“This is the shoe on the other foot, isn’t it?”
“How so?”
“I want to resolve this by myself. It hasn’t been that long since I was upset because Peter kept things from me, things he felt would make him look bad in my eyes.”
“Funny how that works. There’s another thing you can do.”
“Oh?”
“Keep reminding yourself she’s chasing Peter because her husband humiliated her. And if you can smile and be gracious, it will drive her nuts.”
Father Mark waved Peter into his office at Our Blessed Lady, standing up behind his desk to shake Peter’s hand.
“Thank you for seeing me, Father.”
“Happy to do whatever I can to help. I’m fascinated by the idea that an anonymous donation thirty years ago might be connected with a murder case. I had my secretary dig through our records for a year before and after the date you gave me. She found nothing over a hundred thousand dollars from an anonymous donor, or anything under the name Andrew Heenan or Tony Piraino.”
“How about under any name?”
“I can’t give you names of donors, but I will tell you there was nothing for that time period that wasn’t from a known source. I imagine you can get a court order, but you would be wasting your time.”
Another dead end.
“Cash donations of that size don’t occur, even back then.”
“What about this Father Dismas who signed the paperwork?”
“The archdiocese has no record of a Father Dismas attached to any parish in the Midwest. Your Father Dismas doesn’t exist.”
“Troubling.”
“Quite. I’m sure the church would love to know how such a significant donation was derailed.”
Peter sighed. “I’m not sure it was. Andrew Heenan named Father Dismas in the instructions he gave Tony Piraino, to be contacted through a post office box. If there is no Father Dismas, perhaps the plan was to dispose of the money without leaving a paper trail, and it was never intended for the church.”
“That would be fitting.”
“How so?”
“Dismas was one of the thieves crucified with Christ. You said Mr. Heenan was a magician. This would be a bit of misdirection?”
“In light of what you’ve said, that’s how it appears.”
Father Mark steepled long fingers and considered. “He picked Our Blessed Lady out of a hat, slapped a clerical collar on someone or other, and it had nothing to do with us.”
“Very likely.”
“It’s just as well I didn’t discuss your visit with anyone. There are those who would feel we were robbed of a substantial donation and want to pursue the matter.”
“If someone diverted that money, they could announce it on network television and I couldn’t arrest them. Statute of limitations expired years ago.”
“Then I’ll forget this conversation until you have some reason to remind me of it.”
“That would be best. I wonder if there was a reason he chose your church. Is there anyone around who was here back then?”
“Father Nicholas is the only one left. He’s ninety-four and sharp as a tack.” Father Mark looked at his watch. “He likes to sit in the garden. If you’ll follow me?”
They found Father Nicholas sitting on a bench, his bearded face turned sunward. Cataracts clouded the blue eyes, but they remained bright with intelligence.
“The name isn’t familiar. A magician during the eighties?” Father Nicholas pursed his lips, thinking. “That would have been … Ronnie Reagan was president, there was the Challenger tragedy … that awful Madonna woman.”
His face lit up. “Little man, performed for the children during our festivals. You should have seen him, Father Mark. He did the most wonderful tricks, cards and coins and scarves. Some of our members didn’t think magic was appropriate for a church event—some nonsense about devil worship—but the children loved him. Anything that brings a sense of joy and wonder to children is good to my mind. We could use more of it these days. Why are you inquiring about him?”
“He went missing back then. We recently discovered his remains.”
The clouded eyes closed as Father Nicholas' face crumpled in on itself. “I’m very sorry to hear that.”
“What do you remember about him?”
Father Nicholas stroked his beard. “Not much. He wasn’t a church member. Can’t recall that I ever saw him at Mass. Betty must have booked him for the festivals.”
“Betty?”
“Betty Zabinski. Church secretary for more years than I care to count. Kept us together. I was sorry when she passed.”
“Was there a festival committee? Someone who might have known him?”
Nicholas shook his head, slowly. “Betty handled that. We had a parade of volunteers. They’d last a few years and someone else would take their place. I rarely needed to pay attention.”
Father Mark said, “I’ll have my secretary hunt through our files. We may still have paperwork tucked away somewhere.”
“Thank you,” Peter said. “That would be helpful.”
Nicholas turned his milky eyes on Peter. “Detective?”
“Yes, Father?”
“Great evil was done to a man who took joy in making children happy. I will pray you find the man who killed him.”
Chewy, Gypsy, and Viola stared expectantly at Lia as she stirred the simmering pot of chicken and vegetables. Gypsy still couldn’t climb steps, but girlfriend could now drool like a champ. Comes from having Olympic-class mentors.
Chewy ate anything, but Viola was picky. And Gypsy was too young for spicy stuff, even if Peter said they’d cut her stomach open one day and find a license plate and a set of partially digested tires. Lia checked the clock. Ten minutes to go on the rice. Time enough to sauté carrots for the fur kids.
The front door closed as she tossed sliced carrots in her egg skillet. Approaching footfalls on the wood floor, then rapid squeaks, like the death throes of a small animal.
