Pontiff (A Thriller)

by Richard Bowker

Miranda grasped her hand. "Perhaps we can help each other, Lucia," she murmured.

  Lucia shook her head sadly. "I am long past help, I'm afraid."

  "Please don't say that. Together we can do much more than we can on our own, don't you think?"

  "Perhaps, but you must start by taking my advice. Your life hangs in the balance, Miranda. You must understand that, and do what I say. You must try again with your monsignor. You must keep trying until you succeed."

  "I shall, Lucia. I shall really try. And thank you."

  Lucia gazed at the bright-eyed young woman and tried not to feel optimistic. Promises were so easy to make. How many had she herself made? And every one broken. Well, she had done her best, and now it was up to Miranda.

  * * *

  They talked a while longer, and then headed back to the bank. She is not so old a woman, Miranda thought, gazing at her friend. She was quite attractive, really. Why did she think she was stuck here? Why did she work for a man who took advantage of her every day of her life? Miranda knew that she was not a very worldly person, but she felt tendrils of understanding groping towards her. We are not so different, she thought. But I have Jesus, and I believe you have lost Him, somewhere along the way.

  Back at the bank they parted, and Miranda returned to her cubicle. Signor Montini glared at her as she walked past him, but said nothing. He was a little man with a bristly mustache whose face beaded with sweat when he became upset, which was quite often. With yet another tendril of understanding she realized that, not only was he afraid of Lucia Gaspari, he was afraid of her; he was afraid of everyone. He would give her no trouble.

  She sat at her desk and stared at the little religious card of Jesus pointing to His Sacred Heart. She kept it next to her computer and gazed at it often as she worked. He would show her the way; He was already showing her the way...

  ... because she understood now exactly what needed to be done. It would take a little time, but it would work. It had to work; Jesus would not let it fail. Her new friend Lucia might suffer, but in the end she would have to be grateful, for Miranda was going to save her, at the same time she performed the task that Monsignor Fieri had set out for her.

  Miranda felt suddenly strong and sure of herself. She gazed at Jesus, and He seemed to smile back at her with encouragement. With Me, anything is possible, He seemed to say, and she believed Him with all her heart.

  Chapter 21

  "Hey Joe, it's Kathleen."

  Hurley was sitting in his office when she called. You can't order your pulse not to race, he had learned. Their last conversation had been perfectly business-like, however; why shouldn't this one be as well? "Hi," he said. "What's up?"

  "I have an address for Bandini's phone number. It's in Jamaica Plain."

  "Are you going to check it out?" he asked.

  "Yeah. I'm driving over there after work."

  "Great. Well, let me know what you find out."

  "Sure," she said. "Sure thing."

  There was a long pause. What was he supposed to say now? "So, uh, how are the security preparations coming?" he said. God, that must have sounded stupid.

  "Pretty well," Kathleen replied. "I'm actually learning a lot, although Captain Ryan still isn't convinced I'm not an idiot."

  "Well, obviously he has some learning to do, too." There, that wasn't bad—a mild little compliment.

  "Thanks." Another pause, which Kathleen finally filled. "What's happening with that little girl you told me about? What's her name—Erin?"

  "That's right," he said. "Well, nothing's happening, unfortunately. I made a pitch to my boss that we should let her meet the pope, but he didn't buy it. I don't think he's happy with my, uh, independent spirit."

  "Why don't you go over his head, talk to the cardinal?"

  "Because the cardinal would feel exactly the same way, only more so. He's the one who doesn't want her to meet the pope. And he certainly doesn't want underlings questioning orders."

  "Then go straight to the pope," she suggested. "He looks like the kind of guy who'd listen."

  "You don't just call up the pope," Hurley replied. "Anyway, I've taken a vow of obedience. A priest isn't supposed to defy his bishop."

  The word "vow" seemed to chill the air. "When do vows become more important than doing what's right?" Kathleen asked.

  "The idea behind the vow of obedience is to ensure that people who call themselves priests are actually carrying out the will of the Church," he replied, way too stiffly. This conversation wasn't going in a very pleasant direction.

  "The players don't get to call the plays, the coach does," Kathleen responded—a trifle sarcastically, he thought.

