by Julie Hyzy
Father Trip waited, took a breath, and then continued. “That’s partially true, Sophie. Emil drinks. But the story about Bruno saving him from a life on the streets is not.”
I canted my head, waited.
“I hate to give you this information, Alex, because I know you’ll believe it feeds directly into the conclusions you’ve drawn. I beg you to be objective and to understand that connections don’t always exist even when it seems like they must.”
Déjà vu. Didn’t Bruno use almost identical logic on me yesterday?
“I won’t jump to off-the-wall conclusions,” I said. “I promise.”
Father Trip blew out a breath. “Emil is a transplant. He worked on the west coast till the late 1990s before he made his way here. While there he got in trouble with the law. A lot.”
“For?”
He hesitated, again.
“Pandering.”
I jumped immediately to several conclusions, even though I’d promised not to.
Sophie looked at me quizzically. I explained in Polish.
“No-oo,” she said.
“And you still believe Father Bruno is utterly oblivious to the fact that Sophie and the other girls he sponsored are …” about to say, “selling their bodies,” I veered to the safer, but less expressive, “involved in this organization?”
Father Trip averted his gaze. “I don’t know what to think, anymore. And maybe it’s my own personal prejudice. None of those involved in the pedophile scandal were colleagues I knew personally. In some ways perhaps that’s how it spiraled out of control the way it did; we didn’t see the problem. It’s the fault of all of us who simply can’t conceive of one of our own doing the unthinkable.”
“So you’re telling me that you now think it’s possible that Bruno is a major player in this little drama?”
Sophie stood up, nearly knocking her chair backward. It clanged against the empty one next to her. “No! I tell you no!”
“Then why would he want me to silence the story?” I asked her. “Why would he try to buy me off?”
She shook her head while I spoke. I was certain she hadn’t heard a word, staying deaf with stubbornness. “He help me. I believe in him. My family believe in him. Matthew believe in him.”
It was the sound of the bereaved trying to prove to themselves that their dead loved ones were alive, somehow. Convincing no one, yet trying, till it hurt.
I was still digesting Father Trip’s words, when he continued, “I have a meeting at the Cardinal’s residence a week from tomorrow,” he said. “There will be several other people there who might have a better grasp of the situation.”
“Next week?” I said, too sharply, betraying my frustration. Sophie, all set to move back to her apartment, would fall under their control again. Maybe she could give up, but I couldn’t. Plus my story was due in William’s hands this Tuesday. I didn’t have time to wait.
“I know,” Father Trip said, “but it would be uncharacteristic of me, and call undue attention to the situation if I were to contact any of these men now.”
“Listen,” I said, “I had an idea last night, after everything went sour with Katrina.”
Sophie, wary, watched me. I knew her emotions were running high and it disconcerted me, momentarily. “You no put Katrina on TV?” she asked.
I shook my head. “The key here is to nail Father Bruno,” I said. Reacting to Father Trip’s stern look, I added, “If he’s guilty, of course. There’s a chance he’s not.”
Both waited, alert, for me to explain. The tiny dark room gave me the sense of profound loss, like I’d stepped into a morass with no lifeline. But I plunged in. “I’ve got one of those little handheld tape recorders. All I have to do is get a couple of key pieces of information on tape, and we’re in business.”
I held my hand up to stop Sophie’s protestation.
“What I want to do is go visit Father Bruno. I’m going to lay it all on the line. Ask him directly about his involvement, talk about the adoption folder, everything. I’m leaving nothing out this time. But this time, I’ll set it up so that our friendly conversation is all on tape.”
Sophie whimpered. “You no understand. He not guilty. If he find out, he gonna talk to Lisa. Then, they know I told you. Then they come for me. This time they find me.”
“This time?” I asked.
Her eyes widened, and a scarlet flush washed over her face.
