The Cardinal's Sin

by Robert Lane

  Rondo called.

  “You get my message?” he asked.

  “No, tell me.”

  “I sent you a text last ni—”

  “Busy night. What do you got?” I was by my outdoor shower, holding my left shoe under the spray, a bottle of water in my right hand, and my phone wedged between my shoulder and ear. Should have done it last night; stuff really sticks.

  “Renée Lambert. She responded to the message board. Wants to meet you.”

  “When?” A great blue heron landed on the edge of my seawall. It glided down to the low-tide beach and set up shop. The bird feeds itself, and its species survives by being motionless, a stark contrast to humans. Sounds like that should mean something, but I don’t think it does.

  “Said she’s in town today. Your pick, but make it public.”

  I told Rondo to have her meet me at the pink hotel, high noon, beachside bar. Not to worry, I’d recognize her.

  Renée Lambert for lunch. Kathleen tonight. Alexander Paretsky on the run. I needed all three to drop into place: Kathleen back in the fold, Renée Lambert willing and able to explain the big bang theory—or at least what the cardinal’s sin was—and Paretsky dead. Maybe Renée would even have a clue as to Paretsky’s location.

  A lone woman in a sailboat, one of my favorite things to see, glided past the end of my dock. She tacked south. All dreams are south. Bet she was off to Somewhere Island to moor in Brigadoon Bay. I wondered if I would ever get there—if a certain someone would buy into that.

  I changed into a button-down, silk shirt, taking my good, sweet time with the buttons, linen pants, and sandals. A real bad guy today.

  It hit me as I skipped out the door. A stark contrast to humans.

  Paretsky wouldn’t be motionless. He would either flee or fight. He was either a thousand miles away or watching me. There was a distinct possibility that the only thing I’d accomplished was to make him aware of my presence while I was dicking around making certain I didn’t ruin another shirt.

  CHAPTER 38

  The only ones who’d gotten breakfast that morning were the two men who collected Paige. I was famished. I slammed the truck door and scampered across the street. The pink, Moorish-style hotel was built in the 1920s by an Irishman from Virginia, named after a character in a play by a French dramatist that was turned into an English opera, and is set in a town named for its Russian counterpart.

  Give me a jingle if you have a clue what that means.

  I rounded the towel stand and helped myself to a plastic cup of citrus water from the cooler. The towels were no longer neatly folded and stacked but heaped together in the bin. Clean ones were hustled out from the laundry, still warm, in a gallant effort by the laundry regiment to keep up with demand. I nearly tripped over a rug rat chasing a ball that had escaped the pool. The resort was over capacity with oiled mannequin skin. Waiters scurried with trays on their shoulders, and a singer, with his back to the gulf and a harmonica mounted in front of his mouth, strummed “Hollow Man,” although the tempo was too slow.

  She was at the bar. Her dark hair shrouded her back, and she sat erect as if she were bracing for a cat one. The high barstools on either side of her were taken. Guests were stacked up two deep, jockeying for position to flag the attention of frenzied bartenders. I angled in next to her.

  “Renée?”

  She spun her head. “Yes? Mr. Travis?”

  “It’s Jake. Follow me. I know a quieter spot.”

  I pulled back her heavy barstool and then switched positions so that I led. I led her past the second pool, rimmed with people sitting on the edge and nursing colored drinks; I led her past the boardwalk that gave way to the beach where a Cornhole game was taking place with the enthusiasm normally reserved for Saturday-night football rivalries; I led her past the shower where I rinse after my morning run, through the gate, and I led her to the second, smaller bar that was adjacent to the restaurant. A couple vacated their seats as we approached. Without breaking stride, I led her to the empty high chairs and pulled one back.

  “My,” she adjusted herself in the chair, “are you always so lucky?”

  “Luck’s a big part of my plan.” I took the chair next to her. I was lucky. Guadarrama had gotten the jump on me, and I’d lived to fight another day.

  Although we were outside, we faced the inside of the bar. A pass-through window was in front of us. I slid the debris from the previous couple over the mahogany surface and into the restaurant. It was cooler in the restaurant, and it was like inserting my hand into a refrigerator.

