Hurley did so, not expecting much. So he wasn't disappointed when later, as he was going to bed, Leahy returned his call to say that he couldn't help. "I'm sorry, Father," he said, "I really knew Mr. McAllister only slightly. He spoke at a couple of pro-life events I helped organize a few years ago. We weren't friends."
"Would you happen to know if he had any enemies—anyone who might want to kill him?"
"I know the pro-abortion people hated him, for good reason," Leahy said. "Maybe you should be looking at them for suspects."
"That doesn't really narrow things down very much," Hurley pointed out.
"Well, I'm afraid that's the best I can do for you, Father. But good luck. Ed McAllister's murderer needs to be brought to justice. Ed was a great man."
Decidedly a minority opinion, Hurley thought. "Thanks for your time," he said automatically, then hung up and went to bed, pretty sure he'd had all he could take of this investigation.
He was fast asleep when his phone rang yet again. His first groggy thought was: somebody has died. Then he remembered that he'd left Saint Jerome's, and he wasn't on call anymore. So what was going on? He grabbed at the receiver and mumbled a hello.
"Father Hurley?" came a faint voice. "Is that you?"
"Yeah. Who is this?"
"It's—it's Janet Leahy. We talked earlier?"
Janet Leahy? "We did?"
"I'm Dave Leahy's wife. You called him about the murder of that McAllister person? I just answered the phone, and—anyway, I'm sorry to be calling back so late, Father, but I have some information I think you should know about."
"Really?" Hurley said, waking up. "What information?"
"I don't think I can tell you on the phone. Dave would—look, could we meet somewhere?"
"Well, sure. But can't you just—"
"No, really. He might wake up and, well, I don't know what he'd do. Could we maybe have lunch tomorrow?"
"Okay." Hurley had no idea where she lived, but if she was so eager to meet him... "Can you make it to Dolan's, in Brighton Center?"
"I'll be there at noon. Thank you, Father."
"Thank you, Mrs. Leahy."
Hurley hung up the phone and stared into the darkness. That had come out of the blue. What did Janet Leahy know about Ed McAllister's murder? Had he really stumbled onto something finally, after all his phone calls? This was probably how it worked for real private eyes—you just keep plugging away, and eventually you get a break. He slept fitfully for the rest of the night, then spent the next morning in a daze of anticipation, wondering just what this break was going to be.
Dolan's was a quiet Irish pub, decorated with photos of politicians, mostly Kennedys, interspersed with an occasional literary figure; it featured huge sandwiches and more kinds of beer than Hurley could comprehend. He arrived ten minutes early and sat in a booth facing the door, trying to imagine what Janet Leahy would look like.
He recognized her the moment she entered the pub. Not her, but her type—the long-suffering Irish wife. The kind who asks her sympathetic parish priest for help in dealing with her wretched life, the drunken husband or loutish son or promiscuous daughter; the kind who finds solace in her faith because she is unable to find any in her life. No wonder she had called in the middle of the night, and had been afraid to say anything even then. She knew that any attempt to make her life better would almost inevitably make it far, far worse.
"Father Hurley?" she asked.
He stood up. "Mrs. Leahy. Thank you for meeting me."
She sat opposite him. She was gray-haired and thin, with a face that might once have been pretty but now was a map of care. He noticed that the cuffs on her raincoat were frayed, her leather pocketbook was well-worn. Life had not been kind to her. They exchanged small talk while ordering. She nervously adjusted her silverware as they chatted.
"So," Hurley said finally, "I'm obviously very interested in whatever information you have about Ed McAllister."
Mrs. Leahy's face twisted with contempt at the mention of the name. "First you should understand," she began, "that abortion has ruined my life."
Hurley was startled, but dimly grasped the connection. "Your husband is an activist," he said.
