Morelli heard a sound. She froze, listening intently. The apartment door was slowly opening. She raised her gun, heart pounding. There was no sound for a moment. Then she heard the creak of a floorboard, then another. Whoever it was was entering the apartment slowly, carefully—just as she had.
She was out of sight in the bedroom. Should she stay where she was, or move to the doorway? No matter what, stay low; she recalled that much from her training. Give them as small a target as possible.
Go to the door, she decided. The person's back could be turned, facing the kitchen, in which case he'd be helpless. If he was facing her, she still had surprise on her side.
She took two quick steps and crouched in the doorway. There was a man no more than ten feet away from her, in the living room. "Freeze! Police!" she called out.
The man dropped the briefcase he was carrying and raised his hands. "Please don't shoot," he said in a conversational tone. "I'm not armed."
His accent was British. He wasn't Bandini. "Turn around," she said.
The man turned. He was tall, with gray hair and gray eyes and an aquiline nose. He was wearing an elegant gray sports jacket over a black turtleneck. He had the trace of a smile on his face, as if he found the situation amusing. He looked like an aristocrat, someone from an ad for an expensive brandy.
"Who are you?" she demanded.
"My name is George Prouse, Officer. I'm a journalist. I'm looking for a man named Bandini. It appears that I've missed him. The door was open, after a fashion, so I took the liberty of entering."
"Let's see some identification."
He gestured with his right arm, his hands still raised. "My wallet's in my back pocket there. Shall I get it for you?"
"Go ahead. Slide it over to me."
Prouse did as he was told, moving slowly and gracefully, as if he did this sort of thing all the time. Morelli picked up the wallet and glanced through it. A British driver's license with Prouse's photo on it, some credit cards, some sort of press card, again with a photo. A business card identified him as the American correspondent for the European Observer. She'd heard of the highbrow magazine; he looked like the kind of guy who'd work for them. She closed the wallet and slid it back to him. "Okay," she said. "Want to explain why you're looking for Bandini?"
Prouse gazed at her with the same small smile on his face, his gray eyes taking her in. She felt as if she were being judged, her measure was being taken. "Well," he said finally, "it's something of a long story, which I'll be happy to tell you. But the short version is that I think he may be a murderer. I was assuming that nobody knew about this, but perhaps you will prove me wrong."
She stood up, but kept her gun pointed at Prouse. "Why do you think he's a murderer?" she asked.
"Could we perhaps sit down for the interrogation?" he responded. "Actually, I'd like to suggest that we go to McDonald's and have a chat—you wouldn't consider that, would you? I'm very fond of McDonald's, and I noticed one just around the corner."
"Right here will be fine," she said. He had a self-confidence that bordered on smugness—maybe a bit like Joe Hurley. He was attractive to women, and he knew it. He sat on the couch, and she sat on a rickety ladder-back chair opposite him. "Bandini," she prompted.
He nodded. "If you read my business card," he began, "you know that I write for the European Observer. It's a publication that likes to look down its nose at America. This is something of a peculiar situation for me, because I quite like the States. But anyway, they print my stuff and pay my bills, so I can't complain. Also, they aren't especially interested in real news, so I don't have to live in Washington and attend endless press conferences. I find people and events that catch my fancy, and I write about them.
"One person who interested me was Ed McAllister."
He paused. Even as he talked, he seemed to continue appraising her. But the appraisal didn't seem hostile—perhaps it was merely a journalist's curiosity. "Go on," she said.
"A strange man, McAllister," he continued. "I interviewed him shortly before his murder. He struck me as one part political crusader, one part charlatan. I'm not sure if he himself knew what he really believed in. But I do know that he was terribly frightened."
"Why?" Morelli asked.
"Because he had stumbled onto something very important, and for once in his life he had decided not to be the charlatan, the showman. He wanted to do the right thing, even if it meant risking his life."
"What did McAllister stumble on?" she asked, trying not to betray her excitement.
