Murder on Camac

by Joseph R. G. Demarco

  "All right, Marco. At this point I'm at my wit's end. Planning the memorial, waiting for Helmut's family to arrive. Just trying to get my life back in order. Right now I think I'd jump at any chance for a resolution."

  "I've met a guy. Connected to the Church."

  "Connected? You make it sound like he's mafia. Who is he?"

  "He's a monsignor named Kusek."

  "The Cardinal's right hand man?" Hollister couldn't disguise his shock. "You're asking to let..."

  "He's worked in Rome and.."

  "Under the tutelage of one of the more conservative members of the hierarchy. In the bosom of the enemy, as it were."

  "But he's not..."

  "The enemy? Is that what you were going to say?" Hollister's breathing became rapid. He was interrupted by the waitress with our orders, then busied himself with adding far too much sugar to his cappuccino.

  "Okay, maybe he's in the enemy camp but he's willing to help," I said.

  "What makes you so sure? What makes you think he'll give us the truth about what he finds in the documents?"

  "I can't say for sure he'll give us anything at all."

  "Why would he do anything to damage the Church? It's his bread and butter. I'm sure he likes the privileges he has as the Cardinal's adjutant. If he helps uncover something that gives credence to Helmut's work or that leads you to the answers you're looking for, he could face a bleak career outlook. He might be assigned to a crumbling parish in some backwater town on the edge of oblivion. A far cry from the champagne and glitter of Rome."

  "Who knows what his motivations are? I get the strong impression the guy is gay. Maybe that has something to do with why he wants to help. Who knows?"

  "You're hot for the man, aren't you?" Hollister said, sounding amused. "I've seen him, he's handsome and that's putting it lightly."

  "Busted!" I laughed and sipped my cappuccino which was almost as bitter as the espresso. "But I'd never let that get in the way of an investigation. Ask anyone. I never let a hot man keep me from getting at the truth."

  "But this is different, isn't it? I can see it in your eyes."

  "How so?"

  "He's a man of God. He's almost unattainable. Like an angel you can wrestle with but never really have. But you'd like to try, wouldn't you?"

  "I can't say what I'm looking for. But he's fascinating."

  "Because he's a priest. You want what you can't have. That's what's so alluring."

  Hollister was perceptive, I'll give him that. But he wasn't always right. I felt something for Kusek but it wasn't love and it was only minor lust. What I was feeling was pity. The man had reached his thirties and hadn't even fully admitted to himself that he was gay. Never mind all the other trappings, he hadn't even gotten to the basics yet.

  "Maybe you have a point, but..." I looked him in the eye. "If it were me, I'd let the guy have a crack at the documents. He can't steal Helmut's work or destroy it. You'll still have a chance to do something with that research. What'll it hurt?"

  "I want to hear everything he has to say. I want to know everything he tells you."

  "Deal."

  "One more thing," Hollister stared at me. "Next time you have dinner with Kusek..."

  "Yeah?" I was wary about more conditions.

  "I want you to invite me along for a drink with the two of you."

  "So you can ream the poor guy for his involvement with the Cardinal?" I laughed.

  "No, because he's a hunk and I want to see him up close." Hollister smiled sadly, then glanced over at the trees in the Square, teary-eyed and lost in thought.

  I concentrated on my croissant.

  ***

  I was glad Hollister agreed to let Kusek read the files. Not just because it gave me another opportunity to talk with Tad but I thought he might actually help. Hollister had read those files and his judgment was clouded by grief, anger, and a sense of responsibility to the memory of his beloved Helmut. I read them with a detective's eye but without the detailed background Kusek or Hollister had. Both knew the Church well. All its workings, all its arcane ways. Cardinals and camerlenghi, conclaves and catechisms. I had knowledge but they had proximity and connections inside.

  I'd call Kusek and tell him he'd be getting the documents then cajole him into setting up a meeting with the cardinal for me.

