"Thanks, Kathleen. I appreciate it."
But his voice still sounded flat and distant, and when Morelli hung up, she felt as if she had made a fool of herself. It was over; she should just let it go. She should just... do her job.
But first she had more tears to weep in her lonely bed.
Chapter 26
Joe Hurley stewed.
When Kathleen called he had been reading his breviary, a daily spiritual exercise that he had been letting slide lately—a sure sign, one of his teachers in the seminary once said, of a priest in trouble. Her voice on the phone sounded so familiar—and his reaction to it was more familiar still. But he forced himself to be nothing more than civil, and the subject of her call had certainly helped. Who was this guy Prouse? And where did he get his crazy idea about abortion? Was Kathleen going off the rails now that they had split up? It seemed possible. He certainly wasn't doing so well himself.
He spent a restless night, and in the morning he decided it was time to spend a few dollars and call Rome. He looked up the number of his friend Rick Kelliher and dialed it before he could have any second thoughts. Kelliher answered on the second ring, and was delighted to hear from him. "I've been meaning to answer your email, but I haven't gotten around to it," Kelliher explained. "Actually, it spooked me a little. Are we experiencing problems with our celibacy?"
"We are," Hurley admitted. He and Kelliher had attended North American College together, and had had enough late-night bull sessions talking about their vocations that they were bonded for life. "There's a woman, and I have strayed," he said. "It's over—at least for now—but I'm not entirely sure I won't stray again."
"Did you tell your boss?"
"Well, yeah."
"There's your first mistake. Maybe your second, I guess. It's none of his business. Now you're a marked man. And, of course, he envies you. Doyle's stuck with his wet dreams while you got the real thing."
"Uh, Rick, are you by yourself?"
"Sure, it's siesta time; only us weird Americans around here now. Look, Joe, the only advice I have is, don't let this make you think you're less of a priest. Shit happens. You're not committing a crime, you're not groping altar boys or anything like that. You do your best, you work your way through the problem, then you keep on going. You're not thinking of leaving, are you? Because you were born to be a priest. You were the best of the lot at North American, and we were all pretty fabulous."
"I don't know," Hurley said. "I'm pretty confused right now."
"Confusion is okay. Lust is okay too, if you want my opinion. We don't forgive despair, however. So don't give up."
Hurley began to feel a little better, although Kelliher's point of view was hardly a model of orthodoxy. Rick was always more cheerful than he had a right to be; Hurley wondered how he was fitting in at the Vatican, where cheerfulness didn't strike him as a particularly prized trait. "How are you doing, Rick?" he asked. "It doesn't sound like they've turned you into a faceless bureaucrat yet."
"No, but you have to give them credit for trying. I'd kill to get back to a parish like the one you had, but it doesn't seem like that'll happen anytime soon. I must be too valuable. I'm actually making friends in high places—I've started playing tennis with one of the pope's secretaries. That's the first step toward becoming a cardinal, I'm told. Monsignor by the name of Fieri. More lives than a cat—used to work for the old guy, then somehow managed to keep his job in the new administration. Tricky bastard—no power, but he puts topspin on everything and gets you running back and forth while he just stands at the baseline grinning."
"I assume you get all the gossip you can from him."
"I do my best. But you don't become the Pope's secretary by being a blabbermouth."
"Too bad. I need to know—not for personal reasons—if there's something up with abortion."
"Come on, you can level with me. She isn't pregnant, is she?"
"Lord, no. Well, not that I know of. This is—something else."
"Okay, so you mean, are we softening our position? Not that I've heard—that would be pretty wild, wouldn't it? There are rumors about contraception, ordaining married priests, that sort of thing, but I think that's mainly fear on the part of the conservatives and wish-fulfillment on the part of the liberals. Everyone's trying to scope out the new pope. And mostly I think he just wants to get out of town. I can't blame him. So come on and 'fess up, Joe. Why do you want to know?"
Hurley couldn't see any harm in telling his friend, so he did, giving an abbreviated summary of his brief career as a private investigator.