“Were they here, looking for you, Sophie?” Father Trip asked. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Like a cornered animal giving up the fight, her entire body slumped. “I talk to Helena. Lisa come talk to her to find me, and later she overhear some things, too. They wonder where I am. She lie for me. She tell them that I feel sad about Matthew and go visit relatives. Helena tell me that Lisa say that okay, but they want to make sure.”
I prodded, “And … ?”
Sophie dropped her head. “Helena say that someone break into your house, to check if I there.”
My jaw dropped, just a bit. Of course. They’d been looking for Sophie. Thank God I hadn’t taken her there. No wonder nothing was missing. They weren’t looking for TVs or VCRs.
“Now I safe. I am,” she said, with emphasis. Perhaps responding to the look on my face. “They don’t know I hiding.” Shiny wet wells pooled in her eyes. “I frightened.”
“Sophie,” I said, in as gentle a voice I could muster, “Father Bruno knows. He as much admitted that. I just need to get proof, now. And then this will all be over.”
“I talk with him, then,” she said.
“No!” I said.
“He will listen to me. He will tell me the truth.”
“Don’t,” I said. “Let me handle it.”
“He not guilty. I know it.”
“I wish I could believe that,” I said, “for your sake more than anyone else’s.”
Father Trip leaned forward. “If what you suspect is true, Alex, I will support every effort to have him brought to justice. But let me reiterate. I don’t know how to explain all you’ve discovered, but I’m confident that Father Bruno is not guilty. It just isn’t possible.”
I canted my head, silently expressing my skepticism.
He set his mouth in a line. “But if Emil is involved, then Father Bruno needs to be informed. From that viewpoint, I understand that you’re doing what you have to do.”
“I go back now,” Sophie said, in a small voice. “I no feel good.”
She walked out, her shoulders slumped, her feet making soft dragging noises on the floor.
Father Trip squeezed my shoulder as he stood up. “I’ll be praying. For both of you.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Back home, my attempts to reach Bass netted me no more than opportunities to leave messages, which I did. Twice. I tried William, both at home and on his cell. No answer, no machine. “Damn,” I said after the third try, pacing my kitchen like a caged animal. I wanted to pounce hard, on Bruno, scratch him till he bled, and watch him cry out, begging for mercy.
Vindictive? Me? Nah, I was a pussycat.
A feral one.
A glance at my watch made me jumpier. Why couldn’t I reach them? I needed someone to discuss this with, and though I would have much preferred William over Bass, at this point, I would take whomever I could get. The dead-end ringing on William’s phone made me believe that he still harbored strong feelings of unpleasantness from last night’s encounter. I was part of that. An integral part. I wondered if he knew it was me and simply chose to ignore the call. I probably shouldn’t blame him. But I did, anyway.
Nearing noon. Father Bruno’s last Mass at his parish ended soon. I’d been playing telephone wallflower for the past hour and a half, using the time to send William an e-mail, asking him to call as soon as possible. I gave him my home and cell phone numbers, even though I’m sure he had them. Just for expediency.
I dialed again. Waited again. Nothing.
“For crying out loud,” I shouted at the phone.
Like that would help.
But watched pots and phones neither boil nor ring, so I tapped out my frustration with piano fingers on my countertop, with thoughts of a backup plan. I knew I had to move. And I had to move today—before Sophie put herself back in harm’s way, sitting like a clay pigeon in her apartment, content to let Father Bruno and his friends take aim when they would.
As the second hand of my kitchen clock marched with soft steps past the twelve, I decided not to wait any longer. Pulling out the list of numbers from the night before, I called Jeff on his cell phone, praying he had it turned on. He picked up on the second ring.
“Hello?”
Poor guy. So relieved to have reached him, I launched immediately into an explanation of what I needed.
“Whoa,” he said. “Who is this? Alex?”
“Sorry, Jeff. Yeah.”
“Slow down and tell me again what you’re talking about.”
By this point, I’d moved onto the back porch with the phone. Staring out the window, I caught a glimpse of the sun, attempting to burn its way through the heavy cloud cover. A good omen, I told myself. But the air on this cool porch after the welcoming warmth of the kitchen made me shiver.
