"Of course, Monsignor," she replied, sounding breathy and flustered, as if she had run to answer the phone. "But when, where?"
"At our café." Our café. "As soon as you can make it."
"Yes. Fine. I—I'll take a taxi."
Probably an expense far beyond her budget. "Thank you, Miranda. I'll see you there."
He was at the café in half an hour and had her mineral water waiting for her. She arrived not long after—wearing makeup and perfume, he noticed. She still had difficulty making eye contact, however, and she was full of apologies for being late.
He waved away her apologies and leaned forward. "I hope I'm not making a mistake, but—I have decided to trust you, Miranda."
She beamed with pleasure. "I'm sure you won't be disappointed, Monsignor. I'll do whatever I can to help."
Fieri nodded. "I am concerned about Signor Donato," he murmured.
"In—in what way?"
"You recall that I thought he seemed nervous. Miranda, I must understand—the Holy Father must understand—why Donato is nervous. Is it simply because he is nervous by nature? We think not. We have reason to believe there is something going on at the Istituto that is making him nervous, something that might bring discredit to the Vatican."
"I don't know of anything happening at the Bank that should be of concern," Miranda responded quickly. "But of course I'm only a clerk—I know very little."
"I believe you," Fieri responded with a shrug. "And so what I would like you to do for me is to find out what you—and we—don't know."
Miranda stared at him wide-eyed, frightened. For the first time, he thought, she was encountering the legendary Vatican intrigue. And how was she supposed to respond? Poor innocent: The answer would not be found in any catechism. This was the real life of the Church. "You want me to be a—a spy?" she whispered.
"The word is far too dramatic," he said mildly. "I don't want you to do anything that goes against your conscience, or could get you into trouble. And of course if by any chance you do get into trouble, you must rest assured that you have friends who will take care of you. I just want you to attempt to discover any information that might help us understand if something inappropriate or illegal is taking place at the Bank."
"But what sort of information?" Miranda protested. "I would have no idea what to look for."
"You will know it because it is what they will choose to keep most hidden."
"But if it is hidden—" She made a helpless gesture, unable to continue.
Fieri reached out and covered one of her hands with his. He could tell that his touch—the touch of a priest's hand—startled her. "Miranda," he said, "do not give me your answer now. I know that you are a good person, and loyal to the Holy Father. But I am sure you are also loyal to Signor Donato. That is fine; that is admirable. But of course it is sometimes possible for loyalties to become divided. You have experienced that with your family and the Church. I am asking you to consider being disloyal to Signor Donato. I would not do this to you if it weren't terribly important, but you must feel free to turn me down. Think about it. I'll give you my private number. Call me in the morning."
Miranda nodded mutely. She looked to be on the verge of tears; her hand was cold. Fieri squeezed it sympathetically, then reached into his pocket and took out a pen to write down his phone number on a card. "Tomorrow," he whispered. And then he left the café once again.
She was his, he was certain. He only hoped she would have the courage to do the job right.
* * *
Miranda Cromwell walked home to her tiny flat rather than wait for the bus or take another cab. She didn't like to be out after dark in Rome, but she needed to clear her head and think. She could still feel the pressure of Monsignor Fieri's hand on hers. The Holy Father needed her—to be a spy! It was all too much. She had no idea how to find what the Monsignor was looking for—how could he think she was capable of such a thing? All she wanted was to do her job and to worship God.
But how could she refuse? Fieri was so persuasive, so understanding. The Holy Father...
When she got home, she stopped thinking, and instead knelt before the crucifix and prayed. Jesus was her refuge and her strength, Jesus was how she persevered when her family derided her, when her coworkers ignored her, when she felt as if she had lost her way in this complex and terrifying world. Jesus would tell her what to do.
He looked down at her with infinite understanding, infinite love, and gave her the answer she sought. It was all so easy when you put yourself in His hands.
Miranda slept peacefully despite the ever-present traffic noise outside her window, and in the morning she called Fieri before she left for work. "I will do it," she said.
