The Cardinal's Sin

by Robert Lane

  “Roger that,” PC said. “Slammin’ Tammy said Renée was there ’bout two weeks ago.”

  “She positive?”

  “No doubt, claims she knows her. Came in a cab, ten, ten thirty. We’re talking ante meridiem. Slammin’ Tammy says the cab waited twenty minutes tops. Saw Renée walk out, get in the cab, and exit stage left.”

  I heard Lambert’s voice the second time I’d met him: She told me when she was jus—Had he been on the cusp of admitting that Renée had just visited him? Instead of feeling vindicated for my theory, I felt like an idiot. I should have seen it earlier.

  I abandoned the boys and headed to Sea Breeze. I wedged my truck between a ’57 Chevy and a Fiat that could fit into a wheelbarrow. I took a seat on a backless stool at the counter facing the 1930s pine siding. An obnoxious car ad filled the air.

  “Usual?” Peggy asked as she blurred past, neither waiting for nor expecting a reply. I grabbed a disheveled paper someone had left, tore through it, and placed it back on the counter in better shape than I’d found it. I got off my stool, retrieved my writing pad from the truck, and ducked back inside. Breakfast was waiting. I dumped the red bowl of grilled onions over the eggs and hash browns and then let loose with the pepper shaker.

  A few bites into it, I called Binelli and left a voice mail. Bretta, at Words Against People, was next. She answered just as I was about to stick my last slice of crispy bacon in my mouth. What was I thinking, using the phone while eating bacon? I reacquainted myself with her and inquired if Renée had left any comment on the members’ message board.

  Bretta explained that she couldn’t tell me what Renée posted on the board but that I was free to log in and view it myself. Unlike our previous conversation, she wasn’t going to perform the task for me.

  I punched Rondo’s number, and he picked up on the third ring. I explained what I’d done and asked if he would check in on the message board and get back to me as soon as possible. He said he was out running errands and would log in when he returned home. Binelli returned my call before I’d put the phone down.

  “What do you got?” I answered.

  “You called me.”

  “I think Renée Lambert has a disc drive that belongs to Alexander Paretsky.”

  “You think?”

  “Conversations were overheard. You know her father’s dead.” I realized I should have informed her of that earlier but then decided she had her sources and already knew.

  “No thanks to you. I heard from—”

  “You need to search his house. I can’t do it. I have no authority, and even if I broke in, a flash drive might be impossible to find. You need to get a team there and scrub every—”

  “Pretty sure that’s on the agenda, but I’ll tell them about the disc. Tiny little sucker. Who did him?”

  “The second man. The man who goes by the moniker of the Guardian.”

  She didn’t say anything, so I prompted her. “Still there?”

  “Sorry.” She smacked her lips. “Some idiot brought in sausage burritos for breakfast. Some sins are totally worth it. The two-man theory.”

  “Looks like it.”

  “What are the chances that Lambert’s daughter is still breathing?”

  Peggy swooped up my plate without breaking stride. “I can’t find any funeral home that is taking care of Lambert. My guess is that Renée is too smart and too scared to bury her own father. If someone comes forth and claims that body, that person may lead to Renée. You need to keep an eye on that.”

  “Hot dog! Am I ever glad you’re on our side.”

  “Just tell me.”

  “We thought of staging a funeral, the old mob trick, you know? Hang around with a camera and see who shows up. We decided it would be a waste of time and resources, but we’re keeping tabs on the body.”

  “The flash drive,” I said, returning to the pertinent issue. “You know how small those flash drives are? Tell them they have got to—”

  “I know.” She hung up.

  I wiped my mouth with a napkin. Lambert had lied to protect his daughter, but why not tell me she’d dropped by? I thought I had won his confidence on my second trip there. I’d thought wrong.

  Something else, though, was bothering me. Swelling and building like an offshore tidal wave.