The appraising stare again. "I think you know," Prouse replied. "But no matter. It was a plot to assassinate the pope, concocted by a radical anti-abortion group called the Protectors of the Unborn. It was to be carried out by a man who—this week, at any rate—calls himself Albert Bandini."
"And how did McAllister stumble on it?"
"That's not entirely clear to me. I believe Bandini told him—why, I have no idea."
"Why did McAllister tell you?"
Prouse smiled. "I expect it's because I'm such a good interviewer. Or, less egotistically, perhaps I was just lucky—or unlucky—enough to interview him on a day when this weighed heavily on his mind."
"After the murder, why didn't you go to the police?"
He continued smiling. "Here I am talking to you, am I not? But seriously, it's a vexing question of journalistic ethics. I appear to have hit upon the scoop of a lifetime, so shouldn't I follow it up on my own and get the complete story? In the meantime, although your presence suggests otherwise, my impression was that the authorities had their own ideas about McAllister's murder. And Dave Leahy's."
"Dave Leahy?" she prompted.
"Surely you've made that connection," he replied. "Leahy was a Protector, like Bandini. I don't know for sure what happened, but doesn't it seem likely that Bandini was involved somehow? Maybe Leahy disagreed with the plan and had to be eliminated, like McAllister."
That brought up the central puzzle of the case. "Why would a supposedly Catholic group like the Protectors of the Unborn want to kill the pope?" she asked.
Prouse raised an eyebrow. Morelli had the feeling she'd disappointed him. "This is hardly rocket science," he said. "I'm told the Vatican is awash in rumors that Pope John is intent on relaxing the Church's positions on various sexual issues, possibly even including abortion. Who knows what's fact and what's fiction, but the very existence of the rumors gives a group like the Protectors a motive. Nothing could hurt their cause more than to have the Church waver on abortion. They're already committed to violence. Why not get rid of the new pope before he can do any damage, and hope the next conclave will give them a better result?"
Prouse's explanation made sense to Morelli. She wondered why she hadn't thought of it. For that matter, why hadn't Joe Hurley? Didn't he know about these rumors? The two of them weren't exactly the Dynamic Duo, she thought glumly.
And then she wondered, just for a moment: What if the pope did change the rules about celibacy? But she pushed the thought aside. The way the Church worked, it wouldn't happen until they were all dead and buried. "So, have you gotten anywhere in tracking down Bandini?" she asked.
"Not very far, I'm afraid. Of course, I do know his real name."
His eyebrow went up again as she was evidently unable to mask her surprise. "I have no proof, of course," he continued quickly, as if trying to cover up a faux pas. "But it stands to reason. Bandini is Robert Coulter."
Again she thought: Of course. And why hadn't she at least considered this? She recalled the sense of familiarity she had experienced when she saw Bandini's face. Surely she had seen some version of that face in the newspaper, on wanted posters. She was starting to feel like a failure, when compared with this smooth, perceptive man. "What makes you think Bandini is Coulter?" she asked. "Besides the fact that they're both members of the Protectors of the Unborn?"
"Well, who is the only one of these terrorists to have actually committed an assassination? Coulter. So who would they t
urn to for the biggest assassination of them all? One would assume Coulter. I do have some small amount of corroboration for the theory. I showed a photograph of Coulter to Bandini's former landlady in Jamaica Plain. Now of course Coulter has presumably managed to stay at large by changing his appearance as well as his name, but the landlady thought it quite possible that the man in the photograph was her tenant."
"I see." He had been to Betsy's—he had covered the same trail as she had, and come up with more. "You wouldn't happen to have that photograph, would you?"
"I would," Prouse replied. He opened his slim leather briefcase and removed a manila envelope. From it he extracted a photograph, which he passed to Morelli. "It's the standard snap that appears in the papers and on America's Most Wanted," he explained. "Taken before he got involved with the Protectors, back when he was a long-distance trucker who evidently spent too much time on the road developing some very twisted ideas."
