Death at Tammany Hall Read Online Free PDF

she would closely observe the situation. “I’ll start tomorrow at High Mass in their church.”
    â€œDo you mind if I join you?” he asked.
    â€œNot at all. It might do you some good,” she replied kindly.

C HAPTER 4
    A Hidden Life
    Sunday, November 11
    Â 
    F rom a cab across the street Pamela and Prescott watched the Sullivan family leave their home. A tall, heavy, vigorous man about thirty-five, Michael looked magisterial in a well-tailored dark gray suit and a matching silk top hat. As he emerged from the building, he glanced up at the sky’s scattered clouds. Reassured that rain didn’t threaten him or his flock, he brusquely beckoned them to a waiting cab in the street. The driver placed a stool at the cab door to assist them.
    Michael stood by the cab, offering a helping arm to his feeble, crippled father, who had shuffled from the house with tiny steps. Michael then extended his arm to his frail mother and to her maid. When it was Theresa’s turn, Michael seized her by the waist and lifted her up into the cab, as if she were a child.
    Pamela turned to her companion and gasped, “How demeaning! Theresa is petite but perfectly capable of stepping into the cab on her own.” Michael lifted the boy James in the same familiar way, climbed in after him, and ordered the driver to set off.
    Prescott lifted a cautionary finger. “If we were outside observers of this scene, we’d think Michael Sullivan was a big brother stepping into his failing father’s role, awkwardly to be sure. His true character is hidden.”
    The Sullivans drove up Lexington Avenue to St. Stephen’s Roman Catholic Church on East Twenty-eighth Street. Pamela and Prescott followed at a distance. Mrs. Donovan had earlier informed Pamela that the family would attend the High Mass at eleven and sit in a reserved pew at a halfway point of the nave. For years that was their custom.
    The family tarried at the entrance while Michael greeted acquaintances. Hidden in the crowd, Pamela and Prescott slipped into the church and hastened to a pew off to the side.
    While the great organ was sending out dramatic flourishes, Michael led his family down the main aisle and showed them into their pew. He placed Theresa to his right and the boy to his left.
    Pamela pulled an opera glass from her bag and focused the diagonal lens on Theresa. Her face was waxen and utterly devoid of expression. Then a bell rang, and the priest, clad in a glittering chasuble and accompanied by acolytes, entered the chancel. The congregation rose to their feet while Michael lifted Theresa by the elbow. She appeared to grimace.
    â€œIs Michael going to harass her throughout the service?” Pamela whispered to Prescott, and handed him the opera glass.
    Prescott nodded, then watched the Sullivans. “Michael also glances sidewise toward her and whispers. She doesn’t appear to respond.”
    The Mass was conducted with great solemnity. As the choir sang the majestic hymn, “Gloria in Excelsis Deo,” clouds of incense rose toward the chancel ceiling, and a sweet, pungent scent enveloped the congregation. Brilliantly tinted light poured through the tall stained glass windows. During the sermon, the preacher held the congregation spellbound, except for Michael and his family. Throughout the service he seemed to function mechanically, his mind somewhere else. The other adults of his family appeared equally self-absorbed. Only the boy seemed engaged in the liturgy, his eyes wide with wonder.
    Prescott handed the opera glass back to Pamela. “Study Michael’s face. He looks ill.”
    She focused on him again. His cheeks sagged and were slightly rouged in a vain attempt to conceal a sallow complexion; his eyes were heavy-lidded and half-closed. He frequently tried to suppress what appeared to be a chronic hacking cough. “Frankly,” she whispered, “he appears debauched. What was he doing last