  If Paretsky’s modus operandi was to target the loved ones of intelligence personnel, and he got wind of me closing in on him, would he go after Kathleen? I’d gotten up last night, when sleep avoided me like a winning lottery ticket, and finished the final book in Churchill’s six-volume opus on World War II. Kathleen had bought me a first edition, and although it wasn’t necessarily good history, it was worth the read. Triumph and Tragedy. Good news—the Germans are conquered. Bad news—the Russians are in the house.

  Good news—we found the flash drive. Bad news—it contains a flattering picture of Kathleen, along with her address.

  I called Morgan on the way out the door and told him to be prepared at a moment’s notice.

  “What if she objects?” he said.

  “She’ll have no choice.”

  CHAPTER 21

  I slammed my truck door and started for my house. The picture.

  I spun around and got the picture of Donald and Elizabeth Lambert that I had taken from Lambert’s rear patio. When I entered my screened porch, I tossed it on the chair next to the one Garrett sat on. Morgan was hosing down Impulse. I hadn’t expected him back so soon, or I would have told him in person instead of the phone call.

  “Morgan told me your plan,” Garrett said, without lifting his eyes from a newspaper.

  “I have a plan?”

  “Kathleen.”

  “Right. And?”

  He put the paper down. “You think he’s got the drop on us? We’re not close enough to sniff him downwind in a hurricane.”

  “If that’s the case, then he’s looking smarter every day, and that only reinforces my decision.”

  Morgan slid through the door, pulling it tight behind him. He picked up the picture. “Renée’s parents?”

  “Elizabeth and Donald Lambert,” I said.

  “So much like her mother.”

  He showed me the picture, and I noted a faint resemblance, but only because of his leading assertion.

  “Lambert,” I said, “told me it was taken about two years ago.”

  “They’re at the carnival,” Morgan said and glanced over at me. “Don’t you think so?”

  “Antinori’s?” Garrett said and shifted forward in his seat.

  Morgan placed the framed picture on the glass table in front of us. Donald and Elizabeth Lambert stood on a trimmed lawn. Behind them was a brick estate camouflaged with centuries of vines. A dozen or so people milled around in the background. “See, right there?” He pointed to the back right corner of the picture, over Elizabeth Lambert’s left shoulder. “Isn’t that—”

  “The high striker.”

  That was us a couple years back.

  I seized the picture and brought it closer to my face. “The building must be Antinori’s residence. This picture was taken two years ago at the annual fund-raiser that he held on his estate. Lambert told me his wife was British. Some town…Harlow. Think she knew Antinori?” I passed the picture to Garrett, stood, and started pacing. “Two years. The Lamberts attend Antinori’s fund-raiser, his beliefs take a radical turn, and Renée Lambert drops the club life in favor of helping verbally abused children. Besides,” I slapped my hand on the top of my grill, “you always go back to the scene of the crime.” I shot Garrett a glance. “Keep an eye on her for two days.”

  “Our job is to finish Paretsky, not discover why Antinori was at Kensington that morning.”

  “There’s a connection between Antinori, the Lamberts, and Paretsky, and I’m not going to find it lounging around here. Whole damn group knew one another. I can be there and back in forty-eight, and right now we’re tanks in mud.”

  “Our world’s getting smaller,” Morgan added. “Harlow�
��s a stone’s throw from the late cardinal’s residence, Granville Estate. You read what Mary Evelyn sent you?”

  “More or less. Heavy on the less.”

  “Antinori was a young priest there.” He had my iPad on his lap, and he hammered at it. “They might have known each other from decades past. You can still make it.”

  “Tell me.”

  “British Airways direct to Gatwick. Leaves at eighteen fifteen.”

  “Right. I’ve taken it. Return the next day at eleven fifty-five British summer time.”

  “You got it. GMT plus one. Premium economy still available, but it will set you back a pretty tuppence.”

  I didn’t bother to answer but went into my bedroom and packed.

  A few hours later, I sat at the gate and prepped myself for what I was about to do: return to the scene of my crime in a foreign country.

  CHAPTER 22

  It wasn’t until my first few steps past the customs booth at Gatwick that I realized how tense I’d been.

