Dying For Revenge (The Lady Doc Murders Book 1)

by Barbara Golder

  “So you say.” Emphasis on the “you.”

  Wilson’s eyes were beginning to shine. It seemed he liked a verbal donnybrook as much as any lawyer.

  “So I say. I also say that the bullet the police found there was planted. By you.”

  Wilson chuckled and leaned back in his chair again, hands behind his head. “Prove it.”

  I leaned forward to tap the folder and remained there for a long moment, invading his personal space.

  “It’s all there. The receipt from the hardware store in Norwood where you bought the ammunition for starters. Really, Wilson, you shouldn’t pay for things like that with a credit card. Were you thinking of expensing it to the paper?”

  “They sell a lot of ammunition in Norwood.”

  “So they do. This lot happens to match the bullet from the bell tower. Same rim markings.”

  “Lots of that ammunition floating around.”

  “Not much of it bought the day before your article came out. It’s not hunting season. No reason to buy bullets this time of year.”

  “So I bought some bullets. Big deal. Circumstantial. What else you got?” Wilson’s tone was still cocky but he’d dropped his arms and was pushing against the desk. The knuckles of his hand were white.

  “You know, that nice enamel on the trim takes prints really well. We got two sets, palms and fingers, from the rails in the corner. Are you scared of heights, or did you just want to take a minute to gloat?”

  “Not my prints.”

  “Wanna bet?” I flipped the folder open to Lucy’s report. “Read it and weep.”

  Wilson looked at me hard, then slowly leaned forward to look. The muscles in his neck tightened, and he remained silent.

  “You ever watch what a bartender does when he’s bored?” I asked. No answer, not even a look. “He polishes glasses. Nothing better than a nice bar glass to take a set of prints from. Usually get part of the palm too. Remember that night you had a drink with Eoin Connor? The night he planted the story with you? Lovely prints from that. Matched right up.”

  “I never gave permission.”

  “Stuff it.” My tone announced I was done playing games.

  Wilson stood up, his hands wide apart on the desk. He leaned pugnaciously forward until his chin nearly touched mine, like something out of a bad movie. I steeled myself not to move.

  “Circumstantial. You can’t prove anything.”

  He glared at me, and I held his eyes without blinking for a long moment before I laughed.

  “You’re right,” I said as I backed off, sliding the folder out from under Wilson’s right hand. “All circumstantial. Not much proof at all. But I know you did it.”

  I sat down finally in the barrel chair, trying to suppress the smile that threatened to play around my lips. Wilson relaxed a bit and crossed his arms across his chest in a look of triumph.

  “You can’t prove anything. Circumstantial,” he repeated.

  The smile broke through. I fluttered the folder. “You really ought to know better, Pete,” I said. “I suggest you ask Tommy Berton just what I can do with circumstantial evidence. While you’re at it, you might discuss with him what happens when you lose a civil suit after a slam dunk conviction for a crime.”

  Wilson blanched again. I was well aware my reputation preceded me. For once it was nice to play it to positive effect.

  “What are you going to do?” he finally asked. His voice was firm but his words lacked bravado.

  I smiled. “Not sure yet. I haven’t given this to Tom Patterson. When I do, he’ll have no choice but to file charges for obstruction of justice. Time in the big house for that, you know. Then there’s the possibility of a lawsuit on behalf of the good Father and the diocese for defamation.”

  “A priest would never sue.”

  “He would if he had a good lawyer advising him and it was a big-ticket, slam dunk case. And he does, and it is. I wonder whether Father Matt has any experience in running a newspaper?” I smiled a predatory, lawyerly smile at Pete Wilson, who, to his credit, had not yet sunk into the chair again. Nor had he turned his eyes away. I thought I detected a sheen of sweat on his brow. He was tough. Almost as tough as Tommy Berton. But not quite. And I was tougher now than I had been then.

  I stood up and looked him in the eyes one last time, and in his eyes I saw fear. Not regret, just fear.