Mrs. Leahy laughed grimly. "My husband cares more about dead babies than he does about his own family," she stated, with something approaching ferocity. "If he spent as much time and energy fighting for us as he has for them, maybe we could afford to own our own home, or send our kids to college, or even take a vacation. Maybe I wouldn't have had to work two jobs while he was spending six months in jail on a matter of principle. Principle! Shouldn't providing for your children be a matter of principle? Do you know what he does now? He works nights at one of those self-service gas stations, selling Coke and cigarettes. He spends all his time and energy on 'the cause,' as he calls it, so he has nothing left for making a living. A college degree, and he's working the graveyard shift at a Mobil station."
"It's hard being married to someone with a cause," Hurley murmured sympathetically when she paused for breath. "And Ed McAllister—?"
"McAllister egged him on. Got him all excited about the evil of abortion and all that nonsense. Excuse me if I'm offending you, Father, but there's plenty of evil in the world. I don't know where it's written that Dave Leahy needs to fight it all by himself. And that's the thing, you see. It's not as if Ed McAllister went to jail for his principles, if he really had any. He just got other people stirred up, but never took any risks himself."
She certainly had Edzo's number, Hurley thought. Their food arrived, and Janet Leahy fell silent for a moment as she began eating her sandwich. He found himself wishing he had ordered one of those exotic beers the place offered. This woman sounded as if she could be a suspect in Edzo's murder. "You've certainly had a tough time of it, Mrs. Leahy," he said, "but I wonder if you could make the connection for me. How does this relate to Ed McAllister's murder?"
She dabbed her lips with her napkin and continued. "He called Dave up a couple of weeks ago. Out of the blue, really—it's not as if they were buddies or anything. But I know when he does call it's trouble—he gets Dave all stirred up. So I happened to answer the phone, and I stayed on the line after Dave picked up, just to find out what was going on, because Dave never tells me anything. McAllister was his usual abusive self. He told Dave to get this other man to stop doing something—he said to put a leash on him, or something to that effect."
"What was the other man's name?" Hurley asked.
"I'm not sure, but it was Italian. Bandini, I think."
Bandini. The name on the holy card. "And what was Bandini doing that McAllister wanted him to stop?"
Mrs. Leahy shook her head. "He didn't say. I'd never heard the name before, and Dave told McAllister he didn't know the man, but I don't think McAllister believed him. I don't believe him either, because after Dave hung up he seemed very agitated, and he started making phone calls—I don't know to who."
"Do you know why he was agitated?"
"No, I couldn't figure it out, and of course Dave didn't say anything. And that's part of what concerns me, Father. The past couple of years—since he got out of jail—everything has gotten so secret. Before, it was all about getting publicity for the cause. Now it's as if publicity is a bad thing. I know he's still involved, but I just don't know how."
"Do you think he's doing something illegal?" Hurley asked. "I mean, really illegal, not just picketing clinics or whatever."
"I think—I think it wouldn't surprise me. I think Dave would do anything to stop abortions. And I wouldn't be surprised if McAllister put him up to it."
"But you don't know who Bandini is, or why McAllister would call your husband about him?"
"I just have no idea. But when I heard that McAllister had been murdered, I wondered if there could be a connection. He sounded as if he might be afraid of the man."
Hurley considered. "But why would McAllister be telling your husband to put Bandini on a leash? He and your husband were on the s
ame side. It sounds as if he thought your husband was in charge of Bandini somehow and Bandini was out to get him."
"Yes. I don't know what to make of that. I hope Dave didn't have anything to do with this murder, but... if he won't tell me anything, how can I be sure?"
"Are you afraid of your husband, Mrs. Leahy?"
She paused, her worn face lost in thought. "I am," she said finally. "Of course I am. That's why I couldn't talk to you last night. If this has something to do with abortion, I know that he wouldn't let me stand in the way of what he thought was right. I considered not calling you back—I'm not sorry McAllister's dead, as I'm sure you can tell. I guess I'm doing what I think is right, too."
Hurley tried to puzzle it through, but couldn't. How was McAllister connected to Bandini, and how was Bandini connected to Dave Leahy? And how could Hurley hope to track down this mysterious Bandini, with no address in McAllister's files and his number out of service?
