The Cardinal's Sin

by Robert Lane

  “Anything new?” I answered.

  “Do you never learn?”

  I eased out my breath. “How are you, darling?”

  “Sparkling. And you?”

  “Splendid. Say, did you find anything on Paretsky’s alias?”

  “Mr. Hoover,” she said, as if opening a book on a grave subject. “We—”

  “What do you got?”

  “Things get a little interesting in that direction.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Not on this line.”

  “Find anything at Lambert’s house? I assume by now that you completed the search.”

  “Not on—”

  “Save it.” I blew my breath out. My phone wasn’t secure. “What can you tell me?”

  “When do you get in?”

  “Sixteen hundred.” My phone signaled an incoming call.

  “Call me when you can. It’s nothing urgent, certainly not going to hang the case on it, so don’t worry.”

  I switched to the other call, but it had already gone to voice mail. It was the deliveryman for my new guest-bedroom suite. Please call back to schedule a convenient time. And to think that just a few days ago that was the biggest thing going on in my life.

  On the jet, I placed my gift-wrapped box in the compartment above my seat, along with my carry-on. I doubted the colonel would pick up the difference between coach and premium economy, but it didn’t matter. Money is not the headache of my life. I wondered if that would always be the case, or if I too might develop some form of arthritis that would threaten my livelihood.

  The Bloody Mary was no good. I put on music, never got more than thirty seconds into a dozen songs, and yanked out my earphones. The window seat next to me was empty. Once upon a time a lady with a golden scarf wrapped around her neck had sat there. Enough of that. I got out a blank notepad, selected a blue pen from my laptop bag, and set out to jot down what I knew. I put the pen down. The absence of Kathleen, where she’d sat just a few days earlier, was stronger than her presence on that day.

  That was new to me—her absence taking up more space than her presence.

  I’m that guy who, when the tram from the gate to the terminal comes to a stop, leads the brigade. Fools block my path. I double marched toward the walkway by the currency exchange that led to the parking garage. He stood midway between the escalators that led down to baggage claim. Jonathan Wayne was dressed exactly how I’d seen him the day before in Ft. Lauderdale’s airport. I halted in front of him.

  “Mr. Wayne.”

  “Mr. Travis.”

  “Not looking for me, by chance, are you?”

  “No, sir. You’re right in front of me.”

  I expected a smile, but it didn’t materialize.

  “It was rhetorical, John.”

  He squinted and replied, “Let’s have a talk.”

  “You’re not here to fly Cayman Airways to George Town? You know they give free rum drinks to everyone.”

  “No, sir. I’m here—”

  “Last time I was on it, a girl waltzed down the aisle, hiked up her shirt, and charged a dollar for guys to ‘rum’ her tummy.”

  “I’ve never—”

  “Follow me.”

  I took off without him and headed toward a restaurant. Only Binelli and Garrett knew my schedule, and I ruled Garrett out. Therefore, Binelli was guilty of siccing Wayne on me. I took a seat at the bar, and Wayne pulled up beside me. Behind us, at a four-top, a German family babbled away. They had flown in from Frankfurt and were deciding which fantasylands to visit before returning to the beaches.

  “Binelli, right?”

  “Excuse me?” He took off his Stetson and placed it on the counter on the other side of him. I didn’t know much about the man, but I could tell you this: he hadn’t bought a new hat since Y2K destroyed civilization. He folded his long coat over the chair next to him.

  “Binelli,” I said. “She coughed up my schedule.”

  He gave me that single nod of his. “I can’t discuss that.”

  I stood up and took a step.

  “Agent Binelli,” he said.

  “Our meeting in Lauderdale?”

  “Coincidental.”

  “I don’t do coincidences.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  I reclaimed my seat, and a heavyset woman with a streak of purple in her black hair planted her body in front of me. I ordered a beer. After last night I’d sworn off drinking for eternity—that’s about eighteen hours. I’m always amazed how methodically I recover, but what if that gift goes away one day as well?