  “There is no statute of limitation when obstruction is related to a murder charge.” A slight shading of the truth in this particular case. “Ten years if it’s not. I have lots of time to make up my mind. And if I were you, I’d try real hard not to piss me off.”

  I turned abruptly and walked away before I crossed that line. Tough enough and whole enough to stop short of mayhem, at least for today. But I toed right up to it when I turned back at the door and looked at Wilson one last time.

  “Have a nice day, Pete. Tell Tyler thanks for the use of his office.”

  I walked out into the sunlight and turned in the direction of Spruce Street.

  My heart began to pound as I approached the church, a familiar feeling on the way to confession, and confession was what I was after. Enough to keep me out of the Church, if that were all I knew. But I knew that the feeling I would have after was more than worth the anxiety beforehand. Time to clean up and get on with life.

  I put my hand out for the knob, but the door pulled open before my hand reached it. I found myself standing face to face with Janos Kovacs in the small vestibule. Desperate to get out of his way, I moved to one side, and he moved in the same direction. We did the avoidance dance for a moment, then stopped, regarding each other warily. His face was tired and lined, his expression full of pain that I recognized. Pain that I had in some measure caused and that wouldn’t end for a very long time. Maybe never.

  What do I say? I asked myself. What do I say to the man whose wife is sitting in jail now, likely never to get out? That I know the prison he finds himself in all too well? That I cannot imagine being the one to bring in the evidence that would convict the other half of my life and tear her away from me? I didn’t know what to think. Would he blame me, or did he shoulder this terrible burden all by himself? I waited, half afraid, unable to make any gesture.

  Then he did the most extraordinary thing. He extended a hand to me. I took it tentatively, not knowing what to expect.

  “Peace be with you,” he said, simply and quietly. I noticed he dropped the “h.”

  With reflexes born in years of attending Mass, I replied. “And with your spirit.” His other hand closed over mine and squeezed, holding it tight and warm for an instant too long, then letting it go. His tanned face creased in a shadow of a sad smile. He stepped out of the vestibule and was gone. I heard his footsteps on the stairs and listened until they were lost in the distance.

  Father Matt was waiting in a pew, sunlight from the windows burnishing his brown curls. They were unruly at best, and lately they had gotten impossibly long. If he didn’t have a haircut soon, he’d have dreadlocks. Probably better to fit into town, I thought. He saw me and stood up, a questioning look on his face.

  “I got here as soon as I could. Should we go to your office? I’m not supposed to use the facilities here.”

  I looked around. The church was empty except for us, silent as only a church can be, the warm mid-day light coming in through the windows dappling the aisle with patterns and colors. I shook my head.

  “No. I think I’d rather just talk here. It’s private enough.”

  I took a seat on the pew next to where Father Matt had been sitting and patted the wooden bench. He sat back down, hands resting lightly on his knees, and didn’t say a word. I held the folder I had just threatened Pete Wilson with in my two hands, looking at it and gathering my thoughts. It was hard to know where to begin. I finally decided that cutting to the chase had a certain appeal.

  “Pete Wilson is the one who framed you. I can prove it.”

  For an instant Father Matt stiffened, then relaxed. His hands li
fted from his knees briefly, fisted, then straightened again, slowly. His mouth twitched, but he still said nothing, just looked at me with those big, brown eyes. I reached across and placed my hand on top of his, and repeated myself.

  “I can prove it, Father. Beyond a doubt.”

  Father Matt stood abruptly and paced about the floor, from the front to the pew and back, three times, then four, his hands now clasped behind his back, the fingers of the free hand working powerfully. Finally, he stopped in front of me and simply asked, “Why?” I noticed the corners of his eyes were damp.

  I shrugged. “Didn’t say. Who knows? Does it matter?”

  “Yes, it matters!” he thundered. “Of course, it matters!”

  I recoiled a bit, and he stopped, closed his eyes. I was familiar with that particular ploy. Sometimes it helps to shut out the world when you want to collect yourself after someone has scattered you to pieces. I spent a lot of the first year after John’s death with my eyes closed.