Morelli looked at the photo, which showed a smiling young man with short hair and serious eyes, wearing a t-shirt and standing in front of a big semi. She tried to superimpose the photo on the face she had glimpsed behind the wheel of the car as it bore down on her. Wispy mustache, wild eyes. How much had she really seen, and how much had she imagined? Could have been the same person—probably was the same person—but she couldn't have sworn to it.
She silently returned the photo to Prouse.
"I wonder," he said, "if our relationship has reached a state where you could tell me your name."
She could feel herself blushing. She still had a gun pointed in his direction. "Morelli," she said. "Lieutenant Morelli."
"Thank you. Lieutenant Morelli, might I ask: Do you have evidence to prove or disprove my theory? Off the record, if you like."
"Not really," she replied. Her first impulse was to tell him nothing. Finally she decided it couldn't hurt—and it might possibly help—to offer at least some of her story. She explained why she was investigating the case in her spare time and told about her brief and almost fatal encounter with Bandini. She left out any mention of Joe Hurley.
After she had concluded, Prouse looked bemused. "So, we have a dangerous assassin possibly gunning for the pope when he comes to Boston, and the authorities aren't interested, except for one local police officer, who's tracking him nights and weekends. If I were the pope, I would not be encouraged about my safety on this trip."
"That could change once we tell the other security people what you know," Morelli pointed out. "If McAllister told you about—"
Prouse raised a hand. "You can tell your superiors what you like," he said, "but please don't involve me. I'm highly allergic to dealing with people like that. I might even have a memory lapse when facing them."
Morelli was chagrined and puzzled. "But why? You still have your scoop. We're trying to protect the pope."
"Please, call me George," he said pleasantly. But his eyes had gone cold, and she had a feeling he wasn't going to be talked into anything he didn't want to do. "I'm sure your superiors are wonderful folk indeed," he went on. "Kind to animals and small children, and so on. But I'm a journalist because I like being an outsider. I like you because you seem to be an outsider too, if I may say so. If I get involved with the authorities, they'll want to see my interview notes and the like, and I will have to refuse as a matter of principle, and then they'll drag me in front of a judge, and I'll probably end up in jail. And that won't do any of us any good."
"But they won't do that," Morelli insisted. "All they need to know is what you've already told me."
"And, as I said, I'm happy to let you tell them."
"But if I can't produce you, I—" His expression, if anything, had become even colder. "Okay," she said grudgingly. "It might come to that, though," she warned. "This is serious business. We have a job to do."
Prouse shrugged. He seemed unfazed by the threat. "I'm at your mercy," he said.
"What are you going to do, then?" she asked. "Do you have any ideas about tracking down Bandini, or Coulter, or whatever his real name is?"
"I don't at the moment," he admitted. "I was rather proud of myself for getting this far—I'm hardly an investigative reporter."
"You don't have any more information you're holding back? I'm 'the authorities,' just like the people you don't want to deal with."
He smiled—a dazzling grin that seemed surprisingly boyish. "Lieutenant Morelli, you are as far from the category of 'people I don't want to deal with' as you could possibly get. I will tell you anything you want to know, but there is truly nothing that I'm hiding about this matter."
Was he flirting with her? She was taken aback. But she supposed it was to be expected from this sort of guy. He took out one of his business cards and handed it to her. "Here is how you can get in touch with me," he said. "And now, I wonder if I'm free to go?"
She took the card and put her gun away, feeling awkward, as if Prouse had taken control of the situation. "Sure, I guess so," she said. "I really wish you'd reconsider about talking to the police."
He shrugged and stood up. "Do you like baseball, Lieutenant Morelli?" he asked.
She was taken aback yet again. Where had that come from? "Baseball?" she repeated.
"A very wise man once said that, to understand America, you must first understand baseball. Would you like to accompany me to a Red Sox game?"