Kelliher gave a low whistle. "Hot stuff," he said. "Hopping into bed with a policewoman, tracking down a murderer—beats saying the six a.m. Mass for three old ladies on a rainy Tuesday morning."
"Gimme a break, Rick. I've got to figure this stuff out."
"Well, I agree with you. The abortion motive doesn't make sense. If anyone's out to murder the pope, it probably has to do with corruption."
"What do you mean?"
"It's something Fieri mentioned in passing—maybe the heat was getting to him on the court and he let it slip. Anyway, Pope John's got him looking into possible corruption in some Vatican agency. That's the kind of thing that can get you killed, if you ask me. The new guy starts cracking down, and he makes enemies. Remember John Paul the First? Wasn't that the rumor about his death—murdered by insiders? What was it, a month after his election?"
"But he died in his bed in the papal apartments, didn't he?" Hurley recalled. "If someone in the Vatican wants to kill the pope, why come to America to do it?"
"I dunno, you're the private eye. Maybe to divert suspicion or something."
"Then how do the Protectors of the Unborn fit in?"
"Jesus Christ, Joe, how should I know? I think you should go on a retreat or something. Clear your synapses."
Hurley laughed. "Larry Doyle told me to lay off the case and lay off women, more or less in that order."
"I suppose if I were your boss I'd tell you the same thing. But then, what if the pope winds up dead?"
"Yeah, there's that. Let me know if you hear anything else, Rick."
"Will do. Hang in there, Joe."
Hurley hung up and hurried off to work, mulling over his conversation with Kelliher. He felt as confused as ever.
* * *
Morelli went to work, and she found herself even more annoyed with Joe Hurley. The coldness in his tone was what she found most irritating. No, what was most irritating was him questioning her about Prouse—as if, like Ryan and Lafferty and the rest, he didn't believe she knew how to do her job. As if he was such a crack investigator himself. Damn him. She should've stuck with the assistant DA who liked to talk about his rape cases. At least he wasn't weird enough to take a vow of chastity.
In the middle of her mental rant George Prouse called. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything important," he said.
"Do you have any more information about Bandini?" she replied, ignoring his question.
"I'm afraid not. Actually, I just called to renew my offer to take you to a Red Sox game. Please tell me to hang up if you're still not interested or feel it's inappropriate."
Morelli stared off into space. Damn Hurley. She didn't need him in her life. "Okay," she said finally. "I'll go."
"How delightful!" Prouse gushed. "We'll have a lovely time!" And he worked out the logistics before she had a chance to change her mind.
Well, she thought afterwards, I have a date. Never had a date with Joe Hurley—just a murder investigation. She started trying to rationalize what she had done. Prouse seemed like a charming, witty sort of fellow. Why shouldn't she go out with him? And maybe if they were in a pleasant setting—maybe if they developed some sort of relationship—she could get him to reconsider his refusal to talk to anyone but her about McAllister and Bandini.
But then she thought: I hate baseball. And she thought: This'll show Joe Hurley.
What exactly would it show him, though, except how thor
oughly confused she had become?
* * *
Monsignor Doyle stopped by mid-morning to see how Hurley was doing.
"Okay, I guess," he said. "I've broken it off with Lieutenant Morelli, for starters."
Doyle nodded his approval. "But you think about her all the time, wonder if you're doing the right thing?"
"Sure."
"You've taken the first step, Joe. That's what's most important. It won't be easy, but I know you can do it."
Hurley wondered again just how much experience Doyle had in these things. Was he just repeating pastoral truisms, or did he know just how hard it really was? It didn't matter, he supposed. This was something he had to work through himself, and any encouragement was welcome. "You know," he said, "I'm also finding it difficult to stop thinking about this assassination threat to the pope."
Doyle's gaze hardened perceptibly, and Hurley sensed that he was pushing his luck. "You've really got to drop that, Joe," Doyle said. "I think this whole thing qualifies as a near occasion of sin."