  “You were a hard lady to find.” I shifted my weight and signaled the bartender.

  “That was a big part of my plan.”

  It worked out well that she was to my right, as I had trouble hearing on my left. The bartender halted in front of us across the counter, in the cool air. She hastily cleared the dishes that I had shoved into her territory. We ordered drinks.

  Renée wore beige shorts and a blue, button-down shirt that was tucked in. Layers of necklaces were visible above the top few open buttons. She hit me as the type of woman who, despite her youth, had not only grown weary of the stares but also did as little as possible to elicit them. Then again, her mother had committed suicide, and her lover turned out to be an international assassin who had caused the murder of her father. I wasn’t sure she’d put all those pieces together, but I wouldn’t bet against it. She took her right hand, reached across the back of her neck, and pulled her hair over her right shoulder. She crossed her right leg over her left leg and demanded, “Who are you?”

  The drinks arrived. I reached for my beer as if it was the culmination of every thought I’d had since my eyes first greeted the day. Renée kept her guarded, yet curious, eyes on me.

  “I’m—”

  “How do you know about Renée Sutherland?”

  “I—”

  “Are you with a law agency?”

  I took a slow drink. I gazed out toward the sparkling waters of the Gulf of Mexico. Above the gulf, a highway of birds kept vigilant watch for any fish foolish enough to approach the surface. I turned back to her. Her eyes were waiting for me.

  She cocked her head. “Sorry.” She reached for her chardonnay and took a sip, seemed to consider whether to place it back down or not, and went in for seconds. “I’ve been,” she gave a dismissive shake of her head, “under a lot of stress.” She arched her eyebrows. “That’s a colossal understatement.”

  “My condolences for your father.”

  “You knew him?”

  “Only briefly. If I’d been on my guard a little more, you would still have him. I…”

  Nothing accentuated my failure to protect Donald Lambert as much as having to face his daughter. It had been foolish of me to not prepare for this moment with her. Her presence amplified the poignancy of my failure.

  “I’m sure you did what you—”

  “I could have done better.” I bitterly cut her off. “How did you learn?”

  She briefly explained that after her father didn’t return phone calls, she’d called the police, who confirmed his death. After that she went underground, afraid to talk to anyone.

  “My question stands.” She used her elbows to shift higher into the chair. “I got your messages on the WAP members’ board, but who are you?”

  I told her I was a contract worker for the government looking into Paretsky’s affairs. She listened without comment. I kept it brief. I doubt she fell for half of it.

  “Do you know where he is?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “Positive?”

  “Not a clue.”

  “Hungry?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Would you like lunch?”

  “I could use a bite.”

  Thank God.

  I leaned in and snatched a menu for her. We ordered fish tacos and iced tea with lemon. I kicked off my sandals, offered a silent prayer for the food to come quickly, and said, “What’s your story?”


  “What do you want to know?”

  “Alexander Paretsky.”

  She took a supportive sip from her wineglass, placed it back on the wooden counter, and uncrossed her legs. I reached over the bar, grabbed a few cardboard coasters, and scattered them in front of us.

  “I met him, Alexander—Alex—a year or so ago. Charming. Rich. Polite. Considerate. Smart. Got the snapshot? I enjoyed his company, although he was more into me than I was into him.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Renée’s lips curled up in a smile that disappeared just as quick. “We know. Trust me.” She seemed to consider me and then added, “Don’t worry, that’s the way we like it.”

  Am I that transparent?

  “Alex and I were staying in his London flat. It was a beautiful Sunday, early summer. He asked if I wanted to go to a carnival. Alex, for a man so twisted, was…so romantic. He said that Sundays in June were the best days of the year, and Sunday morning the best part of the day.” She shook her head and studied her glass. “How do you even reconcile that with the monster he was? Looking back, I really had no clue. We ended up at Granville Estate. Because you posed online as Renée Sutherland, I assume, Mr. Tra—”

  “It’s Jake.”

