Murder on Camac

by Joseph R. G. Demarco

  "It names a client but I'd never heard of him. Seamus Scanlan. We both just supposed he was either connected to the Archdiocesan PR office or was someone who used the same lawyer."

  "No such thing as coincidences in a murder investigation. Can't be just an accident that someone chooses the same law firm as the Archdiocese."

  "I suppose not. The Archdiocesan public relations people were always full of bluster. Always looking for a good story for their so-called diocesan newspaper. They're not above creating a controversy by suing an author."

  "People who hire lawyers are usually serious. They'd be intent on stopping Helmut. It's worth looking into."

  "The lawyers won't tell you a thing."

  "Maybe, but then again...." I knew he was right. I also knew it was possible to learn things you never thought you'd find out. You had to keep your eyes and ears open.

  We fell into silence again as I made my way through some messages that sent chills down my spine. The actual death threats. These didn't call for Brandt to burn in hell. That would have been too neat and easy. The people who sent these e-mails had much more insidiously horrible things in mind. I'd need expert help tracking the e-mail.

  I stood and stretched. The tiny kitchen was cheerful and the afternoon sun managed to find its way into the small window brightening things even more.

  "It doesn't seem fair," Hollister mumbled as he stared into the sunlight streaming through the window.

  "What's that? These letters...?"

  "That the sun is out, that the world just goes on as if nothing happened. Helmut is dead and my life... my life is empty now. Seems like time should have stopped, or the sun should have gone into hiding, even for just a little while."

  "It'll take a long time before anything seems right," I said and placed a hand on his shoulder. He was bony, fragile.

  "If we get to the bottom of this, it'll go a long way toward helping. I'm sure."

  "Yes," I answered but I'd already started thinking about what I'd have to do next. I poked my head into the living room. "Luke, can we talk?"

  "Sure," he said and popped up off the couch as if he had springs in his shoes. "Here... or, outside...?"

  "Here's fine. Any clue about the laptop? Brandt claimed he had new documents or evidence or something like that. Find anything like that?"

  "Mr. Hollister said Brandt usually hid the laptop outside the house when he wasn't actively working on the book. Could be stolen but Hollister seemed sure it was hidden somewhere. As for papers... who can tell what's new or what's old? That'll take a different set of eyes. We can't tell what's what."

  "I can," Hollister said looking up at us. "I may not know much about his other work, but the Vatican papers I know well. I worked with Helmut on that and I'd know if there's anything new."

  "Sweet," Luke said. "Then let's..."

  "Of course," Hollister continued. "He hid the laptop and odds are the papers are hidden, too. Most likely in the same place."

  "Sure, that follows. Unless it was stolen." I said. "Wouldn't he have left a way for you to find the papers and the laptop in case anything happened to him?"

  "I don't think he ever really felt anything terrible would happen. But as confident as Helmut was that all these threats were nonsense, he wasn't stupid. I'm sure he left a way for me to find the papers. He just never told me what that might be."

  "How do we figure that out?" Luke asked.

  Chapter 8

  "We'll put our heads together. He can't have made it impossible. Can he?"

  "Helmut was fond of secrets and liked his privacy," Hollister said. "But he never really hid anything from me exactly."

  "Exactly?" Did Hollister doubt his partner's truthfulness or did grief make him question everything? Maybe he realized things about Helmut which only death made clear. "I think we all need a break. In the meantime I'll check out the law firm and see what I can dig up on this Scanlan character."

  "We're pretty much finished," Luke said. "We can be outta here in an hour or so. I'll drop everything off to the Fortress of Geekiness on my way home."

  "Be kind. Those geeks have saved my ass a number of times. Tell them I'll have a laptop for them to crack. As soon as we find it." The high tech crew was a real boon but dealing with them was sometimes like the Mad Hatter's tea party.

  "I've got to get going," Anton announced. "It's Amateur night at Bubbles and you so nicely said Cal and Bruno could co-host. I've got to get there and set up. And maybe place myself between battling strippers."

  "I'll be there later, you know I wouldn't let you down." I stroked his back. We usually made joint decisions on amateur candidates.

