The Sins of the Fathers by Lawrence Block

useless since I no longer own a car. Then I kicked the Taylor in. I had to kick it twice before the door flew inward.
    I locked the other three locks after me. The tenants would have a lot of fun trying to figure out what had happened to the Taylor, but that was their problem, and it wouldn't come up until sometime in March. I poked until I found the window that fed onto the fire escape, opened it, and climbed down two stories to the Hanniford-Vanderpoel apartment.
    The window wasn't locked. I opened it, let myself in, closed it after me.
    An hour later I went out the window and back up the fire escape. There were lights on in the fourth-floor apartment by now, but the shade was drawn on the window I had to pass. I reentered the fifth-floor apartment, let myself out into the hallway, locked the door behind me, and went downstairs and out of the building. I had enough time to grab a sandwich before I kept my appointment with Martin Vanderpoel.

    Chapter 7
    I got off the BMT at Sixty-second Street and New Utrecht and walked a couple of blocks through a part of Brooklyn where Bay Ridge and Bensonhurst rub shoulders with one another. A powdery rain was melting some of yesterday's snow.
    The weather bureau expected it to freeze sometime during the night. I was a little early and stopped at a drugstore lunch counter for a cup of coffee. Toward the rear of the counter a kid was demonstrating a gravity knife to a couple of his friends.
    He took a quick look at me and made the knife disappear, reminding me once again that I haven't stopped looking like a cop.
    I drank half my coffee and walked the rest of the way to the church. It was a massive edifice of white stone toned all shades of gray by the years. A cornerstone announced that the present structure had been erected in 1886 by a congregation established 220 years before that date. An illuminated bulletin board identified the church as the First Reformed Church of Bay Ridge, Reverend Martin T.
    Vanderpoel, Pastor. Services were held Sundays at nine thirty; this coming Sunday Reverend Vanderpoel was slated to speak on "The Road to Hell Is Paved with Good Intentions."
    I turned the corner and found the rectory immediately adjacent to the church.
    It was three stories tall and built of the same distinctive stone. I rang the bell and stood on the front step in the rain for a few minutes. Then a small gray-haired woman opened the door and peered up at me. I gave my name.
    "Yes," she said. "He said he was expecting you." She led me into a parlor and pointed me to an armchair. I sat down across from a fireplace with an electric fire glowing in it. The wall on either side of the fireplace was lined with bookshelves. An Oriental rug with a muted pattern covered most of the parquet floor. The room's furniture was all dark and massive. I sat there waiting for him and decided I should have stopped for a drink instead of a cup of coffee. I wasn't likely to get a drink in this cheerless house.
    He let me sit there for five minutes. Then I heard his step on the stairs. I got to my feet as he entered the room. He said, "Mr. Scudder? I'm sorry to keep you waiting. I was on the telephone. But please have a seat, won't you?"
    He was very tall and rail-thin. He wore a plain black suit, a clerical collar, and a pair of black leather bedroom slippers. His hair was white with yellow highlights here and there. It would have been considered long a few years ago, but now the abundant curls were conservative enough. His horn-rimmed glasses had thick lenses that made it difficult for me to see his eyes.
    "Coffee, Mr. Scudder?"
    "No, thank you."
    "And none for me, either. If I have more than one cup with my dinner, I'm up half the night." He sat down in a chair that was a mate to mine. He leaned toward me and placed his hands on his knees.
    "Well, now," he said. "I don't see how I can possibly help you, but please tell me if I can."
    I explained a little more fully the errand I was running for Cale