Chapter Text
5:42 PM
I need to talk to you
Blanc stares down at the text, a thousand theories flying through his head all at once. Phillip must sense him stiffen because he looks up from where he’s been reading a book in the wingback chair across the living room. “Father Jud’s texted me,” Blanc explains, the curiosity seeping into his tone. Phillip’s eyebrows shoot up. Blanc and Jud haven’t spoken since the resolution of the matter of Eve’s Apple over a year ago, not out of bad blood, but simply because their business with each other was over. Blanc had thought it all seemed rather buttoned up, but evidently that isn’t the case anymore. He’s about to tap out a response when Jud texts him again.
5:45 PM
I’m in Manhattan.
Blanc tries to remember if he told Jud he lives in the city, but he comes up blank. He supposes he must have, perhaps offhandedly, and Jud has remembered all this time. “He’s in the city,” Blanc tells Phillip, who—bless him—responds, “I’ll put the kettle on.” Blanc sends Jud his address.
When Jud appears at their doorstep, he’s tense in the way he always is, poorly hidden beneath a benevolent smile. He steps through the threshold shyly, saying, “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.” He looks down at the shoe rack by the door, then at Blanc’s sock feet, and toes off his black sneakers. He’s dressed down in comparison to how Blanc is used to seeing him, his slacks replaced with dark jeans, though he has his collar on.
Blanc waves away the niceties with a single hand. “Nonsense. It’s a pleasure to see you, Father. My husband has a lasagna in the oven if you’ll stay for dinner.”
Jud’s smile falters for half a second, and Blanc knows it’s because he definitely never mentioned his homosexuality to the priest. It’s 2026, and Father Jud is nothing if not accepting and loving, but he is a Catholic priest, and Blanc is all too familiar with the poisonous hatred those are meant to have for his lifestyle. The moment passes before Blanc can even bristle though, and Jud’s face is back to normal, and he’s saying, “That sounds very nice. I’d like that.”
As if summoned, Phillip steps halfway out of the kitchen. “You must be Father Jud,” he said. “I’m Phillip. Can I make you some tea?”
Jud smiles at him warmly, no hint of disgust, and responds, “If you’re making some, I would love that.” Blanc relaxes.
Once they’re seated in the living room, oversized mugs of tea before them, Blanc stares across the living room at Jud, who is sitting with his shoulders curled in on himself, hands on his elbows, and looking curiously around the apartment, eyes lingering on the Picasso by the kitchen entrance. “This is… nice,” he comments delicately. He picks up his tea with both hands.
While Blanc refuses to be ashamed of his sexuality for a priest’s benefit, he does feel a little shamefaced about the sixteen million dollar apartment in the face of a man who has willingly never cashed in on the huge fortune he protects. Rather than explain the financials of detective work, he asks, “What brings you to Manhattan, Father?”
Jud stiffens further somehow. He tears his eyes away from the art on the wall and back to Blanc. “I was visiting my father. I grew up here, in Hell’s Kitchen.”
Blanc nods. Suddenly, his vague image of the past life Jud’s alluded to—fighting, addiction, homelessness—becomes much more vivid with a confirmed setting. These days, apartments like his are popping up in Hell’s Kitchen, but when Jud would have been growing up there… Well, it was no surprise that Jud was looking around like he was in a museum.
There’s something else though. The rigidity of the priest’s form is more than that of someone uncomfortable in a new environment; it’s someone who’s about to ask for help, despite wanting desperately not to. As a detective, he’s very familiar with people acting this way. “Is he well, your father?” he asks out of politeness.
Jud cringes, and Blanc can see that he’s accidentally forced them too early into the part of the conversation that the priest is avoiding. “He’s dead,” Jud replies.
“Oh, I’m so sorry for your loss,” Blanc says, trying to insert genuine sympathy into his tone. He’s never quite known what to do in these kinds of situations. Phillip has told him that he moves into problem solving too quickly, and doesn’t spend enough time on empathizing. He looks desperately around the living room for a box of tissues, remembering Jud’s tendency toward tears.
Jud shakes his head. He’s acting nothing like the emotional man that Blanc first met, who was grieving in anticipation of losing his priesthood. In fact, Jud doesn’t look like he’s grieving at all. He just looks tired, a little shellshocked maybe. He sets his tea down onto a coaster and puts his hands in his lap, where he runs the fingers of his left hand over his right knuckles. He opens his mouth but doesn’t say anything before he snaps it shut and shakes his head again. They’re both silent for a few moments.
Eventually, Blanc gives up on being tactful. “Listen, Father, as lovely as it is to see you, I’m assuming this isn’t a social call. Is there a story you’d like to tell me?”
Jud smiles ruefully. He looks at the ceiling—or perhaps he’s looking to the heavens for guidance—before he makes eye contact with Blanc again. He finally says, “My father and I haven’t spoken for the last half of my life. He kicked me out when I was fifteen.” He picks his tea back up but does not take a sip, just looks down into it. Blanc suddenly feels like he’s taking a confession. “I had heard through the grapevine that he was ill, but… I was selfish. I didn’t reach out to him. Last week, he called the church. He told me he was dying, and he wanted to see me, so I came. It… seemed like the right thing to do. This morning”---It doesn’t escape Blanc that Jud has skipped a good chunk of time in this story, but he says nothing—“he was found dead. His neighbor saw blood trailing under the door and broke it down.” Jud took a deep breath. “He’d been beaten to death, and had a rosary shoved down his throat.”
“Someone is framing you,” Blanc says, and Jud nods, breathing out heavily in obvious relief. Blanc has to admit, this murder is a little more Jud’s style—a brazen, bare-handed beating—than the last one he nearly took the blame for, but still, he doesn’t think Jud murdered his father for a few reasons. First, Jud isn’t foolish enough to involve the detective if he wants to get away with it. Second, Jud has shown over and over again that he owns his actions. If he killed his father, he’d be on his knees in a church or in a police station right now, not in Blanc’s living room. “Is there any reason someone would want your father dead, including you?”
Something about Blanc switching into mystery solving mode seems to relax Jud, who leans back in his seat. “Well—he’s a drunk with anger issues, who scams anyone who gives him the chance, so the list is endless. Unfortunately, the door was locked from the outside. I don’t have my key anymore, but the cop who wanted to ‘just ask me a few questions’ doesn’t seem to believe that.”
Blanc scoffs. “A locked door murder then. This keeps happening to you.”
“If I believed in karma…” Jud rolls his eyes. He finally fully relaxes, unfurling his arms until he’s taking up twice as much space on the couch than he had been a moment ago. “So, will you help me?”
“Of course I will.” The timer in the kitchen dings. “But first—brain food.”