by Howard Fast
He looked around the room, trying to remember what he had touched. Where had he left fingerprints? On the desk? He wiped the desktop with his handkerchief, scattering the ashes of the letter on the floor. He tried the desk drawer, but it was locked. Decades ago, when he had been a sheriff, he had learned something about crime, but not much. He wiped the doorknob clean. Why hadn’t he worn gloves? What else had he touched? The chair? He wiped the chair arms. He was drenched in sweat now, in spite of the air-conditioning that kept the room at a temperature of seventy degrees. Where was the rush, the cocaine-like high he remembered?
Then he went through Castle’s pockets, and sure enough, there was the key. His hand was shaking as he opened the drawer. It contained a leather-bound date book, some papers clipped together. He went through them quickly, then dropped them to pick up a sheet of paper folded in half. This was pay dirt, the copy of the letter Castle had given him.
“Hallelujah!” Larry exclaimed. “Blessings to God or the Devil—I don’t give a fuck which!” Then he burned it where he had burned the other copy.
He opened the door and looked around. Still, no sign of anyone. Then he remembered the athletic bag with the money in it. How could he have forgotten it? He picked up the bag and zipped it closed.
All he desired at the moment was to get out of there. He closed the door behind him, walked a few steps, and then remembered fingerprints. He ran back and wiped the outside doorknob clean. Then he walked down the driveway, trying not to hurry, tossed the bag into his trunk, got into the car and drove off. The rush had finally come.
Thirty-one
Before Donna, the upstairs maid, came into the kitchen, she peeped into the master bedroom and saw that Sally was sleeping soundly. That was about eight-thirty. She vaguely registered the sound of a car starting, thinking that possibly that was Mr. Castle off to the club for golf. The coffeemaker was half full, so Josie must have made coffee and taken a cup either into the study or to the pool-house office. Dickie, as she well knew, having discussed it with Josie the night before, was spending the night in the local jail, and a very good thing she thought it. She would at least have a day without fending off Dickie’s pats on her behind or her breasts.
She went to the door and brought in the papers, the New York Times and the Greenwich Time. Both the Times and Time were delivered at about seven, but the local paper went to press too early to have anything about Dickie’s escapade. Disappointed, she poured a cup of coffee, warmed a croissant, flooded it with butter, and settled down to Ann Landers and then Liz Smith in the local paper.
Donna enjoyed the morning hour. Usually, Sally was not up before nine, and during the week, more often than not, Mr. Castle was off to New York by seven-thirty. It fell on Josie to prepare his coffee, orange juice, and whatever else he might desire. Since this was a Saturday morning, which meant brunch on the terrace instead of a series of breakfasts, Donna had at least an hour to drink her coffee and eat her croissant and read the morning paper in peace. On the other hand, thinking of the blessed absence of Dickie, she concluded that she had been unfair to Mr. Castle in her thinking. He was probably off to the police station to pay Dickie’s fine. I don’t know why, she said to herself, the way he talks to his father. I’d let him stay there for a day or two. It might do him good.
At nine-thirty, dressed in blue jeans and a T-shirt, Sally came into the kitchen and said to Donna: “Isn’t it a perfectly beautiful day! I opened my eyes and I just couldn’t think of staying in bed. I feel so worthless when I oversleep, don’t you, Donna?”
“My ambition is a whole day in bed.”
“Oh, you should be ashamed.” Sally would never dare talk to Donna like this if Castle were present.
“With Mr. Right,” Donna said, laughing.
“Do you know where Mr. Castle is?”
“I think I heard him take off about an hour ago.”
“Then he went to get Dickie, thank God.”
“That’s what I thought, Mrs. Castle. Do you want some juice and coffee?”
“I’d love it.”
“I’ll make a fresh pot.”
“Don’t bother. There’s enough left for me, and the kitchen—it’s already such a mess. I’m glad Mr. Castle wasn’t in here. You know how he hates a mess.”