"God bless you, Miranda," he replied in his smooth, soothing voice. "You have my undying gratitude."
But that was the simple part. Now she had to figure out how to give the monsignor what he wanted. And for that, she knew, she would need Jesus more than she had ever needed him.
Miranda left her apartment and caught the bus for the Vatican. Proud and frightened, she was now a spy for the pope.
Chapter 14
Father Hurley concelebrated Edzo's funeral Mass with the pastor of Mrs. McAllister's parish. The church was not very crowded; McAllister's friends might go to the wake, but they had better things to do than attend church on a weekday. The red-faced monsignor was more than happy to let Hurley give the homily, and Hurley tried to stay away from controversy and talk about the good that was in everyone, drawing on his childhood memories of Edzo. He had a few people sniffling when he was done. The graveside service was cold and dreary; it struck him that this was the first time as a priest that he had buried a friend. Afterwards he stopped back at Mrs. McAllister's house for the usual get-together. Edzo's kid brother was already drinking; Mrs. McAllister looked bereft. Hurley gave what comfort he could.
Ann grabbed him as he was about to leave. "Here's the key to his apartment," she said, pressing it into his hand. "The police tell me they'll be done by the end of the day today. I guess they're convinced there's nothing in it related to the murder. They don't want me to throw anything out just yet, but we—you—can go in."
Hurley stared glumly at the key. "No new developments?" he asked. "No arrests pending?"
Ann shook her head. "They're still saying it's a street crime, but I still don't believe it. Please see if you can find something out, Joe."
"I really don't feel comfortable doing this, Ann."
"Do it for Edzo, Joe. Please."
Joe thought of touch football games on crisp autumn afternoons, and relented. "I'll give it a shot," he replied. "But I'm no private eye."
"How do you know until you've tried?" Ann said with a smile. She gave him a kiss on the cheek as he left.
* * *
After work the next night Hurley took the trolley from Brighton into the Back Bay. He couldn't believe he was really going to investigate Edzo's murder, but here he was, key in hand, walking along Commonwealth Avenue and looking for McAllister's address.
It turned out to be an old brownstone, and McAllister's apartment was on the top floor. Heart pounding, Hurley unlocked the door and stepped inside. It was so quiet he could hear the hum of the refrigerator. He felt spooked almost immediately. This a dead man's apartment, was all he could think. What am I doing here? But he pressed forward. He walked through the place, looking into each room. There was a large kitchen, the sink filled with dirty dishes. In Edzo's bedroom the bed was unmade, the dresser littered with loose change and toiletries, the night table covered by a stack of magazines. Another bedroom, evidently the guest room, was neat and colorless. Hurley ended up back in the spacious living room, with expensive furniture and bookshelves, a large flat-screen TV and fancy-looking sound system and, in the corner, a messy rolltop desk with an iMac on it.
Hurley sat in a recliner and gazed at the books on the shelves. History, politics, current events, a few thrillers. Nothing very interesting. He was getting no sen
se of the man, except that he wasn't very neat. He realized that, as much as he wanted to learn about McAllister's murder, he also wanted to understand McAllister himself. What made him tick? What had changed him from the Edzo Hurley had grown up with?
Well, to work. He stood up and started trying to find something out.
It was frustrating and tedious. A private eye might know what to look for, how to make sense of the stuff that made up Edzo's life, but Hurley had no clue. He pawed through the papers on the desk, then glanced through the files of correspondence in one of the drawers. Nothing jumped out at him. Edzo seemed to have had a running battle with his MasterCard bank; did that make them suspects?
Hurley turned on the computer and started looking through Edzo's email. There was nothing of interest; most of Edzo's email probably came to him at work. No letters from irate listeners threatening him with bodily harm; no dunning notices from creditors. Then he started exploring directories and subdirectories, not expecting to find anything.
