“You can call me Detective Cordero.”
“Fine, Detective Cordero, I’ll level with you. At least as much as I can.”
“This ought to be good,” she replied, leaning back and folding her arms across her chest.
There was no mistaking her body language. Any rapport he might have built with her was melting away. In any other situation, he would have let it go. Was she attractive? Exceedingly so, but he wasn’t in Boston looking for a girlfriend; he was here to find a killer and until he did, he was going to need all the help he could get, especially from the Boston Homicide Unit.
The ball was in his court. He needed to make a significant overture to her. And against his better judgment, that’s exactly what he decided to do. Leaning forward, he gestured for her to come closer so no one could overhear.
“This goes no further than us,” he said as she met him halfway over the table. “It doesn’t go into your report. You cannot tell your superiors. You can’t even mention it to your partner.”
Flicking him away with her hand, she leaned back and looked at him like he was nuts. “Not going to happen. Sorry.”
“Fine by me,” Harvath replied as he too leaned back and shoveled in another mouthful of eggs.
They sat for several minutes in silence. She sipped her coffee as he ate his omelet. The waitress came over and, after warming up their cups, asked if they wanted anything else. Harvath said, “No thank you,” and asked to be brought the bill.
As the waitress walked off, he looked at Cordero and said, “Is stubbornness a Brazilian trait?”
“If you think just because I’m a woman you can come into my town and mess around with my investigation, you’ve got another thing coming.”
Harvath grinned. “And whose insecurity is showing now?”
Instead of voicing the foul remark she had in mind, she let one of her fingers do the talking for her.
“That’s pretty good,” said Harvath. “If you can now count to two, I’ll let you have my toast.”
Cordero stood up from the table. “I hope you enjoy the rest of your time in Boston.”
Before Harvath could respond, she had turned and was walking toward the door.
He pulled a wedge of cash from his pocket, peeled off what he thought would be enough to cover everything, and dropped it on the table. He looked at his half-eaten omelet and decided reluctantly to leave it. Grabbing his coat from the back of his chair, he went off after her.
“Lara,” he said as he tried to catch up with her outside. “Lara. Damn it, Detective Cordero!”
With that, she turned around on the pavement and stopped, both hands on her hips. “Quid pro quo, Mr. Harvath. That’s all I want. Quid pro quo. None of this mysterious cloak-and-dagger BS. Maybe that works with the Georgetown coeds, but it doesn’t work here, not with me.”
Good God, she was frustrating, and obstinate. He wanted to bring her a little bit further into the light of what was going on, but she insisted on fighting him. She wanted everything on her terms. She acted just like . . . him.
“Come over here,” he said, trying to steer her into the doorway of the building next door.
“That’s not a very good idea,” she stated, taking his hand from her arm. “If you have something to tell me, you can tell me right here.”
The street was too crowded. “I’m going to tell you what you want to know, but come on. We can’t do it standing on a busy sidewalk. Not here. Not like this.”
She looked at her watch, “I have something I have to do. If you want to come along, we can talk.”
Harvath agreed and they headed back toward her car. As they approached, he figured they could talk as they drove, but she walked past the vehicle and kept going.
“Detective Cordero,” he asked. “Where are we going?”
“I’m killing two birds with one stone,” she replied, and that was all she said.
They crossed Mount Vernon Street and took a left down the tree-lined, red and black bricked sidewalk. A block later, Harvath zeroed in on their destination.
“I have an aunt who’s not well,” Cordero offered as they stepped inside.
Having being sent to Catholic school as a child, Harvath had been inside plenty of Catholic churches. Boston’s Church of the Advent was an amazing structure. Unlike the churches he was used to, this one was built predominantly from brick, a feature its architects didn’t try to hide, but rather drew attention to by offsetting the brickwork with stone. It was actually a very beautiful combination.
They had timed their visit well. The church was between masses and there was no one there except for an unseen organist practicing a song Harvath had not heard since grade school, Gibbons’s “Almighty and Everlasting God.” There was only one way to describe the notes as they floated through the church—mesmerizing.
He had always been amazed at how religious composers could so perfectly create music that was absolutely brilliant for both the organ and church acoustics. Then, between high school and college, Harvath had met a very cool church organist—the elusive figure whom people always hear, but never seem to see. The pair had a discussion about music composed for church and the organist invited Harvath to come visit her at work, which Harvath did.
The organist played Handel’s Messiah, César Franck’s setting to music of St. Thomas Aquinas’s “Panis Angelicus,” and then she surprised Harvath with an amazing performance of “America the Beautiful.” It was the first time Harvath had ever heard nonreligious music in a church and he was dumbstruck by how incredible it sounded.
The woman played other songs for him as well, but the one that had stuck, besides “America the Beautiful,” was a song from the organist’s generation, “Whiter Shade of Pale.” She drew out all the notes with such soul and such feeling. After making sure no one else was in the building, she then transitioned into funk music. It was a genre that Harvath had heard of but knew very little about. The organist was a pious woman, and played only snippets of two songs she felt were appropriate. She did, though, mention several of the classics and encouraged Harvath to look into them, which he did. Funk ended up becoming one of his favorite styles.
While Detective Cordero lit a candle for her aunt, Harvath continued into the church. He thought of Mukami, the Kenyan engineer who had been killed in Somalia, and decided to light a candle for him.
After he was done, he walked in and sat down in one of the pews. Closing his eyes, he let the music wash over him.
A few minutes later, he sensed that Cordero had joined him, but she was respectful and didn’t say anything while he continued to enjoy the music. When it stopped, he opened his eyes.
“I wouldn’t have figured you for a guy who appreciates music,” she said.
“You’d be surprised what I appreciate.”
Cordero smiled and then looked at her watch. “My whole schedule has been turned upside down today. I need to get to the office, so what is it you want to tell me?”
Harvath took a deep breath and quietly let it out. “You asked me what the victims had in common.”
“Besides the notes from the killer?”
He nodded. “Yes, besides those.”
Cordero waited as patiently as she could for him to respond. Eventually, she said, “Mr. Harvath?”
Harvath had made peace with the fact that he couldn’t hold back any longer. “Both of the victims were nominees for a government position.”
It was a half-truth, because the Federal Reserve wasn’t really a government organization, but he didn’t want to get into all of that with her.
“What kind of position?”
“Management at an economic agency.”
“Which agency?”
“One that doesn’t want the publicity,” Harvath replied.
“Is that who hired you?”
Harvath nodded. “And they hired me because I’m serious about client confidentiality. If I could tell you, I would. But I can’t and I’m sorry. I hope you understand.”