  "You have a verdict on the gunslinger?" Anton said, the sarcasm in his voice was like molasses.

  "Kent?" I'd almost forgotten. "It's your call. If you say no, then it's no."

  Anton was about to open his mouth to say something I probably didn't want to hear.

  "He's waiting for my call," I said, trying to stave off a lecture. "I wouldn't hire him without you agreeing. I hope you know that."

  "You're playing on my forgiving nature," Anton muttered.

  He hugged Luke, pecked me on the cheek, waved a good-bye and left.

  "Got your work cut out for you, huh?" Chip commented.

  "You can say that again." I laughed and turned to Hollister. "Well, Tim, what do you think?

  "They've done a great job, Marco but...," Hollister paused, unable to speak, then he cleared his throat. "Putting the house in order isn't... well... it doesn't answer any questions, does it?"

  "I understand, Tim. You want things resolved. I promise we'll find answers for you." I looked around. Everything was back where it belonged, with one exception and he could never be replaced. I wondered again about Hollister's safety. "Tim, I'm thinking maybe you should stay with friends, until I make some headway."

  "You think someone..."

  "We've got to assume the break-in was connected to Helmut's death. They may not have found what they wanted. These guys obviously don't play well with others. They'll likely be back."

  "Mygod, haven't they done enough?" Hollister sat back down looking defeated.

  "It's only for a while. I don't think it's a good idea for you to be alone anyway."

  ***

  Once I'd made sure Hollister would stay with friends and out of sight, I took off. The day wasn't getting any younger so I headed over to scope out the law firm Scanlan had hired. Might be a coincidence, Scanlan and the Archdiocese using the same law firm. Could also be true that Mars was inhabited by skinny gray men with big eyes.

  One Liberty Place was elegantly modern and gave Philly's skyline an air of sophistication. Liberty reminded me of the Chrysler Building in New York. Very classy. Inside, a world of glass, chrome, and blue marble whisked you out of the mundane and into serene solemnity. Law firms located in Liberty Place didn't come cheap. Since the Archdiocese always played for keeps, it figured they'd have a high powered firm.

  I stepped into a sleek elevator that swept me up to the fifty-second floor. If I thought the lobby was elegant, this floor was the epitome of elegance and taste. Blue marble peacefully coexisted with black granite, glass walls, dramatic lighting, and hushed tones. I pushed open the huge glass doors marked O'Herlihy, Specter, O'Brien and Horowitcz and told myself that barging in without an appointment wasn't a bad thing. After all, the words 'murder investigation' had a way of getting people's attention.

  The receptionist didn't look like a receptionist. She appeared to be a high-level executive who just happened to have her office on the front line. She was young, stiff-backed, and stern-looking. Her dark-blonde hair was piled tastefully on top of her head. I marched up to the desk as if I belonged there.

  "May I help you?" Her voice was one part honey, two parts vinegar. She eyed me suspiciously. She wasn't going to buy anything I was selling. Not easily anyway.

  "My name is Marco Fontana. I'd like to speak with Mr. Dreier." I waited for the inevitable.

 
"Do you have an appointment?" That was it. The first line of defense in every office. The appointment gambit.

  "I'm investigating a murder and Mr. Dreier may have some pertinent information." I threw all my cards on the table. No use holding back. The murder card was my strongest move.

  "He's... Just wait a moment." She stood, looked down a hall then back at me.

  Nothing like having the word 'murder' uttered in a lawyer's office to make things happen.

  "I can wait," I said politely as she walked off down the hall. She was tall and moved with authority.

  The silence was eerily formal and ominous. Maybe that's the way expensive law offices felt. I didn't like it.

  Pricey red-leather club chairs dotted the reception area along with tables holding floral arrangements that probably cost a small fortune. A long black leather couch stood against one wall and a dark wood console table against another. Atop the console table were several majolica pieces which looked like they cost real money. Probably antiques. The legal fees had to be astronomical to pay for it all.