But then he noticed an intriguing folder labeled "inappropriate". He opened it, thinking he might find diatribes too extreme even for Edzo's program. Instead he saw dozens of image files. He looked at a couple, and that was enough.
They were gay porn.
So Edzo had a secret.
Hurley closed the images and leaned back, trying to make sense of it. Could this be, well, research of some sort? Hardly seemed likely. But Edzo—gay? The high school kid with the secret stash of Penthouses? The right-wing talk-show host who railed against gay rights and the liberal agenda? It didn't seem possible, but Hurley had seen enough of human nature in his priesthood to realize that anything was possible.
Could it have had something to do with his murder? Maybe he was having some sort of homosexual encounter in that alley, and... Did that sort of thing go on nowadays? Hurley didn't want to think about it. But he supposed he had to, if he was supposed to be a private eye.
He continued his search with a purpose now. But still he came up empty. No letters blackmailing him over his sexual orientation. No angry exchanges with discarded lovers. And no further insights into Edzo's character—no diary that bared his soul, no secret essays, no manuscript of an autobiography.
What, then?
His gaze fell on something totally out of place in McAllister's apartment—a holy card. Hurley didn't see holy cards much of anywhere nowadays except at wakes. He picked it up and looked at it. Saint Francis. On the back was the famous prayer, defaced with a name and phone number. It didn't look like McAllister's handwriting. Bandini—was that the name? What kind of person scrawled his phone number on the back of a holy card? On an impulse Hurley dialed the number.
It rang twice, then he got a message saying the number was out of service. Did he have it wrong—was it really a phone number? Probably didn't matter. He tossed the card back down onto the desk. But dialing the number had made him realize what his next step had to be. A real private eye wouldn't just poke around the victim's apartment; he'd grill the guy's friends and acquaintances.
Hurley dragged McAllister's Rolodex toward him. It was a big one, he saw with dismay. Did he really want to call everyone—or anyone—that McAllister knew? And what was he going to say to them: Hi, I'm a priest investigating Ed McAllister's murder...? It was one thing to secretly poke around in Edzo's apartment, quite another to start having to explain himself to a bunch of strangers. And what if someone took offense and complained to Larry Doyle or, God forbid, His Eminence? He was certain they would not be pleased.
And yet . .
He decided to call Ann. He began by telling her his one bit of news; she was surprised but not shaken by it. "Gay, huh?" she said. "I wouldn't've guessed, but I suppose it makes some kind of sense. He rebelled against everything—might as well rebel against being straight, too. Don't tell Mom, though. It would probably kill her."
"I wonder if it was enough to kill him," Hurley remarked. "You know, an encounter gone wrong..."
"If that's how he died, maybe I'd just as soon not know."
"Well, do you want me to keep investigating? The next step is to start contacting people who knew him, and I'm not sure I have it in me."
"Of course you do, Joe. You have vast reserves of charm. People are dying to tell you everything they know. Seriously, if you're willing, I still think it's important. There's something else going on—maybe it's this gay thing, maybe it's not. And the police aren't getting anywhere. Could you please keep trying?"
Ann was only saying what he thought himself. "Okay," he said grudgingly. "But can I take his Rolodex with me? It's easier to make the calls from my own apartment, if that doesn't get us into trouble."
"Sure thing. If there's a problem, the police can yell at me. And Joe—thanks again."
"My pleasure," Hurley replied, not exactly truthfully.
* * *
Hi, is this Dan Abbott? Dan, my name is Father Joe Hurley. You don't know me, but I was an old friend of Ed McAllister's. His sister Ann has asked me to contact some of Ed's acquaintances, to see if they can shed some light on his death. Do you have a few minutes to talk?
Hurley worked on his opening until it satisfied him, and the next night he began his calls.
