I nod, totally engrossed in this story.
“She told them she had not and asked them respectfully to leave the school, because there were younger children still on the premises. The way Mr. Rodriguez tells it, the way she talked to these gangbangers was just so cool—very calm, not angry. Anyway, they left, and she went to the cloakroom. She brought Mr. Rodriguez over to the convent and fed him dinner. The nuns told him he could stay in the caretaker’s quarters if he was too afraid to go home. He was.
“The next day, he found out his four-year-old sister had been killed. It was those same guys, in a drive-by. They didn’t intend to kill her, but it was still horrible. Mr. Rodriguez was in a rage—he was going to get even with these guys, he said, kill them and their families.
“But your sister sat him down. Somehow, she convinced him that he wouldn’t honor his family if he perpetuated violence. Instead, he should make his life matter.
“She didn’t just talk—she made some calls. She got him a spot at Woodside Priory, the boarding school down in the Peninsula. He went on to college and studied hotel management, and eventually he wound up running this hotel. He’s a lay minister at St. Peter’s, where he works with at-risk youths—that’s where I met him. Mr. Rodriguez is such a wonderful man—it’s so hard to believe he was involved in a gang when he was a kid. But anyway, meeting your sister the other day was pretty cool. She’s a legend around here.”
“I had no idea,” I say. I really hadn’t. All my life, I thought Honey had escaped our chaotic family to live a more comfortable life, sequestered from life’s hard choices and harder consequences. But she hadn’t done that at all; she’d left to make a difference, to change lives.
And I realize that while I’ve been listening to Ryan’s story, thinking about all of the hard things Mr. Rodriguez had been through, all of the negative thoughts I’ve had since being stood up at the restaurant have gone away.
“Were you in jail?” I suddenly ask. I almost immediately regret my question.
Ryan rubs the faded tattoo by his eye. “Yeah, I was. I’ve been out five years, though.” He looks at me sheepishly. “I tried to have this removed, but it’s going to take a few more treatments. I put makeup over it in the morning, but it wears off by the end of the day. I know what you’re thinking: A tear means you murdered someone.” He shakes his head. “I didn’t. I was in for drugs; just got the tattoo so I could look tough.”
I nod. Thank goodness.
“What’s prison like?” I ask, just in case I wind up there myself one day.
“Awful. Scary,” he says. “It’s funny, though. I wasn’t in a gang, and honestly, no gang wanted me, a big nice white boy with a decent education. But I helped in the computer lab, and they all wanted help in the computer lab. And I’m nice and personable, and eventually I just made friends—friends with some of the worst badasses around. Anyway, Mr. Rodriguez gave me a shot working at the front desk when I got out, and then I worked my way up to valet,” he says proudly.
“Good for you, Ryan,” I say.
“And,” he adds, with a laugh, “if you ever find the need for a hit man, I know several guys who could do it.” He gives me a quick wink and refills my wine glass.
I laugh. “I got stood up at dinner tonight, but I’m not ready to resort to murder just yet.”
After I finish eating, Ryan takes my plate away and tidies up before leaving the suite. I take my wine and head out to the balcony for a smoke. The night air is damp and clear tonight, and I find myself thinking about Ryan’s story and how easy my life has been. Why have I been so ungrateful? What if I’d been caught at my old job in Tulsa? I’d have wound up in jail, just like Ryan, and I would have had to work my way up from a hotel front desk.
I’m still a bit on the fence about God and Catholicism, but I clearly need to rethink my life’s purpose. I need to help people. Spiro needs my help; he just doesn’t want it. He’s a chicken. Yes, I made a promise to Spiro, but I also made promises to Kathy Westmoreland and Mrs. Cosmo. Two against one.
I’m not worried, either. You don’t know what Mauriello’s capable of. I’ll be back in Houston in a couple of days. What’s he going to do? Travel to Houston and beat me up like he beat up Doug? Let him try. Rocky will eat him for breakfast. He likes Italian food.