  “Water, ma’am,” Wayne replied to Streak’s question as to what cowboys drink.

  “Why are you here?” I asked.

  Wayne still wore that shining badge the size of Viking breast armor. Still packed Robert E. Lee’s cannon. Federal marshals, the oldest federal law group, are used, among other things, to find and transport fugitives. Their duties, however, vary greatly, and I hadn’t a clue why Binelli had arranged for our tête-à-tête.

  “I understand,” he started in, “that you just returned from London.” Streak placed my beer in front of me and poured the bottle into a frosted mug. She put a tall glass of water in front of Wayne.

  “I did.”

  “And that you were looking into the death of Giovanni Antinori.”

  My back stiffened. I took a mouthful from the mug. “Actually,” I said, “I did a little shopping.” I nodded to the gift-wrapped box that I had placed on the oak floor next to me. His eyes didn’t follow. Neither of us spoke for a few seconds. I was considering standing up and announcing my departure when Wayne broke the impasse. “He contacted us.”

  “Antinori?”

  “Not us directly, but a branch. He wanted to come in, said he had a few things to say. It was our job to move him. But—”

  “Ease up, slim. He was British. How could you possibly have jurisdiction over any of his movements?”

  He hesitated. “I see your point.” It was a strange comeback, as if he’d never considered the question of jurisdiction. Perhaps US marshals are granted a longer leash than I know. He addressed my puzzlement. “We’re used for a myriad of jobs. In this case, it was deemed that Mr.—”

  “He was a cardinal.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “He was a cardinal in the Catholic church.”

  His tongue pushed out his right cheek; he gave his lonely nod and continued. “Mr. Antinori, we believe, was in possession of information desired by our government. My understanding is that we were more than willing to depose him in the United Kingdom, but that he preferred to travel incognito to the United States, as he had other business to attend to here as well. My job was to escort him. He was killed prior to arrangements being finalized.”

  “What made you think he had ‘desired’ information, and why would a man in his position have such information?”

  “There’s the crux of it. He gave detailed information of a man, a ‘tragic and evil’ man, he said, that he referred to as Mr. Hoover. We’d never heard of the man. Indeed, there is no trace of any such man, but his deeds were known to us. We concluded that Mr. Antinori’s Mr. Hoover must also be—”

  “Alexander Paretsky.”

  “I understand that you also made that connection.”

  “I did. Second part. How would Antinori come across such information?”

  “We do not know. Do you?”

  “Paretsky fenced himself off as Mr. Hoover and was a major financial supporter of Cardinal Antinori.”

  A single nod. “That fits. Was actually one of our theories. How did you arrive at the information?”

  “I exercised patience in a London pub.”

  He landed a quiet gaze and then reached for his water. “You’re looking into the death of Donald Lambert?”

  I shifted forward and put my elbows on the bar as it dawned on me. “Cardinal Antinori was planning on paying Donald Lambert a visit.”

  “That’s correct. That’s why the cal
l came to the Florida office.”

  That was the moment for a spark to ignite and pull the pieces together. Antinori, Lambert, Paretsky, Elizabeth Lambert, Renée I, Renée II. Two years.

  Nothing.

  Maybe if I added minor ingredients: McKenzie, Cynthia, J. M. Barrie, Spanish Eyes, Aphrodite, Sammy Davis Jr.

  Zippo.

  The words swirled in my head like a busted sentence that I couldn’t piece together. I felt like a math savant stuck in a literature class.

  “Do you know why he was coming to Florida?” I asked.

  “You mean, do we know why he wanted to meet with Mr. Lambert? We do not.”

  “Isn’t there a federal marshal district closer than Tallahassee?” I recalled that Florida had three districts.

  “There is.” He took a sip of water and gently placed the glass back onto the exact center of the bar napkin. “But they wanted me.”