  “I assume, Jake, that you know about Cardinal Antinori?”

  “I did my homework. I also had a lengthy conversation with Cynthia Richardson.”

  “You met with Cynthia?” Her eyes widened.

  “I did.”

  “Where?”

  “At the estate and later in London.”

  “When?”

  “Recently.”

  “Why?”

  “To see if the murder of your father had anything to do with the murder of Cardinal Antinori.”

  “Did you meet her daughter?”

  “Lizzy.”

  “She’s named after my mother. Do you know that?”

  “So I learned.”

  She brushed back strands of hair that had escaped her right shoulder. She had a mole, a Hershey’s pellet, just below her left ear. “Did Cynthia tell you about my mother and the cardinal?”

  “Only that they exchanged harsh words when your mother visited two years ago. I understand that you lost her around six months ago.”

  “Yes, she was troubled…had been for a long time. I wouldn’t exactly say they exchanged harsh words. My mother, from what she told me, planted her feet and screamed in the good cardinal’s face. I doubt in his life he’d ever uttered anything that he thought bore resemblance to harshness. That, you see, was part of the issue.”

  The fish tacos arrived. Each plate held three lined up on a stainless-steel rack. I took a shark bite out of one of mine. She was more considerate of hers.

  “Alex and the carnival,” I prompted her rudely when she was in midchew.

  She finished at her own pace. “Alex said…excuse me.” She paused for a sip of iced tea. “He said he knew the cardinal and that he was a financial supporter of his works. But when we pulled into the estate, he told me that he went by the name of Mr. Hoover—you know, like the vacuum cleaner? Said I needed to play along. I asked why, and he just chuckled and said because he erased all the dirt. But that day changed everything. After the cardinal had private words with me, I knew, or at the very least was highly suspicious, that Alex was not the romantic Sunday-morning man I thought he was.”

  “What were your thoughts when he told you he went by another name?”

  “He traveled a lot internationally; it wasn’t like we were together twenty-four-seven, so I just went with it.” She paused, and I gave myself an A for not barging in. I wondered if she was good for all three of her fish tacos. Mine were disappearing like a plate of glazed donut holes at a Boy Scout meeting. “But I knew it was wrong,” she continued. “You know, those nagging feelings you get but pay no attention to?” Her words drifted off, and I had a good idea where her mind was sailing. Renée Lambert’s actions and decisions had resulted in the death of her father. We would have to cross that river.

  “Strike you as an odd pair, Antinori and Paretsky?”

  “You notice the physical resemblance?”

  “Perhaps. Both slight men.” I also recalled the almost feminine eyebrows both men had. I harbored deeper suspicions—my snowflakes were piling up fast. I gave her the opportunity to share my suspicions.

  “Did Alex divulge anything else about his relationship with Antinori?”

  “Like what?”

  “Any passions, pastimes, commonalities?”

  “Not really.” She didn’t take the bait. “I didn’t think they were friends as much as they were acquaintances. Alex was a lot younger and certainly wasn’t the church type. My mother, who shared most everything with me, had already poisoned me about the late cardinal. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to meet him.”

  “Poisoned you?”

  “She said Antinori said some horrible things to her as a child when he counseled her over the death of her childhood friend, Renée Sutherland. Things that, although she was never specific with me, she never got out of her head. I’ve always blamed him for her madness. The church planted a disease in her mind, and it festered and eventually, despite her best efforts, took her. When Alex introduced us, I cut him off; the words just spit out of my mouth. I proclaimed myself Elizabeth Lambert’s daughter. Told him that I was named after Renée Sutherland, and what do you think of that?”

  “How did that fly?”

  “I rang his—no, I ruffled his feathers. Right? I can tell you this: he was one dazed cardinal.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Paretsky or Antinori?’

  I shrugged. “Both.”

  She raised her left index finger as if to signal to give her a minute. She stuffed the remains of the second taco into her mouth. I took the occasion to finish my third. She rinsed hers down with wine.