  "Well, you take orders," he pointed out. "You're not Dirty Harry, you're not supposed to take the law into your own hands. It's no different for me."

  "The difference is that I can quit anytime I want to, if I don't like what my bosses are doing."

  I can quit too, Hurley wanted to say. But he didn't. He didn't feel like arguing with her, certainly not about his vows. "That is a difference," he agreed meekly, and they fell into yet another silence.

  "So, I'll give you a call after I go to JP, shall I?" Kathleen asked, her voice soft and uncertain.

  "I'd appreciate it, Kathleen," he said, just as uncertainly.

  They hung up. I'd appreciate it, Kathleen. What was the matter with him?

  Why hadn't he asked to go along with her? he wondered. Well, it was a good thing he hadn't—wasn't it? That would have been the stupidest thing he could have said. There had been a reason for him to accompany her to talk to Dave Leahy; there was no reason at all for him to go with her to Jamaica Plain. She was a professional; she wouldn't want him hanging around.

  This was so juvenile it was unbearable. Jogging, working, praying; nothing was doing much good. Nothing stopped him from thinking about her green eyes, the wisps of hair on the back of her neck, the way her forehead crinkled when she was upset. He wasn't a virgin; his reactions might be juvenile, but this really wasn't the kind of crush he'd had on Ann McAllister twenty years ago.

  What was it, then?

  Damn it, he didn't want to know. Hurley got up to go home. Maybe a cold shower would help.

  He wasn't optimistic.

  * * *

  Morelli stared glumly at the activity swirling around her in police headquarters. The fact of the matter was, despite what she'd told Hurley, she wasn't learning a heck of a lot on this assignment. Ryan wasn't interested in teaching her, and maybe she wasn't all that interested in learning. The Bandini investigation was much more compelling, but of course Ryan didn't want to hear anything about it. As usual, she felt as if she were an outsider, unwanted, suspect. She thought about going to talk to the commissioner, but she had played that card once too often. He would try to help, but the result would be that people would be even more suspicious and unforgiving.

  But that wasn't the main reason why she was glum. She had somehow hoped for more from her conversation with Joe Hurley. Why hadn't he asked to come along with her tonight? Of course, that was stupid. Even if he had asked, what would that have proved? And anyway, she'd have had to turn him down. Maybe it had made sense to bring him along to interview Dave Leahy, but not when she was actually tracking down a possible killer.

  Still, there was an emptiness inside her. Morelli felt like a teenager who hadn't been asked to the prom. She was in love, and she found herself obsessing about his feelings towards her. She was sure he felt something—but maybe she wasn't so sure. How many times had they actually seen each other? How many words had they actually exchanged? Maybe she was the kind who could fall in love at a moment's notice, but he was mature, in control of his life and his feelings.

  And even if he did feel something, what did it matter, if he was going to bottle it up inside on orders from his coach?

  Enough. She finished up her boring paperwork, and then headed off to Jamaica Plain, determined to accomplish something.

  The address turned out to be a
variety store called "Betsy's," situated amid three-deckers and vacant lots near Centre Street. Morelli worried that there had been a mistake, but she parked her Jeep and went inside.

  A stout woman with dyed red hair was standing behind the counter, arms folded, eyeing a couple of Hispanic kids who were reading comic books. "This ain't a library," she announced to the kids in an Irish accent; they ignored her. She noticed Morelli with clear pleasure—a police officer was her idea of a good customer. "What can I do for you, Officer?" she asked.

  "Are you Betsy?" Morelli said.

  The woman nodded. "Betsy O'Connor, owner and proprietor, at least until I give up the fight and move to the Cape."

  "Betsy, my name is Kathleen Morelli, and I'm looking for a man named Bandini. We have telephone records that indicate he lived at this address. Would you happen to know anything about him?"

  "Well, of course I do. I hope he isn't in any sort of trouble."

  "I'm not sure. I just wanted to talk to him."

  "Don't think I can help you there. Bandini moved out about a month ago, and I don't know where he is right now."

  Morelli glanced around. "Moved out of where?" she asked.