I plotted my idea out to Jeff, told him about my plan to tape Father Bruno on my handheld recorder, and asked him about the viability of the plan. If he had any suggestions to help me get a quality recording, I’d be happy to hear them. Even though I didn’t have a go-ahead from Bass, it wouldn’t hurt to get all my technical ducks in a row.
“So you’re going to go meet this guy? This priest? And you want to get a quality tape from a recorder you shove in your pocket?”
“Not going to work?” I asked.
“Hard to tell, without seeing the recorder,” he said. “But I’m guessing it’d be a long shot. You’d get conversation. Maybe even most of it, but no chance you’d have recognizable voices. What you want is something more sophisticated.”
“So what do I do?”
“Tell you what. I’ve got some time before I have to be out at O’Hare airport. I could set you up with some state-of-the-art stuff. When are you meeting him?”
“I haven’t set it up, yet. It might not even materialize, but if it does, I want to be ready.”
Silence for several long moments on his end. Then, “And you say that Bass has no idea that you’re planning this?”
“I can’t get a hold of him. I left him messages.”
“Sticky,” he said, then added, “I don’t know the law all that well, but I think if you get caught wearing a wire without him knowing, it’s your ass on the line, not the station’s. It’d be better for you if Bass gave his blessing. Hang on one.”
I did, but I listened, even as it came clear that he’d cupped his hand over the receiver. Another voice in the background, male. Brief conversation, none of which I could make out. Then Jeff returned.
“Sorry.”
“Okay, so I don’t officially have Bass’s approval,” I began. Jeff could be a stickler about things. I knew that. He treated every piece of the station’s equipment as though it was his own. Good for the station, but bad for me if he was going to be a rule-monger about this. “But I need to do this. And if I can get it arranged for today, will you help me?”
He heaved what sounded like a thoughtful sigh. “Yeah. I got a couple of ideas. Call me back when you get your time squared away.”
* * * * *
The next call went to Father Bruno. The surprised pleasure in his voice took me aback.
“I’m so happy to hear from you. I didn’t get the chance to thank you for the delightful lunch yesterday.”
I frowned at the phone. What? Did he think we were buddies now?
“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” I said, blandly. “The reason for my call has to do with our discussion, as a matter of fact.”
“Oh?” I heard the flick of a lighter. The Sacred Heart of Jesus one, no doubt. Then a long pull of breath.
“I’ve had a chance to think over your offer,” I said.
He exhaled. “Have you, now?”
I couldn’t make out anything from his reply. Inscrutable, at least over the phone. He might have been expecting it. But my call could just as easily have knocked him for a loop. A careful man, he let none of his reaction show.
“I did,” I said, trying to project just the right balance of hesitation and eagerness. “I think I’d like to have a look at that folder. That is, if the option is still available?”
“As a matter of fact, I have it on my desk right here,” he said. “A complete copy, which I’ll be delighted to give to you. To keep. Assuming we both understand that my goal here is to protect my charges from malicious scandal.”
“That’s exactly what I want to discuss with you,” I said.
“Excellent.”
He inhaled again, and exhaled, as I chose my words. “Would you have time this afternoon?”
“This afternoon?” he chuckled. “A bit eager, are you Alex?”
I smiled. “A bit,” I said.
If he only knew.
* * * * *
Tight time frame. Jeff needed to be on his way to O’Hare Airport by four o’clock and it was already nearing one. Father Bruno had several meetings scheduled for the day; though he agreed to fit me in between appointments, I needed to meet him at a church on the north side.
When Jeff answered his cell phone, I jumped right in again. This time, at least, he was prepared for my call.
“Okay,” he said, slowly, after I outlined the plan. “I won’t have time to get down to the office, but I have equipment here that we can use. My own stuff. Actually, that’ll work out better. If you get the proof and we use it, it’s my property and somebody’ll have to cough up some big bucks for it.”