I know how to deal with a fraudster. I know how they think. And Archbishop Mauriello, I know, is no match for me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Wednesday Morning
October 4 is the feast day of the patron saint of San Francisco, St. Francis of Assisi, who founded the Franciscan order in the thirteenth century. He is known for his generosity and servitude to the poor, as well as for his deep love for animals. When I was a student at St. Geronimo’s, we were allowed to bring our pets to school on the Feast of St. Francis so they could receive a blessing from the parish priest.
Another San Franciscan feast-day tradition is to have the archbishop personally hear confession at St. Mary’s Cathedral.
I arrive early, wearing a long black lace mantilla, and I sit in the back of the church rehearsing what I will say. I see Mauriello make his way to the confessional, and several eager penitents begin to line up. Once the archbishop is inside, I make my way to the line and wait my turn, wondering how this will play out. If I’m successful, Spiro will come home. If I’m not—I don’t want to think about that. If I’m not, I’ll cross my fingers and hope that the FBI will somehow come through.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” I say to the screen. “It has been almost two weeks since my last confession. These are my sins: I stole money. Lots of money.”
“Go on,” says Mauriello, after a pause.
“I took checks made out to this charity I work for,” I say. “We sometimes get big donations from corporate donors, and I deposit them into a special account to which I alone have access.”
I wait. Silence.
“How I steal this money is very clever,” I say. “I call my special account a building fund. Its name looks just like the name of this charity, so no one gets suspicious when they get their canceled check back.”
Still nothing, but I detect deeper breathing.
“That’s not all, Father,” I say. “I manipulated the accountant of the charity for years. Had an affair. He left his wife for me. Then he started getting depressed, you know. And frankly, Father—and I hate saying this—I got a little tired of the guy, but what could I do? This accountant knew what I was doing and might have turned me in. He kept, like, threatening to kill himself, and honestly, I kind of hoped he would.”
The deep breathing continues from behind the screen.
“It got really bad, all that harping on me and all the pressure,” I say. “I bought him a gun, told him it would be good for him to have in case he needed it for protection. Then one day, he left work early and sent me this awful note. He said I’d ruined his life. He even said he’d save me a seat in Hell. Can you imagine that, Father? So I went over to his apartment. We talked, he cried. Then he got out the gun and shot himself. I could have stopped him. I could have called someone, but I didn’t. And actually seeing him dead—it was a relief.”
I hear just breathing and no words from behind the screen.
“But now I’m haunted with guilt,” I continue. “I wonder who knows and what would happen if people found out. Suppose there was a surveillance tape at the accountant’s building, and it had captured me coming and going right then at that exact time? What if one of the donors looked closer at that returned check and realized the endorsement was ever so slightly different from the operating account? What would happen to me, Father, if someone knew?”
He doesn’t answer this question.
“I am sorry for these and all of my sins,” I say, and then I recite the Act of Contrition and wait for my penance.
“My child,” he says, his voice hoarse. “These sins are very serious, and I wonder if we can meet face-to-face and discuss them at length.”
We agree to meet at the diocese
at 3:00 p.m., and with that, I get up and quickly walk toward the cathedral exit.
The archdiocese offices are just a couple of blocks from the cathedral, but I go back to my suite to change clothes and prep for this pivotal meeting. I haven’t told Honey what I’m up to, because I don’t want to get her into trouble if this backfires. This is stressful, and I find myself smoking on the balcony, rehearsing what I’ll say in all conceivable scenarios. Mauriello doesn’t know that Honey is my sister or that any of the nuns have been involved in the investigation. At best, if he’s guessed who I am through the confessional screen, then he only knows me as that pagan baby’s coworker who kicked his bunky all over the front nine at the Olympic Club.
At ten minutes to three, I arrive at the archdiocese offices. The signs direct me to the eastern corner of the second floor, where Mauriello’s admin is busy at her computer. The nameplate reads Maria Varanis, and she’s a stunning Greek girl of no more than twenty years old. I think about what Honey said about the young nuns working for Mauriello. I wonder how aware she is of her boss’s unseemly behavior. I wonder if she’s already a victim.