  "Oh, I have a little apartment upstairs. Used to stay in it myself, back when I opened the store. Now I can afford something a little better, provided the damn kids don't steal everything I own."

  "Can you tell me what you know about Bandini?" Morelli asked.

  "Not much, to tell you the truth. A friend of mine asked me to take him in, and that's what I did. He kept to himself, paid the rent, not that I was asking much, and after about a month he was gone."

  "Was your friend's name Dave Leahy?"

  "It was, may he rest in peace. This wouldn't be about his murder, would it? God help us, I've been robbed more than once, but they never had a gun. I think I'd faint if I saw one. They say crime is dropping, but you can't prove it by me."

  Finally, Morelli thought—proof that there was a link between Bandini and Leahy. "Can you describe Bandini?" she asked Betsy. "Anything you can remember about him would be helpful."

  The Hispanic kids left without buying anything. Betsy watched them suspiciously until they were out the door, then directed her attention to Morelli again. "Let's see, average height, short brown hair, a mustache—kind of a puny one. He didn't look all that Italian, if you ask me. Soft-spoken, very polite. His car was green—a Honda, I think. He never got any mail, which I thought was kind of strange. No visitors either, at least while I was around. And no job, as far as I could tell."

  "Did he ever do or say anything out of the ordinary?"

  Betsy considered. "He never did or said much of anything—which I guess isn't all that ordinary, do you think?"

  "Did he say why he was leaving? Did he mention where he was going?"

  Betsy shook her head. "First I even knew about it, he was already gone, and the new landlord was calling me up, looking for a reference. I didn't have much to say, that's for sure."

  "I wonder if you could remember the name of the landlord," Morelli said. "That would certainly help me track down Bandini."

  Betsy looked impressed by this clever bit of police work. She scrunched her face into an expression of deep concentration. "Yes, well, it was a black man—I could tell from the voice, you know. Bandini was moving to Roxbury, although why anyone would want to live there I have no idea."

  Narrows it down, Morelli thought glumly. "Any idea about his name?" she persisted.

  "Well, it was an odd one—didn't seem to fit. Let me see now, had to do with playing the violin, or some such. Oh, I know: Stringfellow. Henry—no, Harvey. Harvey Stringfellow." Betsy looked pleased with herself for dredging the name up from the recesses of her memory. "I should have thought to mention that when Dave Leahy came looking for him."

  Yet another nugget of information uncovered. "When was this?" Morelli asked Betsy.

  "Oh, just a few days ago. He wasn't happy when he found out that Bandini had gone, I can tell you that. It was the last time I set eyes on Dave, God rest his soul."

  "Strange that Bandini would leave without telling his friend, don't you think?"

  "I do. The whole thing is strange, looking back on it. Now, why exactly was it you wanted to talk to him?"

  A customer interrupted the conversation, saving Morelli the need to respond to Betsy's question. Afterward, Betsy let her go upstairs to take a look in the apartment, which she hadn't re-rented. It was small and dark, and had an unwashed smell. Bandini didn't take enough showers. Was this where McAllister's—and maybe Dave Leahy's—murderer had lived? Was this what a murderer smelled like? Morelli had never been in Homicide, and her experience with murderers was decidedly limited. She found the idea that a murderer had inhabited this apartment unsettling.

  There was little beyond the odor to link the apartment to a particular human being, however. Nothing left on the walls or in the drawers. Wastebasket empty, floor clean. The tiny refrigerator contained a carton of milk that Morelli definitely didn't want to smell.

  There would be fingerprints here, she knew. DNA. Could she get the fingerprinting team here without Ryan finding out and going ballistic? She'd have to deal with that problem tomorrow. Bandini was out there, and if she could find him now, she would. It might be dangerous, of course. But she wasn't going to let him slip away.

  Back downstairs Morelli thanked Betsy, who was glaring at another pack of teenagers, then returned to her car. She took out her cell phone, got a listing for Harvey Stringfellow, and dialed the number. "Good evening, Mr. Stringfellow," she said. "This is Lieutenant Kathleen Morelli of the Boston Police Department. There's no reason for concern, but I understand that you're renting an apartment to a man named Bandini?"

  "How do I know you're really from the police?" Stringfellow demanded.