  At length, he sighed and opened his eyes again.

  “It matters to me,” he corrected himself. “I don’t suppose it matters other than that.”

  Good man. He’d toed up to the line, too, but hadn’t crossed it. He was better at this than I was, but I was learning. I patted the bench again.

  “I just came from his office. He knows that I know. I haven’t told Tom Patterson yet. I thought I’d talk to you before I do that. What Wilson did was obstruction of justice, pure and simple. And defamation of the worst kind.”

  “I suppose he can go to prison for it?”

  “If I tell Patterson, yes.”

  “If you tell. Don’t you have an obligation to tell him?”

  “Probably. If it ever came out that I hadn’t, I'd probably lose my law license. Might starve to death for lack of a proper job.”

  I hoped a bit of levity might help. It didn’t. Father Matt was on his feet again, pacing more furiously this time, muttering to himself, and pressing his fist into the palm of his hand. He stopped again, this time in the middle of the church.

  “For the first time, Jane, I think I understand,” he said. “You...he...I....” his words trailed off in confusion as he punched his palm with such force, I was afraid he’d hurt himself. He sighed again.

  I sat back on the bench and stretched out my legs. Father Matt sat heavily down beside me. “You’re asking me whether you should tell Patterson, aren’t you?”

  “Up to you,” I said. “But no need to decide this instant. I just wanted you to know that it’s over. No suspicion. And my guess is that the paper’s going to carry a retraction, if for no other reason than to cover its own corporate self. Do you want the details?” I held up the folder. “This is a copy, for you. I have the originals in my office.”

  Father Matt took the folder and held it gingerly, at a distance, then set it aside. “I think I'll wait. I'm too angry just now.”

  I took a breath. This was going to be the hard part. “There’s more.”

  “More?”

  I shifted so that I could look him eye to eye. “About Marla. I know. I had to tell Patterson. He’s on his way to take her back into custody, right now, I expect.”

  This time the look was relief, but his words were the same as Pete Wilson’s had been. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Never play poker, Father. You haven’t the face for it. I know you know, and I know you can’t say anything. I figured it out while I was looking into that hatchet job Wilson did on you.”

  “Go on.” He sounded cautious.

  I smiled. “It’s the done thing these days for the glitterati to go over to Fauxhall and learn to shoot,” I said. “They order a lot of ammunition, and I went over there to check it out, trying to run down someone — anyone — who had purchased ammunition about the time you were framed. Turns out Houston kept a target rifle over there. A .22 and a sidearm, a nine millimeter Beretta. His name caught my eye, and I did a little digging. Marla Kincaid showed up the afternoon Houston was killed and checked the Beretta out. It was the only one out of the all of the murders that was an outlier, and it was complicated only because we picked up on the wrong gun. She killed him, revenge I expect, because he infected her and the baby with HIV.”

  He leaned forward, put his head in his hands and was still. I placed my hand on his shoulder. He shook his head, and his voice was muffled when he finally spoke.

  “I am not cut out for this. The bishop was right.”

  I laughed and clapped him on the back. “You’re not getting off that easy. Sorry, Father, you’re in this for the long haul. Welcome to my world. It’s not so bad once you get used to it.”

  Father Matt turned his head to the side and looked askance at me, then smiled. “You are something else, Jane Wallace. Thanks. Thanks.”

  “Just doing my job,” I said. “Now how about you doing yours?”

  Father Matt sat up slowly. “No mind games, Jane. I’m too tired. What are you talking about?”

  “I’m tired too, Father.” I looked past him to the altar and the crucifix. Funny how I’d managed all this time to stay within the four walls of this little church, in spite of my best efforts to the contrary. Something, someone — John? — had kept me here when I had no reason to stay and every reason to go. “I'm tired of fighting Tommy Berton. I’m tired of cleaning up the fruit of revenge — mine, Ivanka’s, Marla’s, who knows, maybe yours. Go get your purple stole. It’s time to scrape the barnacles off this hull. The bishop has reinstated your faculties. I want you to hear my confession.” I handed him the fax I had received after my early morning call; it helps to be on the big donor list when you want to have a conversation with the head man.