Gypsy jolted, then raced down the hall. More squeaks. Peter entered the kitchen with Gypsy in his arms, ignoring his ear scratches as she chewed away on a bleating, balled-up, child’s sock.
Lia spoke over the cacophony. “You found Bailey’s present.”
“And you say she’s your friend. I didn’t know they made squeaky socks.”
“Assembly required. Bailey provided the squeakers. I got the socks. That one should die in about three seconds.”
Silence fell. Gypsy, clutching an unresponsive and now-mangled sock, gave Lia a distressed look and struggled to get down.
Peter set her on the floor. Gypsy abandoned the sock and returned to drooling by the stove. “Looks like she killed it.”
“They don’t last long. She’s been through five already.”
“How many did Bailey give you?”
Lia gave the curry a stir, checked the carrots. “The sack said a hundred.”
Peter slid a hand around her waist, dropped a kiss on the back of her neck. “You need new friends. I’ll pick up a set of used tires for her to chew on.”
“Oh, stop it. How did it go today?”
Peter stuck his head in the fridge, emerged with a beer, sat at the table. “Good news, bad news. Smells like coconut. What’s for dinner?”
Lia checked the clock again, turned off the burners. “I have no clue what to call it, but it involves curry. What’s the good news?”
“Donna Merrill identified Jenny from the photos I showed her.”
“Sounds like a win.”
“It would be if we had an address. Jenny Olson fell off the map after Heenan disappeared.”
“Do you think it’s connected?”
“Unlikely. It’s not like she went missing. Today you have a digital footprint and it’s hard to go off grid. It wasn’t like that back then. I would track down her old neighbors and see what they remember, but her street was mowed down for commercial expansion. There are no doors left to knock on.”
“Maybe Alma can find her on Ancestry.com.”
“There were three hundred thousand people named Olson in the last census. I checked.”
“Ouch.”
“And that’s if she kept the name. If I have to pursue it, I could chase down her classmates and see if anyone remembers her, but that’s more than a hundred people.”
“And the bad news?”
“I got an earful from a woman across the street who swears Heenan was a pedophile in the style of John Wayne Gacy.”
“They both played with balloons. Maybe you’d better run your cadaver dogs through the crawl space.”
“This is Clifton Hills. There are no crawl spaces.”
Lia scooped carrot slices into dog bowls. “How about the priest? Weren’t you going to talk to him today?”
“Smoke and mirrors. The priest named in Heenan’s documents never existed. Looks like a scam that allowed Heenan to liquidate without leaving a money trail.”
“Where do you think the money went?”
“I think Heenan was up to something he didn’t want people to know about, and this was his exit strategy.”
Lia dished up a plate of curry and rice, set it in front of Peter. “How would that work?”
“He runs into trouble, he lays low. After a specified period of time, his lawyer liquidates and passes the cash on to the fake priest. The fake priest then passes the money on to Heenan, then they both disappear.”
Lia filled her own plate and joined Peter at the table, followed by salivating dogs who refused to be fobbed off with carrots.
“Only Heenan isn’t at the rendezvous point, because he’s already in a shallow grave?”
“Could be. We don’t know if he disappeared because he died, or if he disappeared first and the person he was running from caught up with him when he came back to pick up the cash.”
“Maybe the phony priest killed him for it. He’s the one guy who would have known where to find him. Or the fake priest was Heenan.”
Peter chewed and swallowed, shaking his head. “Piraino is a sharp guy. He would have picked up on it.”
“Jim has been active in the Catholic church for decades. If anyone knows anything about your fake priest, he could find out.”
“I can’t involve your friends.”
“Why not? You know they’re happy to help. They could track Jennifer Olson’s classmates for you.”
Peter set his fork down, his face serious. “I can get fired for talking about a case.”
“You talk to them all the time.”
“It’s a one-way street. I can ask for information and I can discuss anything that’s public. I can’t share confidential information.”
“I don’t understand. You’re sharing confidential information with me. Why are you talking to me if it could get you fired?”
Peter tapped the shallow dent in Lia’s chin. “Because I love you.”
“Don’t evade, Dourson.”
“I’m not. I don’t want to be that guy who comes home and pretends his day didn’t happen. Some women would be fine with it. That’s not you.”
“You’re right. I think we’d lose each other.”
Peter snuck a sliver of chicken under the table to Viola. Chewy whined, head-butting Lia’s leg, a reminder that fair was fair. She scraped sauce off two pieces of chicken and held them out for Chewy and Gypsy.
“And I figure you fall under the wife exclusion.”
“There’s a wife exclusion?”
“Not in writing, but everyone knows it happens. You’re a good sounding board and I can trust you. And God willing, Parker will pull me off this on Monday so I can get back to Jamal.”
“How do you figure that?”
“It’s a budgetary thing. Going further means investing a lot of man hours against diminishing returns. Let’s forget about Andrew Heenan. Tell me about your day. What did you and Alma find in the attic?”
Lia laughed. “We catalogued Ruth’s Beanie Baby collection.”
“Beanie Babies?”
