It encompassed the city block between Fiftieth and Fifty-First Streets on Fifth Avenue. Grant stared up at the humongous structure. There were cathedrals in Britain that rivaled and surpassed Saint Patrick’s in ornate design and size, but it was the setting that amazed him. Having read up on the cathedral’s history on the plane, he’d learned it was an early nineteenth century Jesuit college that was abandoned to become a cemetery. It had been saved by Reverend Michael Curran, an energetic priest who raised funds to construct the cathedral starting in 1858. Upon completion, it was the seat for the archbishop of the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of New York and had borne witness to celebrations, weddings, and requiem masses for famous New Yorkers like Babe Ruth, Bobby Kennedy, and Ed Sullivan.

And now it was a Manhattan crime scene.

Most remnants of a police presence were gone. There wasn’t a squad car in sight, and only one local news van was present, with a roving reporter doing filler follow-up. Clearly the cops had moved on to the next-worst thing—which suited Grant. He had agreed to meet Frankel the following morning. This way he could get a good look at the church beforehand without being there in an official capacity.

Once inside, he was surprised to see a few dozen people moving through the church, even though it was ten o’clock on a Monday evening. A few were sprinkled in pews, others by small side altars lighting candles. Some sightseers strolled in the back, poring through guidebooks detailing the church’s history and highlights.

But most had gathered up front, where Grant saw the all-too familiar yellow crime tape spread around the altar steps. A gigantic cross hung above it, wrapped in clear plastic. A uniformed patrolman was stationed there, motioning for the curious to keep their distance.

“I heard he was missing his entire head and you’re still looking for it,” one female tourist in a camel coat said to the patrolman. “Is that true?”

“I’m not at liberty to say, ma’am,” was all the man would offer up.

“They wouldn’t have allowed us inside the place if the head was rolling around in here somewhere,” muttered her companion, a beefy sort wearing a Syracuse sweatshirt. “Isn’t that right?”

Grant was taken aback realizing that the Syracuse man was addressing him. “I’ve no idea—but I suspect you’re correct.”

The camel-coated woman’s eyes widened. “Are you from England?”

Grant couldn’t hide his accent if he tried. “I just arrived this evening. I’m all bollixed by the time change. Thought I’d go for a walk and take in the sights.”

“And stumbled right into a murder scene.”

“I thought that looked out of place,” Grant replied, pointing at the yellow tape. “What happened exactly?”