  He looked at me for a moment as though without understanding, then a half-smile crossed his face. He stood up, and I watched him as he opened the back door and listened to the sounds of his steps in the hall that led to his office. When he returned, he had the stole in his hands, kissed it and put it around his neck.

  I watched him contort himself to fit in the old confessional, the one the previous priest had used as a storage closet. The processional bells on the outside wall jangled slightly, and I heard a muffled invective, no doubt from some appendage knocking against the confines of a space made for much smaller men. As cramped as it was, I knew he preferred it to the bright, new reconciliation room.

  So did I. It’s always easier to talk to a screen than it is face to face. I’d been brave enough, long enough. I welcomed the chance to be momentarily anonymous. I glanced up at the loft, thinking of all the times I had sat there under St. Anthony's watchful eyes. “Looks like you found something else — a lot — that was missing,” I whispered as I opened the door and knelt on the velvet cushion. Then I closed the door, made the sign of the cross and began. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned...”

  **********

  When we were done, we walked together out of the church, back into the sunlight. Father Matt's phone rang just as he let the door close behind him.

  “It’s the bishop,” he said. His face hardened for a moment. He pocketed his phone with an air of indifference, and we listened to three more tones before it went silent again. Father Matt looked for a long moment at the blue folder I had given him before he pulled his phone out again, this time with purpose on his face. He pushed redial, and as he listened for life on the other end of the line, he looked at me. I noticed his eyes were almost the same color as Janos Kovacs’. And not nearly as kind. Father Matt was in the same boat as Janos, but with two tormentors, not one.

  He held both of them in his hands just now: one in a folder, one in a phone. I wondered how he would respond.

  “He didn’t just attack me, Jane. He attacked the Church. It’s one thing to come after me. But I can’t let him come after the Church I love. Go ahead. Tell Tom,” was all he said to me before turning his attention to the phone again.

  I left before the bishop answered. That promised to be an interesting conversation. I was sorry
to miss it, but it was almost one and I had another man to meet.

  **********

  The lobby of the Peaks was washed in sunlight and one of the bellmen greeted me as I walked through the massive, glass door. A guest padded through the lobby wrapped in a white terry robe, coming or going, I thought, from the spa. I frowned in spite of myself, regretting the pervasive informality that made nightclothes as acceptable in the lobby of a fine hotel as an evening dress would have been. Then I remembered that I was headed to meet Connor for lunch in that same fine hotel in boots and jeans and would be accepted for the same reason: my money’s green, and the hotel wanted as much of it as could be pried out of visiting wallets. Some things are not worth making waves over.

  Indeed, I thought to myself. Some things are not. I wasn’t sure that Pete Wilson fell into that category yet, but probably. Besides, I might get more mileage out of the knowledge held close to my chest than I would satisfaction at his downfall. Fr. Matt said to tell Tom. He didn’t say when. My smile broadened. I might have gotten past the greater part of my stubborn need for control and revenge, but there was still enough left that I was my own irascible self.

  The Great Room was emptying of the early diners, waitstaff clearing tables here and there in anticipation of a second wave of custom. I caught sight of Conner, settled in a chair at a table for four that was tucked into a corner, far enough from the expanse of windows that none of the tables near it was occupied. He stood as I approached, then held the chair for me as I took my seat. A charming custom of chivalry John taught our sons, and one I had sorely missed since he died.

  An open bottle of red wine was on the table and Eoin’s glass was half full. He topped his own off and filled mine, in that order, then replaced the bottle in its terra cotta holder. I listened to the silence grow, unsure of what to say and unwilling to break it. He looked at me with a glance that told me he was both amused and perfectly capable of waiting me out. He took up his glass, raised and tipped it in my direction, still silent. I followed suit.

  “Sláinte, is it?” I was surprised at the tentative sound in my voice.