  Streak dropped by and inquired if I wanted another. I waved her off. The Germans were discussing dessert options. Cheesecake hugged the rail.

  “You were assigned to pick up Antinori in street clothes and bring him here to rendezvous with Lambert.” I straightened my bar napkin under the mug. “He catches a bullet. Case closed. You move on. But you’re not. Why are you meeting me?”

  “We want to see what you found out about Mr. Hoover.”

  Everything was we with Wayne. My bet, though, was deep inside he was genetically coded to ride by himself. That was what would come out in a fight. I’d have no problem picking him to be on my side. How much should I tell him? Enough to keep him close if I needed him, but not enough to turn him against me if Uncle Sam got fingered for the Antinori hit and threw me under the bus like the colonel’s briefcase.

  I summarized my meeting with McKenzie but fudged the facts, telling him that McKenzie confirmed the relationship between Antinori and Hoover/Paretsky. No need to include Cynthia Richardson. If someone ended up with fractured bones over this, I wanted McKenzie, not Cynthia, up for consideration. Unless he talked to the parties involved, Wayne would have no reason to question my version.

  He considered my comments while the Germans considered whether to spend an extra day in Disney’s grasp or tack on an additional beach day. The daughter lobbied hard for the beach. She carried the moment. The mother commented that the cheesecake was too sweet.

  I needed to ascertain that Wayne and I were on the same page. “What do you make of it?” I started in. “Antinori discovers that the man he knows as Hoover is villainous, and he decides to spill the beans. But not in his own country, and not under his title. Furthermore, he decides to drop in on Donald Lambert. Both Lambert and Antinori die within a few days of each other.”

  “That’s correct.”

  I pivoted and faced Wayne. He rotated his head and stared at me. “It gets a little cloudy at this point,” I added. “Why would Antinori want to visit a retired bachelor in Treasure Island, Florida?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I don’t know,” I lied. I think I lied. Pieces were starting to fall into place, but they were floating down slowly, like snowflakes on a windless day. “Do you have any clue as to how or why Antinori came into his knowledge of Alexander Paretsky?”

  “We do not. You?”

  “No.” Again, I think I lied.

  “Mr. Lambert was not on our radar until Mr. Antinori made his request.” He turned his body to fully face me. “When the man we are supposed to escort turns up dead and the man we were instructed to escort him to goes through the pearly gates a few days later, our curiosity is piqued.”

  “Imagine so.”

  “I understand you discovered Mr. Lambert’s body.”

  “I did.”

  “Did you search the premises?”

  “Not a whole lot of time for that.”

  “Did you?”

  “Only time to pick the low fruit, but nothing there. No phone or computer. You?”

  Wayne arched his eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

  “Did you search the premises? I told Agent Binelli that a flash drive belonging to Paretsky might be in that house.”

  It was one of the items that Binelli wasn’t going to discuss on my unsecure phone. I wasn’t sure of the exact role the Marlboro Man played in all this, but I was willing to bet that, like me, he wasn’t showing all his cards. I pushed myself up on the stool. I hadn’t been aware of my poor posture. The flight and sleepless nights were starting to make their presence known.

  “I did,” Wayne answered. “We were alerted to the possibility of a flash drive, but we didn’t find one. However,” he reached into his shirt pocket and handed me a letter, “we found this.”

  It was a letter from Cardinal Antinori to Donald Lambert, on plain stationery. It started with a brief paragraph asking permission for his upcoming visit. Antinori got to the point.

  Your daughter is dating a man I know as Mr. Hoover. That is not who he is. I believe that you and your daughter might be in grave danger. I cannot undo the past, but you must trust me now.

  I turned to Wayne. “Where did you find this?” But I thought, Why, Donald, didn’t you tell me? What should I have done to earn your confidence?

  “The house, as I believe you know, had already been searched. But, judging by the appearance, it was a hastily done job. We found this in the New Testament. Book of Corinthians.”

  “The greatest gift.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Apostle Paul’s timeless treatise on love. Any particular page?”