  “Antinori first. He apologized. Tripped over his words. Said he tried to explain to my mother, to make up. He seemed horrified that I was with Alex. And Alex? Baffled. Just stood there.”

  “I’m not following. Paretsky didn’t know you had family connections to Cardinal Antinori and Granville Estate?”

  “No. I mean, I thought about telling him, you know, on the drive up, but I didn’t. No way…” She shook her head. “No way of knowing what would have happened if I had told him. Maybe he would have turned around. You have no idea how many times I’ve played that in my head. I should have told him on the way there. Maybe he…” Her jaw tightened.

  “Don’t,” I said, but the river was upon us.

  “Maybe he would have changed his mind. My actions killed my father, not your lack of guard.”

  “There’s no way of—”

  “Oh, please,” she flared up. “If I had told Alex on the way to Granville Estate that my family had some history there? He would have spun on a dime. But I didn’t. No reason. Just didn’t. Terrible, isn’t it?” She had been staring past me, but now her eyes focused on mine. “That something so…so defining, so ending, could be caused by something so casual. An omission, a slip…not even an act or words, but merely the lack of either.”

  I reached out and touched her left shoulder. “It does no good.” I thought I should and could do better, but sometimes all I’ve got just isn’t that much. Maybe I should adopt Porky Pig as my mascot, and when people look to me expecting more I can just roll out, “That’s all, folks!”

  I withdrew my hand from my awkward gesture, shifted my weight, and drained my beer. I pushed my plate away. I don’t tolerate a dirty plate in front of me on a table. Renée reached into a small handbag and dabbed her face with a tissue.

  “What happened?” I said and leaned into her. “The private words you mentioned. What did Antinori say on the grounds of Granville Estate that caused you to reevaluate Paretsky?”

  “I need a minute. The restrooms?”

  I told her where, and then, like in the song, I watched Renée walk away.

  What if she didn’t
come back?

  Worse than that—what if she didn’t hold the key to why Cardinal Antinori used me to kill him? I had one person pegged as my last hope in the event that Renée came up short. Someone whose measured words to me indicated not only a conflicted mind but also, I’d convinced myself, a desire to tell me.

  CHAPTER 39

  I fidgeted and kept an eye on the door, as if that would do any good. The bartender cleared my plate. I told her to leave Renée’s as it still held a surviving fish taco, which I greatly coveted. I ordered another round.

  A man with a cane came through the door. I recalled sharing a raspberry parfait over glasses of chardonnay with Kathleen at Les Deux Magots and observing a man with a cane. The Caned Man, she had named him. I wondered if someday I would be a man with a cane strolling through a hotel door. If, one day, young lovers at a sidewalk café would observe me with distant curiosity.

  Two animated teenage girls were next.

  A man and a small boy.

  Renée.

  She strode toward me, tall and poised, with a natural swing in her arms. There was a lot of plastic skin around the pools and the beach, and that made it a relief to look at her. If nearly every woman is wearing a bikini, then the one that draws the eyes is the one in the shorts and button-down shirt. You never know when one of life’s great truisms will unveil itself to you. I’d have to pass that on to Morgan. He’s a great scholar of the gospels.

  She reclaimed her seat, nodded at the new glass of chardonnay that was already sweating, and said, “Thank you.”

  “You were saying?”

  “Where were we?”

  “The grounds of Gran—”

  “Right. Alex and I drifted apart, and Antinori was upon me. Grabbed my arm and told me that Mr. Hoover was a very dangerous man and I needed to get away from him. He said I needed to run. Run away.”

  I recalled telling Kathleen the same thing and reined that thought in before it took a dark turn.

  “Did he say anything more specific?”

  “He gushed apologies about my mother but said he was doing me a great favor by divulging that Mr. Hoover was a sick man. Told me only God could save him. We ended up behind the high striker—you know, you swing a big hammer and try to ring the bell? I think Antinori sensed my skepticism. Unsolicited, he gave me dates that Alex had traveled. Cities he’d been to. Knew he’d recently made a couple of round trips down to Key West, where he kept a boat. I told him that I knew him as Alexander Paretsky.”