“I’m here to see Archbishop Mauriello,” I say.
“I’m sorry, Ms….?”
“Lewis,” I tell her.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Lewis. The archbishop is hearing confession at the cathedral today. He will not be in until tomorrow,” she says, just as the door bursts open and Mauriello storms in.
When I turn to face him, he can’t altogether hide his look of shock.
“Hello, Tanzie,” he says, calming himself. “It is so good to see you again.”
“Likewise,” I say. “Thank you for making time to see me. I know how busy you must be.”
Mauriello ushers me into his office and then shuts the door. He gestures to a chair that faces his massive Spanish carved wooden desk. The office is tasteful, with lovely religious art on the walls. I am drawn to a particular piece behind Mauriello’s desk. I suppress a gasp. It has been close to forty years since I’ve seen it, but I am sure it is the one I was looking for just over a week ago, when I’d first returned to St. Geronimo’s to confess my sins. It’s the icon that our neighbor, Mrs. Vavuris, donated to Saint Geronimo’s of the Blessed Mother and Child.
“What do you want?” Mauriello asks bluntly. His charm seems to have worn away, and I have a feeling I am now sitting with the Jersey street thug of his youth.
“I’d like to have Father Spiro Cosmo reassigned back to Saint Geronimo’s.”
“May I ask how you know Father Spiro?” Mauriello glares at me when he says this.
“I don’t know him,” I lie. “I know his mother. She is old, and she wants her son close by.”
Mauriello shrugs. “What else?”
I think about this.
“I’d like that icon behind your desk,” I say.
Mauriello cocks his head. Clearly, the expectation was that I was here to blackmail serious bucks from the guy.
“All right,” he says. “Is that it?”
“Yes,” I say. “That’s it. I don’t want your money.”
“How do I know you aren’t going to come back later and want more?”
“You don’t,” I tell him, “but I really don’t think I’m asking too much, given the circumstances. Do you?”
“No,” Mauriello replies. “I suppose I should ask you what actual evidence you have.”
I am prepared for this question. I do not want to tell him anything about Spiro and Honey.
“I have a canceled check from Westwind that was deposited into your building fund,” I say. “It’s not a very original scheme, but I wasn’t entirely sure, because I haven’t seen the bank activity. I looked up St. Benedict’s financials on their website and didn’t see a building fund, so I took a chance. And obviously I’m right, since you invited me back here.”
He frowns. “What about Tina? How did you know that?”
I am not willing to tell Mauriello that we have Tina’s computer and access to the diocese files. Instead, I smile and elect to fall back on my twelve years of Catholic education for inspiration.
“It came to me in a vision,” I tell him.
Mauriello says nothing.
“I think my requests are fairly reasonable,” I say. “I’m not asking for you to turn yourself in or give anything back. I just want my friend’s son close by.”
“And you want the icon,” Mauriello adds.
“Yes,” I say. “For the church.”
Mauriello shakes his head. This is so much better than he expected.
“Tanzie,” he says, “you have a deal.”
He stands up, lifts the mosaic off its hanger, and hands it to me. The art is heavier than I thought it would be, but I think I’ll manage to get it back to where it belongs without damage. “You can expect Spiro to be back at St. Geronimo’s tomorrow morning.”
“One more thing,” I say as I’m heading out. “You cheat at golf.”
Mauriello says nothing. The door behind me slams shut.
On the way out, I stop at the startled admin’s desk. “Maria,” I say. “Stay away from that man. He is a soul crusher. He is Satan.”
Maria bites her lip. My advice comes too late, it seems.
Once in the cab back to the hotel, I remove my iPhone from my blazer pocket. I smile as the recording plays. Surely, this conversation will spur action on the part of a reluctant FBI. If they still aren’t interested, then the San Francisco Chronicle will be. Either way, Archbishop Mauriello is done.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Wednesday Evening
It’s my last night in San Francisco, and while I’d like to spend it with my sisters, Mark has invited Sandy and me to join him for dinner. I agree to have my sisters over for breakfast at the suite in the morning. Even on the advent of busting up a major kickback scheme and in the middle of a culinary wonderland, Mark celebrates with his trademark fiduciary restraint and takes us to a little Italian place he spotted while out on his morning jog. He orders a carafe of the house red for the three of us.