  “Don’t know. How do you think Antinori found out that Renée Lambert was dating Paretsky?”

  “Don’t know. Maybe he showed up at a donor’s dinner with her draped on his arm.”

  Wayne said, “Do you know what he means about undoing the past?”

  “Haven’t a clue.”

  “How about a clue on how the Lamberts, Antinori, and Paretsky are related?”

  “Drawing a blank there, John.”

  “Do you know how to contact Renée Lambert?”

  “No.”

  Another nod. “Why do I think that, except for your last answer, you’re not being an honest man?”

  “Maybe you need a badge to be an honest man.”

  He took off his badge and tossed it to me. It slid and stopped when it nicked my mug. “Go ahead. I got more. You tell me if the badge makes the man or the man makes the badge.”

  “Don’t get preachy on me. What were you doing in the Lauderdale airport?”

  He hesitated. “My mother is not well.”

  OK. So the guy was being straight with me. Paranoids don’t always get it right, but as a species we’ve been around a long time, and that’s nothing to apologize about.

  I said, “There’s a man who works with Paretsky—goes by ‘the Guardian’—know anything there?”

  “The two-man theory.”

  I leaned in toward him. “Renée visited her father within the past few weeks. He lied to me. Said he hadn’t seen her in close to six months. I think she might have left the disc with him or at least told him about its existence. I think the Guardian killed Lambert and searched the house. No way of knowing if he found what he was looking for.”

  “Why do you believe that Renée left the disc with her father?”

  “Because he denied her being there. It was a natural reaction—when people are afraid, they deny. You searched the drains, attic, pillows—you know how small a flash drive is.”

  He brought his right hand up and rubbed his chin. “I imagine if someone wanted to hide something that small in his house so that no one would ever find it, it wouldn’t be a difficult task.”

  “Imagine so.”

  “May not even be in his house.”

  Wayne stood and picked up his coat and hat. We pledged to keep each other informed, but if he treated me with the same distant trust that I afforded him, I wasn’t sure how productive our alliance would be.

  I strapped my case over my shoulder and extended the handle of my carry-on
. Ten paces from the restaurant, I spun around and returned to the bar. I picked up his badge and stuck it in my pocket. He was coming out of the restroom.

  “The greatest gift,” he said. “Apostle Paul’s—what is it?”

  “You never read it?”

  “I did not.”

  “Love, John. It endures all.”

  A single nod, and he was gone.

  CHAPTER 27

  I needed to call Binelli and review my meeting with John Wayne as well as give Rondo a ring. I decided to wait until I got home. Sometimes when I drive, I just drive.

  The cardinal had known that Renée Lambert was dating a dangerous man. Did Antinori threaten to expose Paretsky, and therefore Paretsky set him up to catch my bullet at the Peter Pan statue? Why would Antinori go through with that? Did Paretsky hold something over him to force his hand? It was like trying to stuff ten pounds of flour into a five-pound bag. If he was about to take life’s last ride, he might as well take the devil with him. Instead I got Forgive me my sin and some mumbo jumbo about the Pope and the Guardian.

  I took the small second bridge to my island. My phone had buzzed a couple of times while I talked with Wayne, but I’d resisted looking at it. I pulled into my drive and headed straight to the kitchen. I snatched a beer, snipped a cigar, pulled out my phone, and headed for the end of the dock. Hadley III was crouched like a jungle cat under the wild hibiscus bush. She pounced at my ankles as I strode past. Damn thing nipped me.

  Binelli was first. I recapped my meeting with Wayne. She assured me that Wayne was astute enough not to ask me too many questions regarding my involvement with Paretsky. No one had claimed Lambert’s body, but I’d already reeled that line in. I reviewed with her what Cynthia Richardson told me. I gave it to her straight and then told her that I’d spun a slightly different version to Wayne. She didn’t question my decision to do so.

  “Can I trust him?” I asked her.