  I rented a car and took off on M23 to M25 and M11. Ninety minutes later, I gave my name at the Granville Estate gatehouse and proceeded to motor up a blacktop drive that, like a meandering river, couldn’t decide which direction to swerve next. Sculptured boxwoods framed in dark mulch lined both sides. The drive and the landscape curved in unison, as if they both had been squirted out of a giant caulking tube. The estate was the official residence of the late cardinal and, I presumed, his replacement, although I hadn’t researched that. The aged, brick mansion was wrapped in insulating summer vines and bedded in thick shrubs. The vines were snipped around the windows, creating dark, reflective eyes.

  I’d called ahead and requested a meeting with a representative of the house. I stated that I was investigating the death of Donald Lambert, whose wife was originally from the area. It took some cajoling on my part to convince the lady on the phone that I had no reason to believe the death of a man in Florida was in any way related to the cardinal’s residence, but, you see, I just happened to be in town, and I would appreciate the opportunity to possibly tie up some loose ends.

  “I won’t waste anyone’s time,” I’d pleaded. “I know his wife was British, and they spent time in the area and on the property.”

  “How do you expect us to be of assistance?” the lady replied.

  “I’m not sure. It’s just that I don’t expect you to not be of assistance.”

  It was a weak ticket, but I got it stamped.

  The blacktop gave way to a circular cobblestone drive. I pulled under a portico and into one of the numerous visitors’ parking spots off to the side of the carriage house. Two of the five massive garage doors were raised, and I caught a glimpse of a fleet of automobiles. I retrieved my leather shoulder bag and blue blazer out of the backseat, put the blazer on, and walked—I tried not to strut—to a side door as the man in the gatehouse had instructed me. Security cameras caught every move. The air was crisp and thin—like someone had sucked all the water molecules out of it—compared to my corner of the world. I went through a double entry, took a left, and found myself in a sitting room with worn carpet, buckling lead-glass windows, and the musty smell of wood that was around when Charles Edward Stuart and the Duke of Cumberland engaged in the last battle to be fought on British home soil. That battle, in 1746, effectively put the lid on the Jacobites.

  “May I be of assistance?” A primly dressed, middle-aged woman sat erect behind an English ladies’ writing desk. Had I met her? The desk held a laptop, pad, pen, and phone. No nametag. Her hands framed each side of the computer. No wedding ring.

  “You may.” I presented my card. “Jake Travis. I called yesterday expressing my desire to speak with someone concerning the death of Donald Lambert.” She wore an unalluring, lightweight, white sweater over her dress and a single layer of beads around her neck. Her maple-blond hair was pulled behind her head, and the ends of a white bow stuck out on each side. I’m a sucker for a single bow in a woman’s hair. A solo strand graced the soft nape of her neck. “Are you the lady I had the pleasure of speaking with?”

  She examined my card with genuine curiosity. “Yes, I believe I am.” She placed the card squarely on the corner of her desk. Her finger flipped off the corner of the card, and it made a light smacking sound as if to accentuate the precise movement. “Will you have a seat, please, Mr. Travis?”

  “Thank you.”

  I turned, ignited a squeaky floorboard, and settled in a spindle-back chair with a useless, worn, red pad on the seat. She raised her phone, announced, “Your appointment is here,” and returned to her computer. I crossed my legs, picked up a magazine, and put it back without opening it.

  She looked up. “May I inquire as to your interest in Mr. Lambert?”

  “Routine questions. Did you by chance know the Lamberts?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Elizabeth Lambert.” I popped up, flipped open my shoulder bag, and extracted the photograph of Elizabeth and Donald Lambert. I held it up for her to see. “She grew up around here. About your age, although I admit I struggle with ages. You know her?”

  She looked startled, as if I had breached her sense of propriety. “I…I really—”

  “Mr. Travis?” I turned to my right, but not before I registered curiosity, perhaps even a tinge of sadness, in her eyes.