  There was plenty of time before my meeting with Navarro. Sitting at Rouge was easy on the ego. Passersby looked at Rouge patrons as if they were peeking at Philadelphia society. In truth, all they were seeing were minor lights, wannabes, and the showy. True Philadelphia society was tucked away on the Main Line, sitting on its cash, and wondering how they could keep their private clubs private and their piles of money from getting into the hands of the less worthy. Philly's real, old-money elite was a collection of characters stretching back to before Philadelphia was a Tory stronghold. Most customers at Rouge probably didn't know or care what the word Tory even meant.

  ***

  Meeting Navarro outdoors wasn't the optimal setting for discussing murky things. I'd spotted a small lunch dive across from the Clothespin on an unfriendly concrete plaza which mirrored the sterile concrete areas around City Hall.

  I waited at the Clothespin and before long, a bald man with pink skin and bulging eyes approached me.

  "Mr. Fontana." His eyes bulged even more when he stared.

  "Navarro. You hungry?"

  "Let's get this over with, I've got work to do."

  "How about a little lunch, my treat? We can talk."

  "I... this..."

  "There's a little place tucked between those buildings." Without looking back I started walking. Navarro hesitated, like a magnetic force his doubts held him in place until he willed himself to follow.

  The luncheonette didn't deserve the title. It was small, just a sandwich, salad, and soup establishment. Perky young women behind the counter took orders and gave them to sullen, dark-haired, male workers who put the salads and sandwiches together.

  Navarro opted for coffee. Probably part of his Opus Dei asceticism. Mortifying the body by denying it sustenance. I wasn't, however, going to deny myself, so I ordered a turkey sandwich and a bottle of cranberry juice. We found a table in a corner.

  "Well?" Navarro asked after a few moments of silence.

  I made him wait. Waiting and silence make good conversation starters. I munched on my sandwich and fiddled with opening the bottle. I took a long swig of the ruby red juice and patted my lips with a napkin.

  "You've gotten me here to talk about some idiotic Propaganda Due fantasy of yours. So, talk."

  I made as if to take another bite of the sandwich, then stopped myself midway and placed the sandwich back on the plate.

  "I don't get it," I said looking him square in the eye. "I just don't get it."

  "Don't get what? What are you talking about? Why did you drag me into this awful place?" He made a point of looking at his watch.

  "Why would you deny working for a guy like Calvino when the records are so readily available?"

  "Records can be wrong," he said sounding harsh but not defensive. "People make mistakes. Names are similar. My name is not uncommon."

  "But biographies aren't usually exactly the same, other details aren't usually duplicated along with a name. So, I'll ask again, why would you deny working for Calvino?"

  "I'm not denying anything. It's simply not true."

  "Okay then," I made as if to rise from my chair. "I'll let the police sort it out."

  There was silence. I scraped my chair noisily on the floor as I moved.

  "It means nothing, you know."

  "The police can decide," I said.

  "I... I didn't work for him for very long." Navarro sighed with resignation. "I quit just after he broke off ties with the group you mentioned. The Bridge of Four Heads cabal. He left in disgust. I quit working for him days later."

  "So, you're telling me he quit the group of plotters? He didn't stay to see it through? And you expect me to believ
e this, why?"

  "He was disgusted by it all."

  "Weak stomach or did Gelli replace him with another P2 heavyweight?"

  "Mr. Fontana." He addressed me as if I were a deficient pupil and he a frustrated teacher. "How much do you know about P2?"

  "Enough to know it's not an organization I'd belong to. Not that they'd have me." I figured he'd give me a Masonic history lesson and deflect the conversation to something other than himself. I played along.

  "You know how it started?" He asked.

  "As a Masonic lodge. Common knowledge."

  "What do you know about the Masons?"

  "Not a whole hell of a lot. Unless you're telling me they had something to do with the plot, in which case I'm gonna start boning up on them."

  "Masons pride themselves on integrity, character, and steadfastness."

  "Okay, they're a bunch of Boy Scouts. So what?"

  "They take oaths, Mr. Fontana. They're serious about keeping their word."