If the person he called was even willing to talk, those first few minutes were spent explaining in more detail just who Hurley was and why he thought McAllister's murder might not have been what it seemed. And then, typically, the person would have little or nothing to offer. Hurley talked to Edzo's accountant and lawyer and agent, as well as fellow talk-show hosts, a right-wing nut who started ranting about a conspiracy of Jews and freemasons, a woman who hadn't heard from McAllister since college, a black minister who had no idea why he was in McAllister's Rolodex but sincerely hoped he was burning in hell... And all this was before he reached the D's. Those who seemed to know him best agreed with Ann's assessment—he was a performer, not a true believer. He couldn't have cared less about the causes he espoused, but he was remarkably good at finding and exploiting the hot buttons that would keep his audience listening. They could well believe he might have angered someone so much that he'd get himself murdered, but they had no one in particular to point to as a suspect.
At the end of the night he gave up, talked out and discouraged, with plenty of people left to call. After another day at work he wanted more than anything to give it up, to have a beer and watch TV instead, but he finally decided to give it one more try.
And this time he found out a little more about Edzo. On one particular Rolodex card there was just a first name, along with a phone number: Gary. And Gary laughed when Hurley gave his canned introduction. "A priest? My God, what a scream. I was sure the police would come snooping around eventually, but this is too, too funny."
"Why is that?" Hurley asked stiffly.
"Well, I hate to break this to you, Father, but did you know that your good friend Ed McAllister was of the homosexual persuasion?"
"I've gotten some inkling of that," Hurley replied. "Were you, um—"
"Was I his lover? Sure, whenever he decided I was worth the money. When his urges overcame all that Catholic guilt you priests are so good at laying on people. Ed wasn't a happy homo, I'll tell you that. He was a good-looking guy, and he could have done all right for himself socially, if you know what I mean—despite his fascist opinions. But that's not what he wanted. Do it fast, keep the lights out, put the money on the dresser and pretend it never happened. That was old Ed."
"Do you think his homosexuality could have had something to do with his murder?" Hurley asked.
"I've actually given that a lot of thought," Gary said. "I know what you have in mind: Some cute teenage boy lures him into a back alley, and then murders him for his trouble. Sorry, it doesn't make any sense. Ed was paranoid. He was paranoid about diseases, he was paranoid about being outed—no way he would've had anonymous sex with some stranger in an alley. He liked me because I'm a live-and-let-live kind of guy. I didn't mind his hypocrisy. If that's the way he wan
ted to play it, that was fine with me."
"What about blackmail, though? If he was so worried about being outed—"
"He tries to get out of paying the blackmail, and ends up getting murdered? Well, in the first place, it wouldn't happen in an alley, would it? And in the second place, I knew Ed, for all he tried to keep things just about the sex. Underneath all his bluster, he was a pussycat. If someone had tried to blackmail him, he would've just paid the money. Or maybe he would've just said—go ahead, out me. He wasn't thrilled with his life, you know? How could he be? Sometimes I think he just needed a push to change completely."
A push, Hurley thought. What kind of push? "Well thanks, Gary," he said. "Sorry to bother you."
"No bother," Gary said, "It may be hard to believe, but I liked the guy. Honestly, I didn't even want his money after a while, but he insisted. It was his way of keeping his distance. You know what I mean? He was a very unhappy man."
"I think you're right about that," Hurley said.
What an awful life, Hurley thought after he hung up. Edzo was putting on an act every single waking moment. No wonder he sat in a bar every night drinking himself into oblivion. No wonder he dreamed of throwing a football around once again with his childhood friend. Those may have been the last moments of pure joy he had experienced.
But had the causes of his unhappiness gotten him murdered?
He picked up the phone and called the next person in the Rolodex.
At 9:30, weary and depressed, he decided to make one final call. A woman answered. "Hi, could I speak to Dave Leahy, please?" he said.
"May I ask who's calling?"
"My name is Hurley. Father Joe Hurley."
"And what is this in regard to?" There seemed to be a sudden chill in her voice. Some people got defensive when talking to a priest. Did they think he was going to assign them a penance?
He gave his standard explanation.
"Well, he's not home right now," the woman responded, her voice still cold. "Give me your number and I'll have him call you back."
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