  Situated around reception were what I supposed were conference rooms. Glass walls separated dimly-lit rooms which appeared solemn and funereal. The walls didn't leave much in the way of privacy. You could see into all of them at once. Long, lacquered-wood conference tables, leather chairs, side tables with silvery carafes and crystal glasses. Made me want a reason to have a conference with one of these lawyers.

  I sat in one of the club chairs and was glad I did. The leather was so soft I wanted to sink in and fall asleep. But I heard voices and sat up expecting the receptionist to shoo me out. Instead, a man ambled into the reception area. Tall, with a ruddy complexion and thinning blond hair, he wore glasses. His shoulders-back, military gait was impressive. But his face was soft and pasty. He glanced around the room, his gaze falling on me. For a moment, he stared as if about to speak. Instead, he turned and marched out the door.

  The silence returned and I resumed waiting. Just as I was about to fall into a trance, out walked the secretary, her face unrevealing. She stood a short distance away and peered at me.

  "Mr. Dreier will see you briefly. I'll show you to a conference room." She moved off as if I were to follow and be grateful for small favors.

  Opening a room, she let me in without another word. The door closed and I felt as if I were in an observation cage. I was able to see into other conference rooms, the recessed lighting giving them an atmospheric importance. I felt as if I were waiting for sentence to be passed or for guards to come and escort me to some more sinister place.

  The door opened and a man entered. Average height, with coppery hair and a face that looked cosmetically touched up. His expensive, tailored suit moved with him as if it were part of him. His perfectly coiffed hair was sprayed into place. The pleasant, if totally manufactured exterior, held together a man who obviously had lofty things on his mind. His eyes told the real story and spoke of suspicion and controlled impatience, maybe even anger.

  I stood and noticed as he turned a latch on the door. Instantly the glass walls turned smoky and translucent. I couldn't see out and no one could see in. I'd encountered this kind of thing on a smaller scale, in bars and restaurants.

  "Marco Fontana." I extended my hand. He took it reluctantly.

  "Sam Dreier. What can I do for you, Mr. Fontana?"

  "I'm investigating the murder of Helmut Brandt." I watched his face for any flicker of recognition. He was good but there was a slight movement in his eyes. His makeup didn't crack but he knew what I was talking about. "You sent a letter on behalf of your client a Mr. Scanlan, asking Mr. Brandt to cease his activities. Is that right?"

  "You've obviously seen the letter." Dreier was slick.

  "I wanted to be certain you'd actually sent it."

  "We sent the letter. Mr. Scanlan is a client." His eyes shifted to the left, toward the door. Was he hoping I'd get out or was he inadvertently indicating something else? "You understand, of course, I can't say anything more. Attorney-Client privilege."

  "Not even an address? I'd like to see if Mr. Scanlan will talk to me."

  "I'm afraid I can't do that, Mr. Fontana. Now, if there's nothing more..."

  "Exactly what activities did the letter refer to? Brandt's writing or something different?" I needed to know if Brandt was engaged in something else.

  Silence. The lawyer did a great imitation of a clam.

  "Your firm works for the Archdiocese. That right?"

  "What's that have to do with Mr. Scanlan?" Dreier sounded annoyed.

  "That's just it, Mr. Dreier. I was wondering if there was some connection."

  "Neither Mr. Scanlan nor the Archdiocese has anything to do with your case. Now..." he stopped and looked at his watch, an expensive-looking gold lump on his wrist. "I need to prepare for a client. I trust there's nothing else you want."

  "For now." I waited at the door.

  "I can assure you Mr. Scanlan is an upstanding citizen," Dreier said as he turned the latch which slowly cleared the walls, returning them to their crystal clear state. "It's unfortunate you came all this way for nothing."

  "Oh, it wasn't far and I wouldn't say I got nothing." I smiled. Never hurts to keep them guessing. "Thanks again, Mr. Dreier."

  The elevator whisked me down to the lobby and I waited for my stomach to catch up to the rest of me. Not that I don't like the thrill of a fifty floor drop. It tickles in the right places.

  Dreier wasn't much help but I'd figured as much going in. I wanted to see how he played the game. I didn't expect much more. But I always gleaned something from these meetings. That was no lie.