  "This is not news, Navarro. What I want to know is how deep was Calvino, how deep were you? Do you know more than you've admitted about the plot to kill the Pope?"

  "One of the oaths they take," he pushed on as if I hadn't said a word, " is that they would never divulge the secrets of their brothers."

  "What's your point?"

  "They hold those secrets sacred. Except if those secrets concern criminal activity especially murder or other serious crimes. They would never condone anything remotely like that. And certainly not a plot to kill the Pope."

  "Yet Calvino never spoke a word about this to anyone. Are Masons in the habit of keeping the secrets of non-Masons?"

  "Neither did he continue with the group after he learned of their plans. He washed his hands of the whole mess. Never reported any of it because he feared for his life."

  "That so?" I saw that Navarro knew how to spin a story. After denying everything, now all the details are in order. "You're expecting me to believe this?"

  "They killed Calvino anyway. At least that's the impression they wanted to leave whether they actually did or not. Calvino died not long after the Pope. Found dead at his home. The police say it was an accident. Though they've never revealed the details."

  "Why didn't they kill you? They knew you'd been Calvino's messenger boy."

  "I don't think they realized I knew anything. Messenger boy is just about what they thought of me, just like all the other assistants to the big men of the group. All we did was carry messages, run errands. Nothing more. Calvino didn't entrust me with details. He forbade me to make notes of any kind."

  "Still, you could've been a danger to the plotters."

  "Which is why I left Calvino's employ before they could act. I wanted to believe they were a bunch of old men playing at being assassins. They talked about killing the Pope but did they really do it? There was talk of a plot but I don't believe there was any follow through. They were talkers, Mr. Fontana. That's all. Besides, after so many years the details are fuzzy."

  "Consorting with a bunch of men planning to kill a pope is not something I'd imagine you'd ever forget. Details like that don't grow fuzz."

  "I want to put it all behind me. Whatever happened then, it's all in the past."

  "But it isn't. Brandt was writing about it and Brandt is dead. I'd call that very much in the present."

  He stared silently at his coffee cup, never lifting his eyes to mine.

  "What did you do after you left Calvino's employ?"

  "I couldn't think what to do. I was lost, in every way you can be lost. Physically, spiritually, emotionally. All I knew was that I wanted to get away. That's when I discovered Opus Dei. I joined, returned to the U.S., and never looked back. I don't keep a steady residence, never own much of anything. If they'd wanted me dead, it wouldn't have been easy to track me. And Opus protects its members."

  "You've never had contact with any of the plotters since that time? Not one of them tried to find you, communicate with you?"

  "No. Which is why I believe they saw the evil in their plans and never really went through with them. I'm sure they wanted to forget it as much as I did."

  "So they just let you be? I find that hard to swallow, Navarro. If I find out that you've been in contact with them, everything I have is going to the police. You get no second chances."

  "I've told you, my life is doing God's work now. The taint of having worked near those men is something I still need to wash from my soul. Whether or not they were serious about their plans, they were evil men."

  "Calvino thought they were serious."

  "Calvino, like all Italians, had a flair for the dramatic."

  I bristled but I realized that I was being dramatic. Maybe he was right.

  "So you aren't even sure he was telling the truth?" I asked.

  "Oh, he was telling the truth, filtered through the dramatic lens of an Italian too long practiced in seeing conspiracy where there is none."

  "Well, tell me this, then. If you were so unsure of everything, why did you hold Brandt in such contempt? The first time we spoke, you as much as said his death was Divine retribution."

  "Whether or not the plotters actually carried out their plans, Brandt made it seem as if they did. On the flimsiest evidence. He branded them with the sign of murder."

  "He was looking for the Truth. Isn't that something worth pursuing?"

  "It was his truth, spun from threads of fantasy. He had a desire to bring down the Church because they didn't see things his way."

  "And there isn't room for healthy debate?"

  "There isn't room for falsehood which a lot of misdirected people are hungry to disseminate. I'm ashamed of my feelings about his death. But the world is better off without Brandt."