  "Well, I'll be happy to come over and show you my badge, sir, if that'll help. But I am in a little bit of a hurry here."

  "What do you want to talk to Bandini for? I checked his references and all."

  "I just need to ask him a few questions as part of an investigation," Morelli said. "Sir, you aren't in any trouble whatsoever. I just need his address."

  "Well, hold on a minute. I don't keep all this in my head, you know." The line went silent. Morelli got out a pen and a pad of paper. "Okay," Stringfellow said. "Twelve Grinnell Street, Apartment 2. You know how to get there?"

  "Directions would be very helpful, sir."

  Stringfellow grudgingly provided them.

  "Thank you, sir," Morelli said when he was finished. "You've been a big help."

  She decided to call Joe Hurley and tell him what she had found out. "I hit pay dirt and got his new address, Joe. It's on Grinnell Street in Roxbury. I'm going over there now."

  "By yourself?" he said. "That doesn't sound like such a great idea, Kathleen."

  "I'll be fine."

  "Shouldn't you have, like, backup?" he insisted.

  "I suppose. But who's going to give me backup for something like this?" she replied. "If I asked Lafferty for help, he'd just tell me to take a hike, or report me to Captain Ryan. And meanwhile Bandini could disappear again. I've got to move on this."

  "Roxbury isn't the safest neighborhood in the city."

  "I'm a police officer, Joe," she snapped. "I've got a gun, and I know how to use it. I'll be fine."

  "I didn't mean—anyway, I'm sure you're right. Good luck, Kathleen."

  "Thanks."

  Morelli hung up, irritated at the way Hurley had questioned her plan. Did he think she was incompetent, the way everyone else did? Well, she supposed he had a point. She wasn't exactly following standard procedure here, even if she knew this was what she had to do. All right, then. She started her car and headed for Roxbury, feeling better about Joe Hurley.

  On her way there she found a Dunkin' Donuts, got a coffee, and tried to puzzle things through. Bandini had left Betsy's apartment quickly and without notice—and without telling Dave Leahy—shortly after McAllister's murd
er. Then Leahy came looking for him, shortly before his own murder. Bandini had clearly gone off on his own, and this had worried Leahy. So what was he up to? And did it have anything to do with the pope?

  Despite Stringfellow's directions, Morelli had some difficulty finding Bandini's street. It was short and narrow, lined with empty, boarded-up shells of once attractive brick buildings; cars with flat tires and broken windshields sat abandoned by the curb, and on the sidewalks trash spilled out of plastic bags. A dead-eyed young man with dreadlocks sat on a stoop, clutching a bottle in a brown paper bag and muttering to himself. He stared at her without interest as she parked. In the distance a siren wailed.

  Morelli spotted Bandini's apartment building, a brownstone across the street and a few doors down. A couple of lights were on inside. She paused before getting out of the car. What was she supposed to do if he was at home? Always have a plan. That's what they drilled into you. Was she going to arrest him? What for? Bring him in for questioning? What if he wouldn't come? Maybe she should just stake the place out, follow him when he left, find out what he was up to. But a white woman in a brand-new Jeep was not going to be inconspicuous on this street. And what did he look like? Betsy's description hadn't been especially helpful, after all.

  Well, she couldn't wait. If he was there, she would try to talk to him. If he didn't want to talk, at least he'd know the police were on his trail. That in itself might be enough to keep him away from the pope. Morelli got out of her car and crossed the street, her heart starting to pound. She went up the front steps of the building and tried the door; it was unlocked. Inside, the hallway smelled of urine and fried onions. The mailboxes all stood open. A dim, naked light bulb hung from the ceiling, casting a sickly yellow glow on the graffiti-covered walls. Apartment 2.

  She went through the inner door. From somewhere above she heard a baby cry. For a brief moment she tried to imagine raising a child in a place like this. There was only one apartment on the first floor. She climbed the stairs to the second floor and stopped in front of a door with a 2 on it.

  Morelli put her ear to it and listened for a moment; she couldn't hear anything. She took out her gun, rapped sharply on the door, and waited. No response. She knocked again. Nothing. She tried the knob; the door was locked.