  ***

  I bumped into Nina the computer geek on the way back to my apartment. She was a gorgeous, dark-haired Latina who hid her looks behind large glasses and baggy clothing. The tattoo running up her left arm and spilling onto her neck was an unusual double headed Aztec serpent. Its large fanged jaws nipping at her elbow and throat.

  Nina was incredible. With a brain the size of Alaska, she knew anything anyone could know about computers. If a computer could do something, she knew about it.

  "Marco," she said, staring from behind those glasses like a fish in a bowl.

  "Nina! You look great! Did Luke get in touch?"

  "He did and you have a gold mine with all those e-mails, jefe. Gonna give me and my chicas a lot of work."

  "Good. I'm counting on you."

  "It's gonna cost you."

  "No problem. But I need it yesterday."

  "No can do, jefe. These things take time."

  The oldest maneuver in the techie playbook, say things will take a lot of time, then finish early and look like miracle workers.

  "You can do it, Nina. How about I throw in tickets to Cirque du Soleil when they're in town? And a free Olympus spa treatment for you, Hallie, and Deena?

  "Thought that was guys only."

  "Gotcha there, it's coed and Stavros will have Electra take care of you."

  "Massage, facials?"

  "The works!"

  "You got a deal, Marco."

  She walked off without saying good-bye, probably already thinking about the work.

  I reached my building and strode across the lobby. The elevator was crowded. The Cell Phone Sheriff towered over the rest of us. An imposing woman with dramatic frizzy brown hair, she absolutely hated anyone who even openly held a cell phone in an elevator. A young woman pulled her cell phone out when it started ringing and I cringed. Instead of answering, she silenced it. I felt the Sheriff stirring, ready to lash out. She was undoubtedly disappointed at not being able to take off yet another head. Then it was my turn to exit.

  I heard the phone ring as I entered my place, then a voice came through the answering machine. "Mr. Fontana, this is Francis Clifford, I understand you want to speak with me."

  I snatched up the nearest extension. "Mr. Clifford. Thanks for calling. How did you know to get in touch with me?" I'd never left a message for him.

  "That's not
important. What's essential is that I'll be happy... well, happy is not the word... I will talk to you about the Brandt case. An unfortunate incident that needs to be handled with discretion and sensitivity."

  "Oh?"

  "Your case is not about what you may have been led to believe. The Church isn't interested in scandal or in destroying the reputation of innocent men. Even though Mr. Brandt was hardly what we might call innocent. Wouldn't you say?"

  "I'd say let's meet and talk. When can you see me?"

  "How does tomorrow suit you?"

  "The Archdiocesan offices aren't closed on Saturday?"

  "The Church never sleeps. But I'd much rather meet away from the office."

  "There's a great diner in town where we can talk without being interrupted. How about meeting there?" The diner was neutral turf.

  "Where exactly? I live in South Philadelphia."

  "Broad and Lombard. Right on the corner. Cactus Corner. Know it?"

  "I've seen it."

  "Meet you there at ten tomorrow morning?"

  He agreed and I wondered about my sanity. I wouldn't get home until at least two after finishing up at Bubbles. A ten o'clock meeting would be painful.

  Clifford's call got me thinking about the case even more.

  Part of me wanted it to be all about Vatican intrigue, the machinations behind the crimson curtains of the Church. I wanted to know what had really happened to Pope John Paul the First. That was the appeal of Brandt's book. Everybody wanted the truth. They needed to know why a gentle soul only lasted thirty-three days in the Church's supreme position. Maybe that office wasn't made for nice guys. Maybe John Paul the First was in over his head and his heart knew it before his brain. And that heart gave out, just like the papers said.

  Nah, life wasn't that neat and convenient. There was always something more sinister going on. At least that's what my Italian nature taught me to believe and it was right most of the time. But this case was about Brandt's death. That was the personal part for me. I'd actually seen Brandt and been inspired by him. I was too young to even remember John Paul the First, though I'd read about him and I'd been moved. I'd never forgotten what I'd read and always wanted to know more. Brandt's case held that as an additional lure for me. But no one keeps secrets better than the Church. The Vatican's basement is full of skeletons and not just the saintly kind.