  ***

  Navarro gave me a lot to think about. I moved him to the bottom of my suspect list. He wasn't lying, that much I could tell. He wasn't telling the whole truth, that much I could tell.

  I strolled down Chestnut Street where hordes of workers rushed to and from lunch. People chatted, charter school students screeched, and traffic rumbled. Amid the tumult I tried to sort things out.

  My cell phone rang, disrupting my thoughts.

  "Fontana."

  "Is Olga." Her voice was shaky. "Men are in office. Angry men. They are wanting you. One has baseball bat but is not wanting to play."

  Chapter 28

  I took the stairs two at a time. Drew my gun as I reached my floor. Everything was silent.

  I approached cautiously. There was no possibility of surprising these guys. There was only one way in. They'd be expecting me anyway.

  Placing my hand on the doorknob, I swiftly opened the door and swept the room with my gun.

  Olga was at her desk typing, ignoring the two men standing over her. One was Quinn. He was accompanied by a ragged, thuggish-looking kid with spiky hair and one of those almost-beards that kids who can't grow a beard often have.

  Skimpy Beard held a bat and his grip tightened when he saw me. But the look in his eyes was all confusion at the sight of my gun.

  "Put it down, kid." I motioned with the gun.

  Skimpy Beard hesitated. His eyes darted from side to side. I guessed he was making the quick calculation that his bat wouldn't be a match for my Smith & Wesson.

  "Got a hearing problem?" I pointed the gun at the kid's head.

  He looked from me to Quinn and back again.

  "Tell the kid to beat it. Or, after I shoot him, I'll take the bat and hammer you with it."

  The kid's hands shook and he dropped the bat. It hit with a solid pock! sound on the old wood floor. His right leg wobbled and shook. He looked ready to piss himself. Next thing I knew, he flew past me out the door.

  "Worthless little shit," Quinn said.

  "Some protection you got there, Quinn." I smirked.

  Quinn clutched a briefcase to his chest, looking every bit as wild-eyed and insane as the first time I'd seen him. His thick, black-framed glasses were askew and his hair stood
out in different directions. But he wasn't fazed by the sight of my gun.

  "Drop the briefcase and put your hands behind your head," I ordered.

  Quinn scowled.

  "Do it!" I motioned with the gun.

  Quinn let the briefcase slip to the floor. Slowly he placed his hands behind his head. I watched his anger building up, like an old steam engine on overload. His eyes were furiously wide, his lips so tightly drawn together they were white and bloodless.

  "Good boy," I said.

  Quinn said nothing.

  "I thought you said there were angry men here, Olga."

  "Angry men, da. I am saying this," she commented without looking up. "You are seeing anger in eyes, no?"

  I took my jacket off and placed the gun back into its holster. Then I sauntered past Quinn and into my office. The man reeked of tobacco and onions.

  "Got something you need to tell me?" I said as I moved past.

  He grunted, a rough animalistic sound, then turned to follow me.

  "I need my briefcase."

  "No, you don't."

  Quinn fumed silently.

  "Come in and shut the door. Or, leave. I don't give a rat's ass what you do." I sat at my desk.

  Quinn entered and shut the door.

  "What's got your fur up, Quinn?"

  "You called me, remember? You have new information. Or, are you just jerking me around?"

  "Not my style."

  "What's the new information? You're still trying to pin Brandt's murder on me." He huffed. "Prove it. You're gonna hafta prove it." He moved closer.

  "Prove what?"

  "Prove I had anything to do with that fraud's murder. Prove it!" He pounded a fist on my desk.

  "I can prove you'll owe me money for a new desk if I find any cracks. But who said anything about Brandt or murder? Unless... wait, are you telling me you wanna make a confession?" I loved pulling this guy's chain.

  "You are infuriating! You call me. Make provocative remarks then expect me to react calmly."

  "All I said was I have new information. I didn't say, 'Come on over with a bat- wielding freak to scare my secretary.' Or, did I?"

  "New information could mean anything. That could be code for, you think you have the goods on me."