“An army of them in pristine condition, with the heart-shaped tags. Alma lined them up on a plastic tarp. They look like they’re getting ready to invade Disney World.”
“Are they worth anything?”
“She’s researching that right now. She plans to find herself a boy toy and move to Myrtle Beach.”
“Anything else good?”
Lia tapped a tarnished candlestick sitting in the center of the table. “Alma insisted I keep this.”
“That will shine up nice.”
“I’m not sure I want to shine it up. Look at this.” She held it up so Peter could see a black thumbprint on the base. “It tarnished that way. It’s like a bit of Ruth remaining behind.”
“So shine selective parts of it. What else?”
“Some seriously ugly Rookwood era pottery—not Rookwood, this is from a rival studio. It’s worth something. I love this house, but I’ll never understand some of the things people put on their mantels back then. Lots of old photos. Antique side tables, a ton of books. We only got through half the boxes.”
Lia took a bite of chicken. “I got a call from David. Zoe is dithering, but her sister wants to see paintings.”
“If this keeps up, you might want to reconsider getting a space at the Pendleton.”
“I like working at home. I can’t see paying all that money for window dressing when the people I work with are happy to come here.”
“I see your point.”
Lia kept her eyes on the dogs as she hand-fed them more chicken. “I saw Susan’s new video.”
“With Commodore and Brewer? What about it?”
“They’re taking a canoe trip to your crime scene. Doesn’t that bother you?”
Peter shrugged. “The scene’s been released.”
“I was wondering if you might want to go along for damage control.”
“Susan invited me. I declined. Too many ugly ways it could go wrong.”
The last remnants of the knot in Lia’s stomach loosened.
Peter squeezed her knee. “Susan’s making a last-ditch effort to get traction for her video show. That’s all this is, and it’s nothing to worry about.”
Ding Dong
Saturday, June 11, 1938
Mal looked out over the sea of upturned faces, all eyes riveted to the stage, his stage. Not a cough, not a whisper, not the clinking of a single fork broke the tension. With a flourish, he thrust the fourth sword into the cabinet.
Inside the cabinet, Esme screamed. He had to give it to her, the lady had lungs.
The crowd gasped. Mal waited for the audience to die down.
Instead, a murmur grew, rippling across the crowd with the sound of chairs moving and patrons shifting in their seats. It wasn’t in response to his act. Something else was happening. Annoyed, Mal broke a cardinal rule and stopped the act to look past the glare of the stage lights, searching for the disturbance.
A dozen men stood on chairs scattered across the room. As one, they unzipped their expensive trousers, withdrew their penises, and urinated on the crowd. They turned as they emptied their overfull bladders, splashing every diner in reach. Shrieks—genuine this time—pierced the air as diners shied away. China crashed and patrons fell on one another as they attempted to evade the offensive streams.
Cool as cucumbers, the men zipped up, walking out before security could react.
It had been a disaster. Stu, Pete’s chief of security, asked Mal to continue performing while they attended to the customers who’d been “ding-donged”—that’s what Stu called it—but the people who stayed were too upset by the attack to watch and he couldn’t find his rhythm.
He found himself playing to a room that was three-quarters empty, the remaining diners huddled in pockets of intense conversation. For the first time, he was relieved to leave the stage.
Hours later he sat in Pete’s office, Pete behind the enormous oak desk, Stu standing behind him. Mal stuck a hand in his pocket, felt for his s
hilling, rubbed a frustrated thumb across the face. “What’s happening, Pete?”
“Moe Dalitz is back.”
“Dalitz? The guy who burned you out?”
“He wants the club. I expect I’ll get a new offer in a few days.”
“And what? He pisses on the guests until you let him have it?”
“That’s what he thinks. I’d rather burn this place down myself than sell—to him or anyone.”
“You built this place. Nobody should be able to take it from you.”
“You got that right.”
“What’s the plan?”
“We hold on. Things may get bumpy. I need to know if you’re up for a scrap.”
Years defending himself from gangs of larger boys in the alleys of Dublin taught Mal a thing or two. He hated bullies.
“You put me where I am. I’m in. Whatever you need.”
Day 15
Saturday, May 4, 2019
Susan’s Snippets with Bobbi Johnson and Marilyn Edling
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Susan’s face filled the tiny screen lying on the usual picnic table. She winked at the camera, slowly backing away to reveal her surroundings.
“I’m standing in front of the gorgeous Tudor home where Andrew Heenan lived before his mysterious disappearance in 1987. The house currently belongs to Don and Bobbi Johnson, who took ownership mere months after Andrew went missing.”
She stepped aside, sweeping an arm in a Vanna White flourish as if the house was a game show prize. “Look at the beautiful stonework and handsome landscaping. Wouldn’t you kill for a home like this?”
She turned her head and gave the camera a coy, confiding look. “Don is a retired realtor. I bet the deal they got was a steal. I hoped to talk to the Johnsons this morning, but they haven’t responded to my requests for an interview.”
Susan extended a hand and drew an elderly woman on screen. The woman peered at Susan, then turned tiny, raisin eyes to the camera, setting a bulldog mouth.
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