“I know, and if Josie doesn’t get in here soon, I’ll start.” She poured the juice and coffee. Sally took a sip of the orange juice. She could never get used to the pleasure of having fresh-squeezed orange juice waiting for her in the morning. She disliked ordering the servants to do anything, but Josie should have been in here, and she said to Donna, “Please, dear, see if you can find Josie.”
“Sure, Mrs. Castle. I’ll even go upstairs and look in her room.” Like Josie, she adored Sally, who always said please, even with the smallest request. Donna wandered around the house, first to Josie’s room and then through the other rooms and even the basement.
“The only place I haven’t looked,” she reported to Sally, “is in the pool-house office. But what would she be doing there if Mr. Castle has gone downtown?”
“I don’t know, but why don’t you run out there and see, please, dear.”
A minute later, Sally heard Donna screaming.
Thirty-two
Monsignor Donovan was waiting for Joe Hunt, Abel’s son, on the steps of the church that Saturday morning. “I must thank you for allowing me to spoil a beautiful morning. It was good of you to come.”
“No problem,” Joe said. “A nerd is a nerd. That’s my priority.”
“I must ask this,” Donovan said, somewhat reluctantly, “I must ask that this be in complete confidence. If you can’t accept that, then we can’t go ahead.”
“No problem,” Joe repeated. “My lips are sealed.”
“Good.” He led Joe into the office where the church computer was kept. “What I’d like you to do,” Donovan said, “is to find out all you can about Richard Bush Castle. You know—the man who gave the dinner last night. He is, I believe, about sixty-two or -three years old and he’s an investment banker with an office in New York. At some time or another, he had a connection of some sort with the Jesuits. That’s a Catholic order of priests. I’m a Jesuit myself. So you have various paths to follow. I must assure you that none of this has any malign purpose. He has given our church a very generous gift, and I must know whether, in all good conscience, I can accept it. Again, I tell you this in confidence that you will repeat nothing we find.”
“You have my word, Monsignor.”
Joe sat down and flicked on the computer. It began to buzz as they waited, and Joe remarked, “You need a new model, something state of the art. This is a tired old man.”
“But it works?”
“Oh, yes, it works. This will take a few minutes to connect to the Web … And here we are, Richard Bush Castle. No relation to the Bush family. Born in Tedman, Georgia. Born 1935. Business administration, Berea College, law degree, Georgetown University, Assistant Secretary of State 1980–1989 … let’s try that link. Hmm … Not much more here. Ah, wait … Archbishop Oscar Romero, assassinated in March 1980, in San Salvador. Castle was working in the State Department then. I’ll try San Salvador.”
His fingers laced over the keys. “Wow! Thank God I live in Greenwich. Six Jesuits murdered in cold blood. Here’s a long statement by Daniel Berrigan. I’ll print all of this out for you. State Department accused. Another statement by Peter Winch, Workers’ Party, and here’s Mr. Castle up to his neck in it. He denies all accusations, calling them utterly absurd and Peter Winch is a liar and his party a communist front. This is part of a long story in the Washington Post. I won’t try to read it to you. I’ll print it out. I’m putting all of this on a disk, so you have it if you want it.”
“Try the Vatican,” Donovan said softly.
“The Vatican,” Joe repeated. “Whoa! There’s enough here to fill a row of books. Let’s see if I can narrow it down. OK, now here’s something. Shall I read it?”
“No. Is it
a condemnation?” the monsignor asked hoarsely. He was standing at the window, gazing across the churchyard.
“Seems to be.”
“Just print it out.”
“Eyewitness reports, in the Vatican section.”
“I want all of them. Print it.”
There were a few seconds of silence as Joe scrolled down the statements.
“Try Honduras, priests—Catholics.”
“Two missionary priests missing. Believed murdered by the contras. An Indian woman bears witness. That’s a story in the New York Times. You want it?”
“Yes, please.”