  The man who had enunciated my name with flamboyant annoyance complemented the bottom side of a crescent wood frame of an inner doorway. He was in the vestments of his trade: black robe, high, starched collar, and long sleeves. If there was a wrinkle in his garments, it was not detectable. If there was sunshine in his personality, likewise. He looked like a prize-winning gourd.

  “Yes?”

  “I will be assisting you.”

  “I appreciate your time.” I stuck out my hand. “Jake Travis.”

  “I am—was—Cardinal Antinori’s personal secretary, Father Thomas McKenzie.” He clenched his teeth and curled up his lip in a failed attempt to smile. He was a man not accustomed to introducing himself. In his backyard, people knew him. We shook hands. I had to let up on the pressure. His hand was soft, an appendage not to be utilized for anything other than self-service. “You may call me Thomas.”

  You may call me Thomas. As if he had bestowed a great honor upon me—although it pained him to say his own name.

  “Thank you for seeing me, Thomas, and my condolences on the cardinal’s death. A tragic affair. Do they have any suspects?”

  “Sadly, no.” He folded his hands in front of him. “There are mad little men whose cowardly deeds destroy greatness. It has always been thus. Please.” He extended his right arm toward a side door. “Let’s take some fresh air.”

  I glanced back at the lady behind the desk, but she was feverishly typing away, her head down. I put the picture of the Lamberts, which I had held at my side and slightly behind me, back in my shoulder bag and snapped it shut. Thomas stood like a statue, his right arm, in the event that I’d forgotten where the door was, extended like that of a traffic bobby.

  We strolled outside, and he took the lead once we cleared the door. A winding, speckled, gravel path bent around the carriage house where a vast lawn opened before us. The cardinal’s annual carnival. I envisioned the high striker. Donald and Elizabeth Lambert stood—

  “What may I assist you with, Mr. Travis?” His hands were clasped behind his back. He walked as if a flagpole served as his spinal column.

  “Please, just Jake.”

  “It is Jacob, is it not?” Our path had only graced the edge of the expansive lawn, and we now turned right into an English garden. It was at the height of its glory, a tangled, orchestrated bedlam of green, disrespectful of territory, every plant battling for the sun’s light.

  “It is.”

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Travis?”

  “I’ve been retained by the family of Donald Lambert to investigate his recent death. He and his wife, we believe, frequented these grounds. She grew up not far from here in Harlow
. I was hoping you could shed some light on any associates or friends they might have. I realize it’s not much, but we’re at wit’s end trying to solve his murder.”

  What little information I had on Elizabeth Lambert came from Mary Evelyn. She’d politely pointed out that she had previously sent me information on the Lambert family. It was after the section on Antinori.

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you,” he said in a challenging tone. “And you’re not the police.”

  “I’m a private investigator hired by the family.”

  “Yes.” He stopped and, with his foot, flicked a piece of mulch off the path and back under the foliage. “I’m not sure how I can be of assistance.” He resumed his pace.

  “We know they attended the carnival two years ago.”

  “Mr. Travis, a great many people attend the cardinal’s carnival. I’m afraid that I am not familiar with the Lamberts.”

  “Would Cardinal Antinori have known them?”

  He halted again and turned to me. “I was the cardinal’s personal secretary,” he said, in case I hadn’t caught it the first time around. “If he knew them, then so would have I.” He blinked hard, as if each blink was a conscious act.

  “I believe she, that is Mrs. Lambert, was in Cardinal Antinori’s parish while he was a young man.” I was throwing stuff on the wall. I had one more person to talk to, and if that person and Tommy were dead ends, I might well be wasting two days.

  “Again, Mr. Travis, a great many people were blessed to have crossed paths over the course of their lifetime with the late cardinal. I do not know why you think any of this has anything to do with your murder investigation, but I can assure you,” double-hard blinks, “that the Lamberts were not in his social or business circle.”

  “Was Alexander Paretsky?” I reached into my bag.

  “I don’t know that name.”

  “Know this face?” I brought out a picture of Paretsky.

  Father Thomas McKenzie froze. His lips parted, but nothing came out. He blinked and said, “That is…no, I don’t recognize him.”