He asked Mrs. Leahy to call him if she came up with anything else. She promised to help, but she wasn't optimistic. "This is all I know, Father," she said. "And I'm afraid of what Dave will do if he finds out that I'm interfering with him. He's a good man, but..." Her voice trailed off, and her eyes filled with tears.
He's a good man, but he's ruined your life, Hurley thought. "Thank you, Mrs. Leahy. You've been a tremendous help."
He wasn't entirely sure of that, but she had given him something. Back at work, he searched through phone books and called directory assistance. Nobody named Bandini was listed in the greater Boston area. After work he returned to McAllister's apartment and searched it one more time, this time looking specifically for information about Bandini. Nothing except the scribbled name and number on the holy card. At a dead end, he went back to Edzo's Rolodex and resumed calling the names he found there. Now, in addition to asking them about McAllister's death, he asked them if they knew someone named Bandini. Still nothing.
Feeling his frustration level starting to rise again, he phoned Ann to tell her what he'd come up with. "It's not much," he admitted. "I could tell the police about Dave Leahy, but I'm not sure they'd do anything with the information. And I wouldn't want his wife getting into trouble with him. If I could figure out some way to track down this Bandini I would, but I'm not enough of a private eye to have any good ideas."
"I'm afraid I don't have any ideas either," Ann said. "But please don't give up on this, Joe. We owe it to Edzo."
He promised, but what was there left for him to do? Dave Leahy wouldn't talk to him, and no one else seemed to know anything. In the meantime, he was getting busier and busier as preparations for the papal visit kicked into high gear. His efforts gradually faded, until all that was left was the nagging suspicion he had started with, fueled by the perplexing information Mrs. Leahy had provided him, now overlaid with the guilty sense that somehow he should have done more.
And then he met Kathleen Morelli.
Chapter 15
As Monsignor Doyle's assistant, Joe Hurley found himself tagging along to a multitude of planning meetings for the papal visit. This was part of being groomed for bigger things, he understood—meeting the Church's movers and shakers, learning how things really worked in a major archdiocese. Sometimes it felt as though Doyle was showing him off, which Hurley had to admit was rather flattering. And he had to admit he enjoyed being at the center of an event of this magnitude. This was a whole lot bigger than the Christmas pageant at Saint Jerome's.
The security meeting, held at the archdiocesan offices, was an example of what was at stake. Arrayed around the table were representatives from Vatican security, the Secret Service, the FBI, the Massachusetts State Police, and the Boston Police Department, as well as Doyle and himself from the Cardinal's staff. And everyone was focused on just one thing: keeping Pope John safe from the moment he arrived in Boston till the moment he left.
These were people who knew their jobs, Hurley noticed right away, people who were used to protecting dignitaries, to arranging motorcades and securing buildings and analyzing potential threats. They went through every aspect of the pope's itinerary and assessed the risk each presented. Arrival at Logan Airport, open-air Mass at the ancient ballpark, meeting with community leaders in Roxbury, meeting with Catholic youth groups at Holy Cross Cathedral, overnight stay at the cardinal's residence... Nothing seemed out of the ordinary to them, nothing seemed impossible to handle, but nothing could be overlooked, nothing could be left to chance. Areas of responsibility were demarcated, assignments were handed out, channels of communication were established. Hurley was impressed.
The Secret Service representative, a bald, lean agent named Clausman, turned the discussion to known threats to the pope's safety. "At this point we haven't received information about any credible threats against the pope personally," he reported. "With the FBI, we've prepared a list, however, of known anti-Catholic and anti-Black groups who might want to harm the pope. We consider the likelihood of action by any of them to be very small, but we'll be tracking the movements of their members during the pope's stay, in case anything suspicious arises."
He passed around a sheet listing the targeted groups. Other people at the meeting weighed in with threats they were aware of, or at least thought conceivable. Most focused on white supremacist organizations who might be outraged by the idea of a black pope. There was discussion of the racial situation in Boston, but no one had any specific threats they thought were worth special attention.