“You know,” he says, “it’s actually cheaper than us each ordering separately.”
Sandy and I nod as Mark distributes the vino.
“So, are the execs going to have Doug and Marshall arrested?” I ask.
“Eventually,” Mark says. “But first they will get them out of our offices. That’s the priority at the moment. Brian will speak to Marshall and Doug privately and then call in Legal and HR to handle the administrative piece. Then there will be a town hall meeting of all the Westwind employees, where Brian will introduce the interim president.”
“So, what will you be doing?” Sandy asks Mark.
“Watching from the sidelines.” He shrugs. “At least I get to go. The company jet is scheduled to land around nine thirty. They told me it will all be over by noon, so you gals be sure to be checked out and ready to go by then.”
“Absolutely,” I say, and Sandy nods in agreement. We clink our glasses over our sensibly priced entrées.
We arrive back at the Hyatt a little after eight. Sandy wants to go clubbing, but Mark and I aren’t interested.
“I have work to do,” he tells her in a tone indicating he does not want to be involved with Sandy’s legendary escapades, and he heads toward the elevator. I am somewhat conflicted on this issue. Watching Sandy in action at some swank San Francisco bar could be entertaining, but the thought of acting as her pathetic wingwoman only depresses me. At my age, I have zero interest in a one-night stand; even if I did, the odds are definitely against me. I can’t seem to sustain the interest of an older Welsh mechanical engineer, after all.
“I’m heading up to my room,” I tell her. “I want to hear all about it tomorrow.”
Once in the elevator, I reflect on the past week. Exhausting, I think. Tomorrow, this will all be behind me. Marshall and Doug will get what they deserve, and once I turn over the iPhone recording to Honey, Mauriello won’t be far behind. I am so ready to get back to H
ouston. To Rocky, my own bed, my cubicle at work, and the routine of everyday life. Tomorrow I’ll be home, chipping balls at the club after work. I simply can’t wait.
The suite is dark when I open the door. The drapes have been drawn so that the light from the night sky doesn’t filter in like it usually does. I flick on the light. One of the living-room curtains is waving in the wind. I must have left the balcony door open, although I don’t remember doing it. Perhaps Honey came by, I think, although I can’t imagine why, since Agent Brodnax took all of the files and the laptop.
I shrug and walk over to the sliding glass door to close it, when I realize that I’m not alone.
There’s a noise behind me, and I turn. Archbishop Mauriello is standing between me and the door to the hallway. He’s wearing black pants and a tan cashmere V-neck. Other than his ruby pectoral cross, there is nothing to identify him as a clergyman.
I freeze, but I try to keep calm.
“Hello, Tanzie,” he says. “Can I fix you something?”
I swallow and take a breath. “White wine, please,” I tell him. “A Chardonnay.”
While he’s at the bar, I slide the balcony door closed and lock it, thinking of the long drop. Then I walk over to the dining area. I’m scared now. No, terrified. Spiro had tried to warn me, but I hadn’t understood what he meant at the time. I do now. Maybe Mauriello had confessed more than larceny to Spiro. Maybe what I’m seeing is what Tina saw on Tuesday night. Maybe Mauriello didn’t just watch while Tina killed herself. Maybe he shot her. Shit.
I think about making a dash for the suite door, but Mauriello is still in my path, and I don’t think I could make it without being caught. I tend to stay calm under pressure, and I try considering my options, which are very few right now. Mauriello’s a huge guy. He could easily pick me up and throw me over the balcony without breaking a sweat. I wonder if the guy with the Giants cap is working for Mauriello somehow. Is he skulking around the hallway? Will he do the dirty work? Maybe he’s the cleanup guy—I’ve seen that kind of thing on TV shows. My best bet is to stall for time, get him distracted, and then make a run for it. We’ll see whether he has anyone waiting for me or not.
Without Warning Page 18