"I haven't done anything, Larry, honest. But if there's something happening here, we really have to get on it. This is the pope's life we're talking about."
"But I still haven't heard a credible explanation of why this—whatever his name is—would want to kill the pope."
True. But Hurley thought about Rick Kelliher's theory. "Let me run this one past you, Larry," he said. "Just hypothesizing—not investigating. You worked in the Vatican. Do you think it's possible that someone there might be out to murder Pope John? Say the pope's cracking down on corruption. Someone's making a pile of money and doesn't want his operation shut down, so he decides to have the new pope killed. Like the rumors about John Paul the First, except he does it on the trip to America to divert suspicion and make people think there's a different angle—a racial thing, or something to do with all the critical comments he's made about America."
Doyle's gaze stayed hard, as if he were trying to stare into Hurley's soul, and then he burst out laughing. "That's great, Joe," he said. "Mafioso cardinals gunning for the pope. It's so... so Renaissance. I'd like to believe we've left those days behind."
"But John Paul—"
"Died in his sleep of natural causes. And rumors started because the Vatican, in its bumbling way, covered up some of the details. And you know why there was a cover-up? Because a nun found the body when she was bringing him breakfast, and some nitwit in the Press Office thought it might be a cause of scandal if people knew that a nun saw the pope in his PJs. That's the Vatican in a nutshell, Joe. People there are petty and spiteful and shortsighted and have a totally warped view of the world. But assassins? No. They don't think big enough for that."
Hurley couldn't argue with Doyle. He had only been to the Vatican as an outsider; Doyle had been part of the place. But still, it only took one person—or maybe a conspiracy of two or three—to plot the pope's murder. And they would be very different from the typical bureaucrats who spent their lives there grinding out the Church's business. Of course, he had less evidence on them than he had on the anti-abortion people. To tell the truth, he didn't have much evidence at all. Bad at private investigation, bad at love. Maybe he should stick to what he was good at. "Okay, Larry," he said. "I'm sorry to be such a nuisance. All I can say is that my heart's in the right place."
"I'm sure it is, Joe. Have I ever mentioned that you could have a glittering career ahead of you in the Church?"
"Pope of America," Hurley murmured, recalling Doyle's phrase.
"Yes, indeed. So please don't screw it up. We all need you. Now let's get back to work."
Hurley got back to work. But by the end of the day he had talked himself into one more call to Kathleen. She was, of course, surprised to hear from him. He got right to the point. "I don't know where this guy—what's his name?"
"George Prouse," she replied frostily.
"I don't know where he gets his information about the Vatican," Hurley went on, "but my source who works there says there's nothing going on. Like I said, no one would dream of changing the Church's position on abortion. But my friend does have another theory—take it for what it's worth." And he summarized Kelliher's "crackdown on corruption" theory, without mentioning Monsignor Doyle's response.
She didn't laugh, like Doyle, but she didn't get excited about it either. She didn't seem to want to talk about it. "Thanks, Joe," was all she said. "I'll keep it in mind."
"Okay, well, great. So, how are you doing?"
"Great." Then, after a pause: "I'm going to a Red Sox game with George Prouse tomorrow night."
"Oh." She had said it flatly, almost reluctantly, he thought. If she were really great, she wouldn't have felt the need to tell him. Or, she would have been more excited. At first he felt a surge of anger: Just who was this guy Prouse? But the anger gave way to sympathy for her, and the awful position he had put her in. He said nothing about either emotion, though; he didn't think it would be received well. "So, do you like baseball?" he forced himself to say.
"No. Do you?"
"It's the stupidest game ever invented. Three hours of watching grown men spit and scratch their crotches. Give me a good football game any day. So why are you going to a game if you don't like it?"
"Because I was asked," she replied. And how could he argue with that? "We have box seats along the first base line. He tells me that's good."
"Well, if he says so."
There was a pause. "Joe," she said finally, "I've got to live my life."