It was during this discussion that Hurley suddenly understood the mistake he had been making in his investigation. He had assumed that McAllister had been complaining to Dave Leahy about this mysterious Bandini because Bandini was threatening him for some reason—his politics or his sexual preference or whatever. After all, Edzo was the one who ended up murdered. But what if he was complaining because he knew Bandini was out to get the pope, and he wanted him stopped? Don't let him come, Edzo had said in his voice message. Don't let the pope come, because Bandini is planning to murder him. And maybe Bandini found out that McAllister was trying to stop him, and killed him to shut him up. All right. But why—
He realized that he didn't have time to think it all through. The meeting was winding down. If he wanted to bring this to the attention of the right people, here they were. Was this really a good idea? He had no clue. But he found himself speaking.
"Um, excuse me," he said, and he felt a surge of panic as every pair of eyes in the room turned toward him. "I have one potential threat—well, it may not be real, but I thought I should bring it up." People waited as he desperately tried to figure out how to make his case. "As most of you know, a local talk-show host named Ed McAllister was murdered here recently. I have reason to believe that his murder may have something to do with Pope John's visit."
Hurley could feel Monsignor Doyle stiffen next to him. Great, start by pissing off your boss.
"Tell us, Father," the Secret Service agent said.
So Hurley gave it a shot, describing McAllister's phone message and then his subsequent investigation, the discovery of Edzo's call to Dave Leahy and the warning about Bandini. But the evidence sounded impossibly thin and unpersuasive as he laid it out. The links were all still in his mind—in McAllister's tone of voice, in Janet Leahy's worn face—and not in anything that could be verified or corroborated.
"What's the status of the investigation of McAllister's murder?" Clausman asked, looking at the representatives from the Boston Police.
There were two, a white-haired captain named Ryan, and the only woman in the room, young and as silent as Hurley had been till this point. Maybe, like him, she was here to learn. He hadn't caught her name. She was black-haired and intense-looking, with startling green eyes. "No arrests yet," Ryan said, sounding a trifle annoyed, "but I have every confidence that our Homicide team knows how to do its job. If they'd found anything linking his murder to the pope's visit, they'd certainly let me know. And if Father Hurley has information about the murder, I certainly wish h
e'd seen fit to tell us before this."
Swell, Hurley thought. He'd ticked off the Boston police, too.
The representative from the Vatican, a fat man named Agnello whose forehead was glistening with sweat, tried to conciliate. "We must, of course, take all potential threats seriously. Father Hurley, we will add this man Bandini to our list. And if anything more is discovered about him, you must please bring it to our attention."
Hurley nodded. "Certainly I will." But there were no offers to help him find out more about Bandini, no expressions of gratitude for his tip. The meeting concluded soon afterward, and Hurley followed Monsignor Doyle back to his office for the expected tongue-lashing. Doyle merely shook his head sorrowfully, like a teacher whose star pupil has let him down. "What were you thinking, Joe?" he asked. "This is crazy. A representative of the Archdiocese of Boston can't be second-guessing a murder investigation by the Boston Police Department. Especially a sensitive case like this one."
"I understand, Larry, but McAllister's sister asked me to—"
"McAllister's sister should have more brains than to involve you," Doyle said. "If you're not busy enough, Joe, there's plenty more work I can pile on your plate. Now run along and sin no more."
Hurley walked back to his own office, feeling depressed and confused. It was the first time Doyle had criticized him. The criticism had been mild, but still it stung and made him defensive. Did Doyle care about the pope's safety or not? Glumly, Hurley sat down at his desk and tried to figure out just how badly he had screwed up.
* * *
Kathleen Morelli found a Dunkin' Donuts in Brighton Center; it was good to know that you were never far from a Dunkin' Donuts. As she was waiting in line to get her coffee she decided to return to archdiocesan headquarters. Captain Ryan wouldn't approve, she knew, but he was wrong. The priest's story had been pretty incoherent, but he wasn't stupid, and if he was worried, the police should be worried as well. She got into her Jeep and retraced her route, sipping her coffee as she drove.
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