Moments passed, and then Joe said, “Here’s Castle again. A hearing by a subcommittee of Congress, Latterbe Johnson, chairman. Castle completely cleared of any involvement in the murder of the Jesuits. A small piece on the back page of the Washington Post. I’ll print it.”
There was no word from the monsignor, standing at the window, his back to Joe.
“I can go on searching,” Joe said. “I might be able to find out how this Latterbe Johnson fits in and why he’s defending Castle.”
“I think I have enough,” Donovan said.
“This Castle character’s something. When I was at his house last night he seemed like a decent guy. His wife tipped me fifty dollars. But I never knew he was involved in all this Washington business. Don’t worry, sir, I’ll keep my mouth shut. I’ll stick around until we’re through printing, just in case the printer goes haywire. You know, sometimes it does.”
“Thanks, Joe.” Donovan reached into his pocket. “How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing. You pay me for teaching you. This was just an exercise to see how much this old crock could spit out. Not too bad for an old Macintosh. In some ways, they’re pretty good.”
Thirty-three
Dickie Castle was aggrieved, and not without reason. Here it was, well into the morning, and he was still in the holding cell at the police station, sharing it with a man sound asleep in a drunken stupor.
“Where’s my dad?” he yelled. “Where’s my breakfast? What are you trying to do, starve me? Hey, somebody!”
A cop appeared with a tray—toast, coffee, jam, and an apple.
“This is my breakfast?” Dickie exclaimed indignantly.
“An apple a day keeps the doctor away. What do you want, Dickie? Steak and potatoes?”
Pointing to the sleeping drunk, Dickie said, “He pissed and shit all over the place. I can’t stand the smell.”
“My heart goes out to you,” the cop said.
“Why can’t I wait somewhere else?”
“Because you committed a crime, Dickie. You assaulted a nice young lady. Anyway, Frank Manelli is coming over here in a little while, and if you were out here, he might just beat the shit out of you before we could stop him.” The cop smiled. He knew that Manelli was coming down to drop the charges, but he saw no reason to extend that little bit of comfort to Dickie.
“Fuck you!” Dickie yelled. “Fuck you and fuck Frank Manelli!”
“Someday, Dickie,” the cop said, “that mouth of yours is going to get you into a lot of trouble, a lot of trouble.”
Thirty-four
Larry drove away from the Castle place with the comfortable feeling that no one had seen him come or go. He was still riding the high of the double killing, with only one worry—that perhaps there had been another copy of the letter. But even if a copy existed—and he did not believe that it did exist—it meant nothing. It was eight forty-five, and by ten o’clock, he would be in his room at the Waldorf. He had left a Do Not Disturb sign on the door.
He had intended to drive to Route 120A and then to 128 south, which would not only take him over the New Croton Reservoir, but would allow him to throw the gun and the ID cards into the water without getting out of the car. Drummond had been very rigid on the matter of getting rid of the gun and cards as soon as possible after the killing, but if he did that, there was the long chance that a cop might stop him for one reason or another. He was in a hurry. He wanted to get back to the Waldorf, and once he had been seen, to take the next shuttle back to Washington. The CIA identification would justify the gun, while with no identification at all, he might well end up in some local jail.
He made his decision and headed for the Round Hill entrance to the Merritt Parkway. He maintained his speed at precisely fifty-five miles per hour, and precisely fifty minutes after he left the Castle pool-house office, he came off the West Side highway, drove to the car-rental garage, wiped his fingerprints off the wheel, and walked to the Waldorf. He congratulated himself. Everything had gone as smooth as silk, and he was a man now with poise and power. He felt newly alive; he was different; he walked differently. He had not given his room key to the desk clerk, and even at this hour of the morning, the great lobby of the Waldorf was crowded. In his light suit, no one noticed him, a tall, well-built man with white hair, an athletic bag slung over his shoulder. There were tall, well-built men with white hair wherever one looked. He remembered that one of the first things he must do in his room was to cut the ID cards into small pieces and flush them down the toilet. He had decided to keep the gun and the ID until the last moment. He would get rid of the gun on his way to the plane.
