The part of Manhattan known as Harlem ran east to west from river to river, and from 110th Street north to 155th.

“In 1910, we were only ten percent of the population here, Ms. Cooper. Twenty years later, the great migration started from the South. By the fifties, Harlem was ninety-eight percent black.”

“And the Jews?” Mike asked.

Wilbur Gaskin shrugged. “The diaspora continued. They moved once more. This time because they wanted to, not because they had to. To Riverside Drive, to Park Avenue, to the Grand Concourse, and up to Westchester. These churches — these magnificent synagogues — are the silent vestiges of their years in Harlem.”

Footsteps again, like a couple of cops were running inside the church. Audley was in the doorway, checking out the activity.

“Neboh,” Mike said. “What’s that?”

“One of the four holy mounts, Mr. Chapman. The Bible says it’s the place from which Moses first saw the Promised Land.”

“This girl wasn’t quite so lucky.”

“One more thing about our church, Detective, to confuse you further. Before we Baptists took it over, it had a short incarnation as a Roman Catholic sanctuary. I think that trifecta is true of only two institutions in Manhattan.” Gaskin went on in Spanish, “Iglesia de Nuestra Señora de la Medalla Milagrosa.”

“Our Lady of the Miraculous Medal,” Mike said.

Now there were loud noises, like men arguing in the sanctuary.

“Your Spanish isn’t bad,” Gaskin said, patting Mike on the shoulder.

“Can’t do homicide in this city without a smattering of español.”

I was ten years beyond cringing at Mike Chapman’s political incorrectness. But I wondered if the interim Catholic incarnation of the building did anything to influence Mike’s theory of why the body landed here.

A sharp voice shouted a command as a heavy door slammed shut.