

 

Ulrich stayed parked where she was until 5 pm, leaving the car only to use the restroom in a restaurant a block away. She propped her phone on the dashboard to record anything that might happen while she was gone. When she returned, Figeroa’s car was still in the driveway, with another, a black SUV, behind it. The video showed a stocky man with a buzz cut getting out of the car and walking up to the front door. A shoulder holster bulged under his suit jacket.

 

Ulrich got out and walked briskly down the street toward the Figeroas’ driveway, holding her phone up to her ear while taking a photo of the SUV’s license plate as she passed. A few yards further on, she looked at the photo. It was a federal plate. She hurried around the block to her car, got back in, and waited. In half an hour the stocky man came out of the house and drove away.

 

“What’s your conclusion?” Fallon asked her back at the station. It was the first time since Patricia McCabe’s murder that he’d asked Ulrich’s opinion.

 

“The wife’s ballistic over something her husband did. That’s obvious. Looks to me like ‘Heaven hath no fury’ stuff. He’s having an affair.”

 

“Or had one,” said Fallon.

 

“Or that,” said Ulrich. “But if it’s over, why is the missus still so upset?”

 

“Maybe Pat McCabe isn’t the only one.”

 

Fallon paused, then asked, “Could she have done it? Overheard her husband and Pat McCabe making plans, ambushed her somehow when she left the house?”

 

“How does Tommy fit in? Or doesn’t he?”

 

They were silent for a few seconds.

 

“Hart told me you were looking at him,” she added.

 

More silence.

 

“That Fed has me wondering, though,” said Fallon.

 

“You told me Figeroa’s joined the Network.”

 

 “That might put him under surveillance, but if they’re staking out the church or his home, they wouldn’t be knocking on his door, would they?”

 

Ulrich agreed.

 

“Listen,” said Fallon. “There’s a memorial service tomorrow morning at the UU Church in Wickham, at 10:30. I want you there to see who shows up. Dress appropriately, a black or gray . . . uh . . . whatever . . . .” He turned to his computer screen.  “You can figure it out.”

 

Ulrich could see he didn’t want to discuss how much she knew about women’s fashion.

 

“I can,” she said.

​

(To be continued)