The priest was looking at him nervously. Judd forced himself to speak calmly. "Don Vinton. Which one is he? Show him to me."
All the priests were now staring at Judd. The little priest looked at his companions. "E un americano matto."
A babble of excited Italian rose from the group. Out of the corner of his eye, Judd saw Friendly watching him from behind the counter. Friendly opened the counter gate and started to move toward him. Judd fought to control a rising panic. He let go of the priest's arm, leaned close to him, and said slowly and distinctly, "Don Vinton."
The little priest looked into Judd's face for a moment and then his own face splintered into merriment. "Don Vinton!"
The manager was approaching rapidly, his manner hostile. Judd nodded to the priest encouragingly. The little priest pointed to the boy. "Don Vinton - 'big man.'"
And suddenly the puzzle fell into place.
Chapter Twenty
"SLOW DOWN, slow down," Angeli said hoarsely. "I can't understand a word you're saying."
"Sorry," Judd said. He took a deep breath. "I've got the answer!" He was so relieved to hear Angeli's voice over the phone that he was almost babbling. "I know who's trying to kill me. I know who Don Vinton is."
There was a skeptical note in Angeli's voice. "We couldn't find any Don Vinton."
"Do you know why? Because it isn't a him - -it's a who."
"Will you speak more slowly?"
Judd's voice was trembling with excitement. "Don Vinton isn't a name. It's an Italian expression. It means 'the big man.' That's what Moody was trying to tell me. That The Big Man was after me."
"You lost me, Doctor."
"It doesn't mean anything in English," said Judd, "but when you say it in Italian - doesn't it suggest anything to you? An organization of killers run by The Big Man?"
There was a long silence over the phone. "La Cosa Nostra?"
"Who else could assemble a group of killers and weapons like that? Acid, bombs - guns! Remember I told you the man we're looking for would be a Southern European? He's Italian."
"It doesn't make sense. Why would La Cosa Nostra want to kill you?"
"I have absolutely no idea. But I'm right. I know I'm right. And it fits in with something Moody said. He said there was a group of men out to kill me."
"It's the craziest theory I've ever heard," Angeli said. There was a pause, then he added, "But I suppose it could be possible."
Judd was flooded with sudden relief. If Angeli had not been willing to listen to him, he would have had no one to turn to.
"Have you discussed this with anyone?"
"No," Judd said.
"Don't!" Angeli's voice was urgent. "If you're right, your life depends on it. Don't go near your office or apartment."
"I won't," Judd promised. He suddenly remembered. "Did you know McGreavy has a warrant out for my arrest?"
"Yes." Angeli hesitated. "If McGreavy picks you up, you'll never get to the station alive."
My God! So he had been right about McGreavy. But he could not believe that McGreavy was the brain behind this. There was someone directing him...Don Vinton, The Big Man.
"Can you hear me?"
Judd's mouth was suddenly dry. "Yes."
A man in a gray overcoat stood outside the phone booth looking in at Judd. Was it the same man he had seen before?
"Angeli..."
"Yes?"
"I don't know who the others are. I don't know what they look like. How do I stay alive until they're caught?"
The man outside the booth was staring at him.
Angeli's voice came over the line. "We're going straight to the FBI. I have a friend who has connections. He'll see that you're protected until you're safe. OK?" There was a note of assurance in Angeli's voice.
"OK," Judd said gratefully. His knees felt like jelly.
"Where are you?"
"In a phone booth in the lower lobby of the Pan-Am Building."
"Don't move. Keep plenty of people around you. I'm on my way." There was a click at the other end of the line as Angeli hung up.
He put the phone back on the squad-room desk, a sick feeling deep inside him. Over the years he had become accustomed to dealing with murderers, rapists, perverts of every description, and somehow, in time, a protective shell had formed, allowing him to go on believing in the basic dignity and humanity of man.
But a rogue cop was something different.
A rogue cop was a corruption that touched everyone on the force, that violated everything that decent cops fought and died for.
The squad room was filled with the passage of feet and the murmur of voices, but he heard none of it. Two uniformed patrolmen passed through the room with a giant drunk in handcuffs. One of the officers had a black eye and the other held a handkerchief to a bloody nose. The sleeve of his uniform had been ripped half off. The patrolman would have to pay for that himself. These men were ready to risk their lives every day and night of the year. But that wasn't what made headlines. A crooked cop made headlines. One crooked cop tainted them all. His own partner.
Wearily he got up and walked down the ancient corridor to the captain's office. He knocked once and went in.
Behind a battered desk pocked with the lighted cigar butts of countless years sat Captain Bertelli. Two FBI men were in the room, dressed in business suits. Captain Bertelli looked up as the door opened. "Well?"
The detective nodded. "It checks out. The property custodian said he came in and borrowed Carol Roberts' key from the evidence locker Wednesday afternoon and returned it late Wednesday night. That's why the paraffin test was negative - he got into Dr. Stevens' office by using an original key. The custodian never questioned it because he knew he was assigned to the case."