Then he was at the door to his room. He opened it, and there was Drummond, sitting in the lounge chair, with a gun and silencer on his lap.
“Close the door, Larry,” he said.
After the first shock at seeing Drummond, Larry burst out, “How the hell did you get in here?”
“Doors are not an obstacle, Larry. You know that. I came to hear you say, Mission complete.”
“What’s the gun for?”
“In case it was not you, Larry.”
“You can’t kill someone in the Waldorf just because they walk into a room. Suppose it was the maid?”
“Why not? It’s been done.”
“Are you nuts?”
Smiling, Drummond said, “Calm down, Larry. Did you take care of Castle?”
“He’s dead.”
Raising the pistol—fitted with a silencer, as Larry noted—Drummond said, “So are you, Larry.”
“Come on, enough of that, Hugh. You’re not going to kill me.”
“Why not?”
Larry was terrified. In all his life, he had never been so frightened. His heart was beating wildly, and thoughts were racing through his mind. Should he go for the gun in his jacket pocket? No way to get it out quickly enough. Should he dive at Drummond and take his chances? He was younger than Drummond. If the shot missed him, he could deal with Drummond with his bare hands. But Drummond would not miss. He had practiced pistol shooting at Drummond’s place many times. Larry was a good shot, but Drummond was better.
“What sense does it make to kill me?”
“The same sense it made for you to kill Castle. Year two thousand, I’ll be governor of my state. That puts you in a position where you can destroy me. I can’t live with that hanging over me.”
“Why should I destroy you?” Larry asked desperately.
“For the same reason you’re clinging to that bag. Castle offered money. You took the money and killed him.”
Larry had forgotten that the athletic bag was in his hand. He dropped it now.
“You’re a fool, Larry. You’d kill your own mother for money. There’s nothing you wouldn’t do for money. But you’re an asshole. You could have gotten twice what’s in that bag if you had played it right. Castle has millions. He’d go on paying for the rest of his life.”
At that point, Larry decided to move. He flung himself, not at Drummond, but at an angle, as a football player tackles a man, ripping the gun out of his pocket as he slid across the floor. Drummond’s shot tore through Larry’s neck, severing the carotid artery, but Larry’s shot struck Drummond between the eyes. Larry bled to death, staring at Drummond’s dead body.
Thirty-five
Driving from the Greenes’ to Stamford, where they intended to inform Nellie’s parents
of their marital intentions, Nellie asked David, “Why didn’t you ever tell me that you were Jewish?”
“Come on, you always knew I was Jewish.”
“I knew your father was born Jewish but was some kind of agnostic.”
“Lots of Jews are agnostic. It comes with circumcision,” David replied, adding, “I’m sorry. That’s a smart-ass remark that I rescind.”
“OK,” Nellie agreed. “But I always heard that Jewish descent goes through the mother. And your mother is a pious Catholic; your sister, too. Your mother said that when you were eleven or twelve, you decided that you were Jewish.”
“That’s right.”
“Does that make you Jewish?” Nellie wondered.
“Why shouldn’t it? My mom is a remarkable woman. She never said a word against it. She said, David; if you want to be a Jew, fine. If you ever change your mind, that’s all right, too.”
“But you were baptized.”
“And circumcised.”
“So are most of the Christian kids I know.”
“Why this sudden interest in religion? I’m as much of a Jew as you are a Catholic.”
“But my mother and father are Catholic,” Nellie protested.
“But you never go to mass, not even on Christmas. I go to mass on Christmas because the whole family goes. My father goes grudgingly, and he always takes a book with him to read. I think that’s pushing it too far, but if my mom isn’t annoyed, why should I be? That doesn’t make me any more of a Catholic. You’re the smartest, most compassionate and beautiful woman in Greenwich—”
“Oh, don’t bullshit me like that, David, please!”
“All right, so you’re too tall and bony and gawky. Whatever you like.”