"Of course you do," he replied, full of phony good cheer. "Of course you do. Have a great time, Kathleen."
"Thanks, Joe."
Baseball, Hurley thought grimly after he hung up. She must really like the guy to go to a baseball game with him.
He stayed up late thinking about George Prouse. Never met the man, but there was something about him Hurley didn't like. Aren't we acting a bit clichéd? he thought. But he kept on pondering Prouse and his story.
It just didn't make sense to Hurley that Prouse wouldn't go to the police after McAllister's murder. Did a scoop mean that much to him? But he had a scoop anyway; why did he need a bigger one by tracking down Bandini? Maybe Hurley just didn't understand journalists.
It occurred to him that he might at least be able to corroborate Prouse's story about interviewing McAllister—he had never gotten around to returning McAllister's Rolodex and appointment book to his apartment, which Ann had probably cleaned out by now. Hurley found the book and looked through the last few weeks of it, when the interview supposedly took place. There was no entry listed for George Prouse.
Didn't necessarily prove anything; Hurley had no idea how accurate the appointment book was. The interview could have been a spur-of-the-moment chat, or McAllister could have simply failed to include it in his schedule. Who knew?
And why would Prouse make up the story of the interview? Hurley supposed it was plausible that McAllister would tell him about Bandini and the pope—after all, he apparently wanted to tell his old boyhood chum Joe Hurley as well. He was reaching out for understanding and support. Why not reach out to this stranger?
Because it wasn't like Ed McAllister, at least not the Edzo that Joe Hurley knew. He would trust Joe, even if they hadn't spoken in ten years. But he wouldn't trust a foreign reporter he had never met before.
And there were the other questions. How had Prouse tracked Bandini to Jamaica Plain and then to Roxbury? Where had he come up with this rumor that the Vatican was changing its stand on abortion? Hurley supposed there might be reasonable answers, but he wasn't feeling entirely reasonable. Not jealous, he told himself. Concerned. Kathleen had told him about her bad choices in men—not the most tactful topic she could have raised with him, but it had felt right at the time, part of the utter openness between them as they ate their fried chicken. What if Prouse was another example of her faulty judgment?
So what was this about: her or Bandini?
The next day didn't clarify his thinking. He went to wo
rk and brooded, and finally he went onto the Internet and looked up the European Observer's web site. It wasn't very extensive, and had nothing on it by or about George Prouse. Their headquarters were in Paris. Well, he thought, why not? He was used to calling Europe. He picked up the phone and dialed their number, charging it to his credit card to keep the archdiocesan bean counters from having a fit. A woman answered in French, and Hurley took a deep breath and summoned up his own shaky knowledge of the language. "Excuse me," he said, "but I'd like some information about your American correspondent—George Prouse?"
The person on the other end of the line took a moment to make sense of what he had said, and finally replied in English, "Yes, George Prouse. Would you like to be connected?"
"Pardon me?"
"Monsieur Prouse is here in the office this week. Do you wish to speak with him?"
Hurley let this information sink in for a moment. Had he heard right? Had she understood him? "George Prouse, American correspondent," he repeated yet again.
"Yes," she responded, showing a hint of French impatience with stupid foreigners. "Monsieur Prouse. Do you wish to speak with him?"
Could there conceivably be more than one George Prouse? Could the woman be mistaken? "Sure," he said. "Thank you."
A few moments later a deep-voiced man with a Southern accent came on the line. "How can I help you?" he asked.
Hurley quickly explained the situation.
"I can assure you I'm the only George Prouse who works for this magazine," the man responded. "But why someone would want to impersonate me, I have no idea."
Hurley had no idea, either. After they had discussed the matter fruitlessly for a few moments, Hurley hung up and considered. Monsieur Prouse was in Paris. So who exactly was taking Kathleen to a ball game in Boston? He called her. No answer at her office; he left a message. No answer at home or on her cell phone. He left more messages. And then he stared out the window, desperately trying to figure out what to do next.
* * *
Morelli left work early to go to the ballgame.
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