He was asking her out? "No, I don't think so," she said. "I understand America well enough, thank you."
He smiled and inclined his head, as if yielding graciously to her superior insights about what was appropriate. "Might I have a phone number where I can reach you in case you change your mind?"
"I'll give you my work number, but only so we can exchange information about the case."
She wrote it down and handed it to him. "Thank you so much," he said, still smiling. "And it has been a delight meeting you, Lieutenant Morelli, in spite of the circumstances."
And with that he walked casually out of Bandini's barren apartment.
Morelli stayed behind, trying to sort through what had just happened. She wasn't especially bothered by Prouse asking her out. In fact, she supposed she felt a little flattered. Maybe there would be life after Joe Hurley after all. The more important thing was the support he provided for the case against Bandini. If Bandini was really Robert Coulter, that would get everyone's attention, whether or not they believed he was trying to assassinate the pope.
Fingerprints would help. The fingerprinting crew had finally taken the prints from Bandini's apartment in Jamaica Plain, but now they were taking their time analyzing them, and she didn't have the clout to make the task a higher priority. But if they could match the prints up with Coulter's, Ryan and Lafferty would have to pay attention to her.
Still, the conversation with Prouse left her uneasy. If his theory about Coulter was wrong, and he wouldn't talk to anyone but her, had she really made any progress? She'd be no closer to finding Bandini, or to convincing anyone he needed to be found. And why did Prouse flatly refuse to talk to the police? She didn't really buy the journalistic ethics argument. Was there something else going on?
If there was, she couldn't figure it out. She left the apartment finally, realizing that, more than anything, she wanted to talk to Joe Hurley.
So much for good intentions. She put it off till later that night. She lay on the bed where they had made love and tried to focus on business as she dialed his number. When he answered she closed her eyes, half-relieved and half-frightened, and she plunged ahead. "Hi Joe, it's me, and I respect your decision and I don't want to complicate your life, but I just wanted to tell you some stuff I found out today. Just to, you know, keep you updated."
"Kathleen," he said, "this is really not a—"
"Okay, I know, nothing about us, just about the case. I think it could be an important development. You don't have to say a word, just listen, okay?"
There was a long pause, and she steeled herself to hear the click of the receiver as he hung up, but i
nstead he said, "All right," in as neutral a tone as she could imagine.
"All right," she repeated. "Here goes." And she told him about her meeting with Prouse, what he knew about McAllister and Bandini, his theories about Robert Coulter and the pope. "So," she concluded, "what do you think? Have you heard any of these rumors about Pope John changing the Church's position on abortion?"
"No, I haven't," he replied flatly. "Actually, I find the idea ludicrous. I could see some flexibility on marginal issues in a new papacy, but abortion is fundamental. A change there would be unimaginable."
Morelli was disappointed, but she tried something else. "Well, do you think Bandini could be Coulter?"
"I really don't know. It just doesn't make any sense to me. Who is this Prouse guy, anyway? Do you have any proof he's who he says he is?"
"I went through his wallet when I found him at the apartment," she responded defensively. "He's got plenty of IDs. And afterward I bought a copy of the magazine he works for—his name is on the masthead."
"How did he know where Bandini lived?" Hurley asked. "You had to track down that phone number—an ordinary reporter can't do that, can he?"
"I don't know how he found out, Joe," Morelli admitted, feeling a little confused. "But I don't see—"
"And he'll talk to you, but not to any of the other security people. What's that all about?"
Was this jealousy? If so, it was pretty annoying—even if she agreed with him. "He says it's an ethical thing," she explained. "He's afraid his notes will get subpoenaed and he'll have to stand up to the authorities."
"So he'll let a murderer stay on the loose because he has some scruples about turning over interview notes with the guy who was murdered? Give me a break."
Morelli gave up. "Okay, well, I just thought I'd bring you up to date," she said quickly.
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