If Jeff could make a few extra dollars on this one, I was all for it, as long as I got my story. I remembered Bass saying how perfect the recording with Candy had come out. I wanted that kind of clarity. “Will we get clear reception?”
“Listen,” he said, with a tiny bit of pride in his voice, “this isn’t just my job, this is what I do. The stuff I’ve got here will kick ass.”
His confidence encouraged me. We agreed on a meeting place and I hustled to get a few things done before I left.
Still no answer on Bass or William’s phones. Annoyed the hell out of me. With limited time, I wrote them both quick, but explicit e-mails, explaining the plan and hoping neither would take offense that I moved forward without them. I tried calling Sophie too. Sister Mary Mildred told me that Sophie went back to her apartment to clean up, but she’d be back soon.
I called her there, but nothing. She could be en route, or she could just as easily be spending some time with Casimir and Mabel upstairs, getting herself settled again. And I didn’t have time to waste tracking her down.
I knew I should wait until I talked with Bass, or William. But even if everything went perfectly, I needed to get this story finished. Pronto. Tuesday’s deadline loomed. Even if I could corner Bruno, get him to admit to his guilt on tape, I still needed to follow up with my cop friend Maria, to wind up our story with a triumphant arrest. That all took time. Lots of time.
Ignoring the doubts dancing around in my head, I set off to meet Jeff.
* * * * *
Fullerton Avenue buzzed with activity. I exited northbound Lake Shore Drive to head west, passing nineteenth-century brownstones interspersed with brand-spanking new loft homes on both sides of the street. Traffic crawled, doing its peculiar city movement. Coasting forward while the distant traffic light was red, and coming to a complete stop whenever it turned green.
I pulled into the parking lot of a bustling Starbucks Coffee shop, lucky that a motorcycle pulled out, opening a spot for me. Jeff was there, waiting for me outside the glass doors, sipping from a steaming cup.
“Wow. Nice neighborhood,” I said, as I got out of my car.
“Yeah,” he answered, looking around as he nodded. “Moved up here about fiv
e years ago. My kid went off to college and I finally talked the wife into living somewhere with a little night life.”
Not particularly interested, I still strove for polite. After all, the guy was helping me out on his day off. And without getting Bass’s approval first. “And how does she like it up here?”
He grinned, half of his mouth turning up. “She doesn’t. Which is why she spends so much time visiting her sister in Atlanta. She prefers a ‘normal’ life, whatever that is. And, hey, the weather ain’t bad down there, either. ‘Course, I can’t really complain today. Nice day for October, isn’t it?”
It was. A warm air front had washed over the city in the wee hours of the morning, and I’d taken off the winter jacket, getting along with an open, zippered sweatshirt over a casual T-shirt. A gentle breeze kicked up my hair, and I noticed gray clouds in the distant southerly horizon. It would cool off again, soon enough. “So, what do I need to do?” I asked, prodding a bit.
“C’mon, I’ve got it all over here.”
We walked about fifteen steps to a blood red convertible. One of those cars that wears only a logo, no name, so that you have to know cars to figure out the brand. I was pretty sure it was a Mercedes. But it could have just as easily been a Beemer. Whatever. “Nice car,” I said. Geez, maybe we were paying this guy too much. North side homes in this area didn’t come cheap and neither did cars like this one.
“Belongs to a friend of mine,” he said, using a handheld control to beep the trunk open. “He let me borrow it this morning. Here.” He reached into a duffel bag and grabbed a slim plastic case. It reminded me of the kind of pencil pouches I used as a kid. Clear on one side, silver on the other. Reaching his narrow fingers into the top opening, he plucked at the device inside with a pinching motion and extracted a thin wire, with a tiny silver button at the top. Like a very long, flexible straight pin, it wobbled in the breeze as Jeff handled it.
“You’re sure you’re going to get this guy to admit to prostitution in the Catholic church?” he asked, skepticism abundant. “Seems unlikely that a priest is in charge of something like this.”